The Storyteller's Daughter Read Free Page B

centre, where I came to a stop in front of a huge white tent in the market square.
    â€˜I dropped my bicycle on the ground and watched the steady trickle of people emerging from side streets, making their way, trance-like, towards the tent, before disappearing inside. As if in a dream, I allowed the sweet, sugary scent to engulf me as I was carried across the market square, and swept in through an opening in the canvas.
    â€˜Inside was a cacophony of lights, sounds and the most incredible smells. At one stall a man turned the handle of a gleaming silver machine, while a large woman with ruddy cheeks pulled out a long string of herby sausages. At another, a man flipped golden crêpes right up to the roof of the tent before watching them sail down through the air, landing perfectly in the base of his frying pan. His friend flambéed the crêpes so that great orange flames shot upwards with a loud whoosh and everybody gasped and clapped. At another stall, two women threw a large ball of glutinous dough between them, stretching it out, swinging it like a skipping rope and then plaiting it into a loaf before throwing it into the fiery pit of a clay oven.
    â€˜As I pushed my way through the crowd I noticed the banner that hung from one side of tent to the other: Célébration de la Gastronomie Française! I had no idea what it meant, but I really didn’t care. I was still following my nose, heading towards the source of the delicious sweet scent that had drawn me inside.
    â€˜A squawking chicken brushed my head as it flew past me, closely followed by a fat man with a meat cleaver shouting something in French. A woman with a basket of baguettes bumped into me, muttering ‘ pardon, pardon, ’ as she jostled through the crowd. Someone tried to press a piece of cheese into my mouth and shouted ‘taste, Mademoiselle , taste!’ But I didn’t notice any of it. Through a parting in the crowd I had spied the source of that intoxicating scent.
    â€˜He was handsome, with dark hair and fire in his eyes. They were, of course, reflecting the flambéed crêpes, but to me it seemed they were a window to the burning passion in his soul – a passion for the dough that he was kneading with such gentle grace and dexterity, his hands moving one over the other like rolling waves. For a moment I watched him, breathing in his scent, tasting him on my lips, savouring his aroma. I had never known that anyone could be so delicious. I watched, enthralled, as he twisted the dough into perfect croissants and laid them, ever so lovingly, onto an enormous baking tray.
    â€˜He looked up and met my gaze, as if he had expected me to be there all along. He smiled, and I found myself standing right in front of him, although I think I must have hovered over to his stall because I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, and I’m sure my legs were too weak to carry me there. We gazed into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, unable to look away.
    Neither of us spoke, and for a while it seemed that words were unnecessary. Then, holding my breath, I watched as his lips parted, and he whispered the most delicious sound I had ever heard.
    â€˜ Mademoiselle, où est l’hôtel de ville ?’
    Où est l’hôtel de ville.
    For years I thought it was the most romantic phrase in the universe. The way my mother said it, the words rolling into one another, made it sound so sensuous. She said it was a declaration of love, and I believed her. I imagined that on my wedding day Johnny Miller would gently lift my veil, lean in to kiss me and whisper: ‘Meg, my darling, où est l’hôtel de ville .’ I never considered how I would a reply seeing as I didn’t even realise it was a question.
    â€˜Tell us again how your parents met,’ Sophie Potter and Tracey Pratt used to beg, excitedly, and I would describe for them the scene of the meeting, just as my mother