Page 58 of The Last Restaurant in Paris

PROVENCE, 1927

Elodie was plaiting dough for an apricot tarte tatin when she heard a rap at the door. She turned to see Jacques, taller now than the last time she’d seen him, and thinner, with his brown tousled hair lightened from the sun, and his dark eyes crinkling at the corners in delight.

‘So it’s true.’

‘Jacques!’ she cried, stepping forward, then stopping awkwardly as she had been about to embrace him.

He seemed to be in the same predicament, though he was staring at her, the way someone did a sunrise, in awe. ‘You’re here! Papi said, but I raced here, to see for myself.’

She noticed then the colour on his cheeks, the dust on his clothes and his shoes.

‘It’s true,’ she declared, grinning so widely it felt like her face might stretch in two. ‘I am.’

He leaned against the door jamb, and sighed happily. There was a caw overhead and Huginn came in to land on his shoulder. He did a small hop as if he too couldn’t believe that she was here. Elodie reached over and stroked his glossy feathers.

She felt a fizz of joy bubble up inside. She didn’t have the words to express just how much she had missed her friend. What a joy it was to speak her own language and be understood. To not have to have constant reprimands to ‘stand up straight’, to ‘speak slower’, to ‘slow down’… here she could just be herself.

‘We have so much to catch up on,’ he said, smiling wide. ‘Like Luc, he’s a blue jay who is such a character, you definitely need to meet him, although he’s a big thief, I must warn you. I helped fix his wing a few months ago and he repaid us all by stealing the buttons off all my shirts. Also, Couchon has had babies.’

‘Wait – what? Couchon is a girl?’

He snorted. ‘Such a city girl, didn’t you notice her teats?’

She frowned. Perhaps she had, now she thought of it.

‘Also, Papi says there is a new area,’ he waggled his nose, ‘top secret, for truffles, he said you could come with.’

Elodie felt a pang, before her world had come crashing down again, she’d been excited to make her first truffle omelette.

Forgetting about propriety, she reached over and clasped his hand tightly. ‘I missed you!’ she said, overcome.

He grinned, revealing his dimples. ‘Are you staying now – for good?’

‘I’m only here for the month.’

‘A month?’ he cried.

She frowned sadly. ‘I know, it’s awful, but from next year they’ve promised I’ll get the whole summer, every year.’

‘Every year,’ he repeated, like a benediction. ‘It’s better than nothing.’

She nodded.

‘What are you making?’

‘Tarte tatin. Do you want to help?’

He grinned. ‘Sure.’

They got to work, making a lattice for the upside-down tart.

‘So Madame Blanchet is still teaching you to cook?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Elodie, filling him in on their plans. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be back here in this kitchen. The food in England… well, let’s just say it’s not like Provence,’ she said, thinking of some of her dinners.

‘What did you eat there?’ he asked, curious.

She told him about bland, dry pork chops and boiled, unseasoned potatoes, reheated jacket potatoes with beans… food that had been edible, but not exactly fine dining.

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