The Sweetness of Liberty James (12 page)

Claude swerved the car and had to fight to correct it. ‘You! Learn to cook? But you are not the slightest bit interested in food – in fact, you hate it.'

‘No, that's wrong, I just haven't been able to appreciate it without being able to taste or smell. There is a difference! You try enjoying fine dining with a leather tongue!'

‘You mean you have grown taste buds all of a sudden? What has happened? Paloma is going to be so excited.'

Throughout Liberty's youth, it had always been accepted by those close to her that she was the only member of her family who couldn't embrace every aspect of the kitchen, food selection, preparation and cooking. It was going to be a huge change for them all.

They wound their way through slow-moving traffic into St Tropez. Claude asked whether she would like him to take her through the port for old times' sake, and when she said it would be wonderful, he swung the car through the hustle and bustle. There were few boats at this time of year, but the tourists still promenaded and the cafés seemed to be doing good business. With the roof down they could hear all the chatter and noise of the crowds.

There were appreciative gasps from people-watchers seated in the cafés along the seafront as the glamorous couple in the E-type drove slowly past. Paloma had become quite stuck in the 1970s vibe of St Tropez, and she refused to buy a more modern car. Liberty breathed in the smell of the diesel from the boats, the sweaty workmen walking past from their lunch, the sewers from the streets, and said, ‘Right, Claude, thanks so much for coming to fetch me. Now, before the full interrogation begins, I need a drink. This new sense of smell can have its dark side!'

The car drew up in front of the restaurant, where the last of the lunchtime diners were enjoying their coffees and cognacs.

‘Liberty, daaarling, come here at once!' Paloma, a vision in
a flowing DVF tunic and four-inch wedges, came gracefully past the bougainvillea lining the steps up to the peach-coloured Provençal villa that served as a restaurant with rooms, with her own apartment in the back wing.

Liberty was enveloped in a warm, scented embrace that seemed to go on forever. Then Paloma pulled back, held Liberty's face between her hands and studied it, squinting as a result of refusing to wear the spectacles she now needed.

‘You look awful.'

‘Ha ha!' laughed Liberty, turning to Claude, who was struggling to reach for her bags over the seat of the car. ‘You see, honesty at last!'

‘Come in, come in. Let's go round to the back. I have asked Vevetine to arrange refreshments on the terrace.'

The building was L-shaped, perched on a hill above the old town of St Tropez. Even though it was run by the ‘crazy English woman', it had survived for many years, despite people either having to drive or stay overnight as it was just too far to walk from town – a testament to its excellent food.

The tall shuttered windows overlooked the vine-covered hillside towards the coast, and a veranda covered in bougainvillea, wisteria and vines shaded diners who wished to eat outside. Huge banks of lavender edged the terrace, and a Moorish fountain splashed water merrily in the courtyard to make everyone feel cool even when the temperature reached forty degrees.

They settled in easy chairs, positioned to take advantage of the views, normally occupied by people smoking or taking digestifs after luncheon or dinner. It had been reserved for them by Vevetine, the restaurant manager, who now placed before them a bottle of rosé wine ensconced in an ice bucket, two chilled tumblers and a bowl of lavender and rose petals.

Alongside these arrived a plate of the lightest cheese crisps made from local sheep's cheese melted and mixed with wild thyme and black pepper, as Paloma explained while she offered
the plate to Liberty. Expecting her to refuse, she almost moved the plate away before her goddaughter had the chance to help herself. Paloma's eyes widened as she noticed the delight with which Liberty took up a crisp, savoured it beneath her nose, and then appreciatively chewed it slowly.

‘You are eating, child, what has happened to you? Are you starving or what?'

At that moment Claude rejoined them. He poured the wine, sprinkled some lavender flowers and rose petals on to the top of their glasses and announced he had to go to pick up supplies. ‘Don't tell Paloma anything without me, I will look forward to dinner, be back at eight.' And with that he was off, leaving a drift of cologne in the air.

‘He must have a girlfriend,' said Liberty. ‘Goodness, how he has grown up.'

‘Actually, I think the perfume was for your benefit. And don't change the subject. The last thing I know from you, I was waiting to hear about the results of the IVF. Now you turn up on my doorstep, not only eating but sniffing your wine and noticing Claude's cologne. I am not even going to give you the chance to freshen up. Tell me all. Should I get your mother on the speaker phone?'

Liberty sighed, and told her story. As she related the past few days (was it only days? It felt like months) she found herself looking at Paloma and admiring what she saw. She had always known how glamorous she was: a mixture of Sophia Loren, Diane von Fürstenberg and Claudia Cardinale. Amazing bone structure, olive skin, gleaming chestnut hair in soft waves to her shoulders, no doubt helped along by the hairdresser, but all the better for that. Not a wrinkle in sight, although nobody had any wrinkles these days! But there was something extra, an indefinable something which gave her true beauty: she was kind. She had experienced life, and been seriously hurt by it, and this instilled in her the ability to give advice when needed and be aware of when to keep her own counsel. She had probably had
many lovers, many famous ones, according to the red tops, but always unnamed, including the elusive Papa Claude, as Deirdre called him. Since following her heart down to the Côte d'Azur in the mid 1970s she had found happiness. At first she was front of house staff, while her partner cooked for the restaurant he leased. She was so glamorous that the rich boat owners flocked to see who was being talked about at all the cocktail parties. As she was also very friendly and welcoming they eventually wanted to be seen with her, which in turn brought journalists and photographers. Her reputation at the restaurant had truly taken off in the early 1980s, when St Tropez became rather trashy and nouveau riche, and many of the more discerning visitors decamped to St Paul de Vence and further along the coast to get away from the yuppies. Would-be guests had to book several months in advance for a simple luncheon, which made Paloma laugh, and then cry, when her partner François left in a huge Gallic huff at the beginning of the summer because she was receiving all the attention.

Thankfully, by then, and with a great amount of support from the lovely local girls who helped in the restaurant, Paloma had picked up sufficient knowledge to struggle through her first season. She then heard of an up-and-coming chef in England, Alain James, and she entreated him to come and teach her the fundamentals of cooking over the winter months, when both their respective restaurants were closed, his for renovations, hers as the season had come to an end. His advice, when he saw how excellent she was at front of house and that she struggled to cook a meal for one, let alone fifty hungry diners, was, ‘If you must stay, find a good chef, and fast. Pay him an excellent salary to keep him, and between you and a huge miracle it may just work.'

She had decided to stay on in France; the weather and the people suited her, and she quickly picked up the language, although her accent was described as
‘exécrable'
by the locals.

Deirdre joined them after some weeks, and the two became
friends very quickly. ‘I have to stay here,' Paloma had said to her new friend after a couple of months. ‘I am pregnant.' But she would not divulge who the father was, not even to Deirdre. Of course, the paparazzi had a field day, but her reputation was enhanced by her dignity and beauty during her pregnancy, and eventually she managed, by employing a nanny for Little Claude, to make a huge success from what had previously been a rather quiet little eatery. Now she was chef patron of one of the most successful restaurants in the south of France, so successful it could remain open throughout the year.

She had redecorated and modernised over the years, putting in decent bathrooms to appeal to the increasing numbers of Americans brave enough to travel, and furnishing it in her own style. Plates and old wooden garden rakes hung on the walls, plants in vast terracotta pots served to create privacy for tables and make it feel like an exotic garden room. The soft scent of lavender wafted through the shutters in high summer. She decided to grow as much of her own produce as possible, and with the help of a green-fingered god, her gardener Antoine, had created her own herb garden and a new walled potager to serve the kitchen, complete with working bees. The walled garden was a sixtieth birthday present from Claude, who had built it with his own hands, importing old bricks from a reclamation yard in England. For years he had listened to Alain and Deirdre talking about theirs, with its knot pattern of planting, and he knew how his mother wished she could have one. Eventually, he obtained permission to buy a plot of land behind their restaurant and had it cleared and the soil improved. Deirdre and Alain had both helped with the design. Over a period of two years, Claude had built a one hectare walled garden with a pleached avenue of lime trees running down the centre, lines of a variety of fruit trees trained up the walls, and a sundial with the inscription ‘With Love From Your Beloved'. For several months there was a vast tent over much of the garden, and Paloma had thought her son was building a home for himself. But in her typical way she
had not thought to ask, as she did not want to interfere. It had been unveiled during her sixtieth birthday party.

For the first time in years Liberty had seen her parents, both of course invited to the huge party, getting on as friends. Nobody could have been miserable on such a midsummer night in St Tropez, surrounded by soft jazz and simple but fine food. The A-list from the surrounding countryside and the boats were all there, seemingly having invited themselves. Lavender and blackcurrant filled the air. Deirdre had told Liberty how it brought a warm scent to the proceedings as guests' bodies accidentally brushed the bushes as they passed and released the perfumes. She explained how the perfume made the local wine taste as good as a Burgundy, but she never made the mistake of filling up the boot of the car with Provençal wine to return to England. The damp and cold air removed all perfume and taste. Liberty had thought little of it at the time, not appreciating just what a difference wonderful scents could make to an evening, but now it was obvious as she sipped her glass of rosé and the warm honeyed air filled her nostrils.

Liberty finished telling Paloma her story, starting with the miscarriage, as she needed to say that quickly, as though it hadn't really happened at all, through to telling Percy she wouldn't be returning to him. She appreciated Paloma's lack of curiosity or nosiness. Unlike so many people, Paloma never dwelled on or enjoyed the misfortunes of others. She listened with total concentration and a sympathetic expression. In Liberty's experience many of her so-called friends would encourage their women companions to say more and more, showing a sad face while preparing to recount this further to other women, adding, ‘Well, at least it's not me it's happening to, she has always been so lucky, she deserves everything she gets.'

Instead, Paloma listened to Liberty with mind and body, and at the end asked Liberty if she wanted any comments and thoughts from her, or whether she should just let it be.

Liberty said, ‘I think the reason I wanted to come here was to
hear what you think. And then I want you to teach me how to cook, please!'

Paloma's eyebrows lifted as far as her perfectly Botoxed face allowed – not too much and not too little. She stood up, came behind her goddaughter and hugged her tightly. She said, ‘It's all your bloody parents' fault, my dear. As much as I love them, they got wrapped up in their own lives. Your father didn't even think how it would affect you when he moved out, he only concentrated on what he thought was the right thing to do. So many people get divorced these days, it's as though they don't believe it affects the children any more. From the moment your mother told you she and Alain were going to separate, you have lived in a small part of your brain that nobody, absolutely nobody, could reach. You have always done whatever you thought you should do; trying to keep the peace, and probably keep both of your parents happy, maybe even in a childlike way trying to bring them back together. You went to the right university, studied hard and forgot about your love of food entirely, even though you had made the best hollandaise and béarnaise at the age of six. The Michelin inspectors were accidentally given it on a frantic Saturday evening, and still gave your father his third star.' She smiled at the recollection of Deirdre's excited phone call. ‘Liberty clinched it for him!'

‘You married someone you thought was “the right sort”, and SAFE, and sadly he turned into just the opposite. And being very impertinent, if I may, I will also say that your inability to have a baby had a lot to do with suppressed emotions. But perhaps that is the hippy in me. I can't tell you how extremely alive you look now; it's as though you had been dormant for the past twenty years, and now you have been born again.'

Liberty decided she did not need to tell Paloma that was exactly how she felt. Instead, she asked in a small, rather frightened voice, ‘But what now?'

‘Right now, another glass of rosé, then a bath and a good meal. I must attend to guests. Your parents are both very concerned
about you, naughty girl not telling them. You knew they were waiting to hear the results of your test, but now I understand at least, and I can call them. You need sleep and lots of rest in order to recover your health. Even though you look fabulous, your body must be reeling from these shocks it is experiencing, not to mention the physical damage. Do you still have to take any hormones or anything?'