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Class congregated in silence at Oberkampf, on Le Boulevard Voltaire, beneath the awning of a cafe. A photographer, with her husband from her second marriage and four young children from her first, hid behind a camera. A flash of her green eyes, loose-at-the-nape knot of dark hair, and face free of make-up, hinted at an boho-chic insouciance but she avoided interaction with anyone. They were in Paris, they said, to come together as a family.

A strange thing happens with each new group of participants. Everyone is in Paris for a reason. Most are yearning for something. Participants flit in and out of our lives for a few hours, as we flit in and out of theirs. Texan housewives tottering on high heels, marvel at the tiny kitchen; diplomats and their partners sample the city as a couple; and a Robert Redford lookalike accompanies his elderly mother on a trip filled with nostalgia.

Cookery classes offer moments of transformation. Raw ingredients become gourmet dishes; the bare table is dressed for a three course meal, shyness turns to animated chatter; and a group of strangers bonds over a shared experience, snippets of laughter and conversations revealing them to be enthralled by the alchemy of cooking.

Clarisse and I dance around two stoves, sinks and each other, juggling pans, chopping vegetables, weighing dry ingredients, stirring sauces, checking ovens, washing utensils, wiping down surfaces, and setting tables. Our feet ache. The smell is of aniseed and the percussive soundtrack is of scissors clattering against drinking glasses, as participants sit around a table to chop tarragon in tumblers, each given a 3-page recipe sheet.

Having finessed the running order, Clarisse is adept at juggling cooking demonstrations, the art of conversation, and ability to teach. She could share anecdotes about cookery, worldwide travel, France and philosophy for hours, just as Élodie had done that day in Notting Hill, when she sketched out a map on a napkin and persuaded me to move to Paris to pursue my own quest. I wondered what she would say now about my new laissez-faire ethos and what I am doing.

Though Clarisse has calculated everything down to the last detail, I question some of her choices, such as the 15 minutes spent standing over the work station, scraping radishes and trimming the leaves, to be served with salt, bread and butter, as a seasonal delicacy. Clarisse makes sure that I don’t throw away any green bits so that they can be used later to make radish leaf soup.

As someone who used to dig up radishes from the vegetable garden, brush off the dirt and eat them to enjoy the crunch of peppery freshness, the exercise seems over-engineered. The pale, peeled radishes lie in a bowl and wilt, waiting for a break in the class for participants to savour them as a delicacy.

The meal proper consists of asparagus with mousseline, vegetable terrine, chicken stuffed with spinach and sorrel, fennel cooked in olive oil and flambéed in Pastis, almond and strawberry tart, chocolate pots and coffee, all accompanied by wine. The photographer hones in on each detail of preparation and food-tasting, without eating anything.

Eager to capture the reaction when fennel catches the flame, she asks, ‘could you do it again for me’ with her back turned on Clarisse, seeking a close-up of her children’s faces. Clarisse rolls her eyes. The photographer does not notice. Her children shuffle towards the edge of the room in search of space; disdain writ large, without any words being spoken.

Six Months Earlier

Élodie had said she needed someone to take over her deux-pièces flat in central Paris and Henri, a mutual friend, put me in touch.  Our first conversation took place shortly afterwards.  Élodie was planning to move to London for six months, she explained over the phone.  She needed a reliable tenant and Henri had vouched for me, and so we arranged to meet in a Notting Hill delicatessen (intriguing and impractical), miles from where I lived.

Three days later inside the deli, Élodie waved from the back of the shop, her long hair, wool coat and designer sunglasses marking her out as someone used to being looked at. Seated at the communal table as if it had been placed there for her, diners glance up as we kissed on both cheeks, and some began to stare.  Drawing out a chair, I joined her at the end of the bench, took off my coat and lay it down beside me.  We ordered garlic chicken, wild rice and green beans. 

Élodie enthused about the apartment, how special the area was and how animated: artists’ galleries, delectable bars and art-house cinemas.  I drank it all in, transfixed, as Élodie rummaged for a black fountain pen, reached across for a paper napkin and sketched out spidery Bastille streets: boutiques, post office, laundrettes and the apartment, together with the security digicode, all signed off with boxes, bold crosses and kisses.  I was convinced to take the map and move there toute-suite.

'You'll come to love the area,' Élodie assured me with raspy French-accented English, implying that I might not initially. 

Kissing me again on both cheeks, she grabbed her things (certain she'd have left something) and dashed off to placate her boyfriend.  He had been circling in the car for the last hour and calling Élodie with ever increasing urgency, punctuating the meal with her ringtone as she toyed with her food and decided not to eat.

Having left the delicatessen, I headed to the Underground and travelled back by Tube to Waterloo, for the 30 minute journey home, primed to move away from where I had lived for the last twenty years, my head bursting with the colours and noises of Paris.  The sense of possibility.

Standing with my arms tightly crossed on the teeming concourse beneath cold strip lighting, I shut out commuter crowds whilst waiting for a delayed train.  When it finally pulled in, people thronged forward to board and seats were immediately taken.  I stood amongst the crowd by the doors and stared out at debris-strewn tracks, willing the journey to end. I was ready to make a new start, to seize the opportunity and relocate.

Bright pink rhubarb headlines today’s dessert menu; the baked fruit folded into crisp pastry cases to be adorned with crème fraîche. Whilst choice stems were being selected from the market, I told the class how English rhubarb was forced into life in dark sheds in Yorkshire and picked by candlelight.

In the city of light, it’s strange that I should have ended up focusing on food, rather than culture or architecture.  Curious too that I am drawn to the French countryside yet live in the capital, for the time being at least.

Paris is smaller and less dizzying than London. For years I spent a large part of my salary on dry-cleaning, pre-packaged meals from a concession at Waterloo station, coffees sipped from cups like biberon to wake myself up in the morning and keep myself awake in the evening, and holidays to lie down and do nothing. Jack said I had become a parody of myself, and I agreed with him. 

I wonder what he would say if he saw me now, dawdling as I approach the Parisian apartment building, going in beneath the porch, holding my breath as I enter the digicode, waiting to hear the click before pushing open the gates and stepping inside the courtyard. 

Taking the staircase to the left, I climb the spiral steps to the top floor and turn the key in the lock.  I have gone ahead of the tourist participants who will be wending their way through the market, wide-eyed at the array of produce, savouring information about the ingredients for the authentic French meal, cooked in a real French kitchen.

The apartment creates the right atmosphere, brimming with tables, sofas, cookery books, black and white photographs, paintings, sketches and an armoire topped with hydrangeas. It is cosy and intimate and I like being here. I open the windows, pin back the shutters and place the cheeses out on the windowsill. The loft studio is preoccupying me, having put in an offer, and the agent is pestering me to view the basement space even though it’s unnecessary.

Waiting for the class to finish before clearing away dishes makes me late for viewing the cellar.  I run from the Métro station and arrive with my heart racing. I follow the agent downstairs, to dark woodworm-ravaged doors and padlocked cubicles. Blinding me with the beam of the torch he assures me that there are no rodents and directs my gaze to the space between the door and the cellar wall. My legs are shaking, and I want to get out, to race back up the stairs, to run out into daylight.

I detour on my way home to browse the Félix Éboué open-air market, its stalls sprawled across roads that are being swept and crates being loaded into vans. A stall with lilac spilling over a zinc bucket reminds me of a garden I played in as a child; the texture and smell of the flowers.  I buy three stems.  They are wrapped in brown paper and bound with raffia, the simple spray becomes strangled.

Wandering through the Marais in soft rain this morning, I lost myself in the calm of rue Payenne, and made my way across the square, minding my footing on the wet cobbles, past the fountain, to the Swedish café. In contrast to the magnificent Hôtel de Marle mansion building, built between the 15th and 18th centuries, the café’s unfussy, modern décor combines old and new with its polypropylene chairs, floral sprigs in vases, wooden spoons in a jar, yellow and green tablecloths and stoneware bowls of pears. I am surprised to be one of only a few people in there.  I don’t have to stand in a queue for a mug of coffee or a kardemummabullar – soft dough bursting with cardamom. 

I sit at a table near the counter. Ordinarily I’d eat outdoors, but the rain has put pay to al-fresco dining. Rather than being a place to go to be seen, this is a Swedish café tucked away behind a courtyard.  After my coffee break I wander through to the art exhibition in the Institut suédois next door and peer through the tall windows, past original lamp posts to a sculpture garden that I’d never previously noticed.

There’s a voice message when I get in.  Emma has been trying to reach me all day, wanting to check up on me. It’s sweet but surprising. It turns out that the BBC has been covering violent protests that are taking place and advised people not to travel. This may explain the apparent emptiness I’d picked up on in the Marais. Emma assures me that I am doing the right thing by sticking to my adventures. ‘It’s going to pay off’,’ she says, adding that she is insanely jealous.

I mention that Jack came over for a long weekend. ‘He’s fond of you,’ she says. ‘Such an English phrase. Fond of you. Fond of cake.’ She laughs. 

I help with the cookery class when a visit to a famous bakery has been scheduled. We enter the shop in hushed tones, huddling together so as not to get in anyone’s way. Descending the stairs to the basement we watch loaves being placed into wood-burning ovens by a baker, then file back up to street level where the buildings are more commercial than residential. 

On the way home, I button my coat tightly against the wind to battle my way back up towards the Métro. The well-dressed couple in front of me enters a restaurant, arm-in-arm, and smiling. I glance at the menu on the tilted board as I pass, catch snippets of conversation, laughter and headlights from the road and sirens, sensing the darkness, with my cheeks burning and eyes watering from the cold.  It’s strange sometimes being on my own in Paris.  Perhaps I should have persevered with house-hunting in Limousin, though I may have ended up wearing skirts on my head like Grey Gardens.

The estate agent rang earlier to say that my offer had been accepted by the vendor.  There would now follow a seven-day cooling off period for both sides, in which either one of us could pull out. I am still mulling this over whilst throwing on an old dress for the invitation to the journalist’s house in the 7^th arrondissement. I wish I had something better to wear, but there are limited options.

My curiosity has been piqued by the prospect of glimpsing inside a typical apartment for the area with parquet flooring, fireplace and mouldings. I enter the digicode I’ve been given and go through to the marble foyer, past rows of mailboxes and take the lift to the 4^th floor. The journalist’s apartment is directly in front of me.  I ring the bell and step back. After a moment’s hesitation, I stare straight ahead. The journalist answers, smiles and kisses me on both cheeks even though we are both English. His talk had taken place two nights ago, at the bookshop featured in Hemingway’s writing, and he is wearing the same jumper, shirt and corduroy trousers. It was clear from what he said that he cared as much about le vieux Paris as I did, and he knew one of Jack’s friends, which seemed a coincidence. 

The invitation is for an aperitif. I don’t plan to stay past 7.30pm.

Renovation projects had played on my mind for as long as I could remember, dreaming of breathing new life into historic properties, albeit with limited resources. My first target had been the Limousin agricultural region of southwest France.  It would have contrasted markedly with Paris and came on a recommendation from a friend from the region.  Property was relatively affordable according to Emma, and worth investigating. 

I duly contacted an agent in Limoges, set up three viewings and drafted in Jack for a long weekend.  He could accompany me on the trip, provide a second opinion and most importantly do the driving.  I had lost my nerve, something of which I was not proud and would need addressing if I were to reside in remote French countryside.

We took a flight out on the Friday, picked up a hire car at the airport and drove to the hotel.  The owner had worked in London for years and was now enjoying a more rural lifestyle.  Knowing he wanted a change in direction he had happened upon the manor house by chance, spotting it whilst driving through France, and had fallen in love instantly.  A lot of building and refurbishment work later he rented the place out as a B&B in the winter and in its entirety in the summer.

Being there out of season, Jack and I were the sole guests, with the run of the house to ourselves.   We were given the best rooms, each with a seating area overlooking rolling hills and woodland.  A roaring fire was lit in the main salon and we soon made ourselves at home, chatting over the events of the day as we wound down.  The owner invited us to join him in some red wine and fetched a bottle from the kitchen.  For dinner he recommended a local auberge only a short drive away.  We arrived there without incident having navigated unlit roads. 

Next morning Jack and I convened early in the large ground floor breakfast room, where the shutters have been drawn back from the full length windows.  By 9am we were in the car, making for a town close to Limoges, to meet the agent as scheduled.  She arrived matted in dog-hair, waving paperwork as she got out of a beaten-up van. 

The first property we were shown was a three-storied townhouse on the incline of a steep street.  At the top of the stairs in the attic, blue sky showed through gaps in the joists and roosting pigeons drowned out the agent’s sales pitch. Jack attempted words of encouragement.

The second property was a ‘nice little holiday home on edge of a pretty village – 1km from shops.’ It was a hut, with no character, in desolate surroundings.  We were told that a young girl had lived there for a while and tried to do the place up herself but it proved too much for her and she had left after just a few months.  I was not surprised.  Jack was quiet.  At times like these it paid to heed signs. 

Since we were there we ventured inside.  The owner had installed a fitted kitchen and tiled shower room. There was a living room at the back and a single bedroom.  Detritus lay all around, with buckets, rags, building materials and wires, leaving it feeling dejected and sad.  An unremarkable space representing someone's shattered hopes and dreams.  We were relieved to step back outside, breathe in the cold damp air and entertain ideas of a garden beneath the weeds.  Jack climbed a ladder to look into the loft space, then shimmied back down and sat in the car.

Property number three was a diminutive one-up, one-down stone house, close to a 12^th century church of architectural interest, on the green. No doubt the bells would sound a wake-up call, although I could not imagine too many parishioners. It was more of a hamlet than a village, with a shop, a garage and a café. The house seemed to be in good condition with views out over fields where cattle were grazing. It had a pleasing dark red-brick exterior and a small garden. Downstairs had an open fireplace and upstairs had a bedroom and bath. The south-facing balcony would make the perfect spot for morning coffee.  Jack liked it and so did I.

Sensing a lightening of mood, the agent suggested a drink in the village café to discuss the viewings, to which we half-heartedly agreed.  We were unsure whether she wanted to close the deal or was simply making a day of it.  She rang her husband and told him to come along too.  When he arrived he said nothing.  Jack shifted his seat away from the table, knocking into the person behind him.

The atmosphere in the tiny cafe was tense and the conversation stilted.  The estate agent ordered a glass of wine with violet syrup, confirming Jack’s sense that this was bad news, and her husband drank a bottle of beer. Jack and I were left to get our own drinks and we ordered espressos, downing them the moment they appeared.  Once back in the car we fled, speeding past the lake to the safety of the manor house with its yellow walls and blue and white ceramics.

The following day the sun put in an appearance. Driving back to the airport I decided to put in an offer.  The house could be a holiday home, a place for friends and family to stay, for long walks and talking late into the night over delicious meals, with local dishes such as cherry clafoutis, ‘Burgos’ chestnut and puff pastry cake or a cheese plate of Tomme du Limousin, Rocamadour and ashy, leaf-shaped Gour Noir, eaten by the fire to the smell of woodsmoke and sound of laughter, lifting spirits.

Re: Your email sent yesterday

Good news! (Probably).  Have just spoken to one of the owners and she says that they will almost certainly accept your offer for the house.  They will talk about it further tomorrow and will ring me back on Friday morning.  I’ll let you know asap – will you be reachable by email?

Speak to you on Friday (but I have to say, fingers crossed, it sounds positive).

It turned out not to be positive.  The estate agent ‘was delayed’ in sending me the paperwork. I was gazumped, my dreams were shattered and I was brought back down to earth with a bump.

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Dropping off his battered bag containing what appears to be the bare minimum, he adjusts his Ernest Hemingway hat, very outré, and peers out from underneath the rim, his black hair and blue eyes edged by tortoiseshell glasses.

We weave our way through the dusky light to order drinks at the bar and, once equipped with glasses of red wine, we blend with the gathering.  When offered some birthday cake we brave it out to hide our embarrassment, struggling to hear each other over the music before we down our drinks and make an exit. 

The following morning, Jack says he’d like to explore more of this part of Paris. We are in a velvet-clad bar, close to the Marché d'Aligre, one of the navigating markets, reading papers and drinking cappuccinos, whilst locals draw out espressos propped against a zinc-capped counter.  Lounging ever deeper into worn armchairs, we ask for croissants and are told that they only offer tartines.  Bread and jam takes us through to 11.30am. From there we wander around Bastille.

Late lunch is taken in a brasserie on rue de la Roquette, where we enter an art nouveau establishment to find well-dressed waiters and leather banquettes.  Jack scrutinises the menu and selects steak and chips, which when it arrives he proceeds to eat with unwashed fingers, observed by diners in stolen glances.  He rebuffs my suggestion that he use a fork, telling me not to worry. Licking each of his fingers in turn, he announces that the fork was the last piece of cutlery to be invented and therefore is obsolete.  I say nothing.  He has cleared his plate.  His hedonism normally only extends to dry martinis. 

Sunday morning sees us in at the heart of Marais, in Place des Vosges, veiled behind draped plastic sheeting, gazing out at rain-splattered streets and tourists huddled over maps.  Having sat out the downpour we drift on to the Métro and cross the city by Métro to Trocadéro for views past the Eiffel Tower, then to a restaurant away from the tourist trail deep in the heart of the 16^th arrondissement.  Once again Jack’s presence sparks a bristle.  He settles himself at a table, his head bowed over his phone to read a message, seemingly impervious to the attention. I shall miss him.

He had to return on the 15:45h Eurostar. I went with him to the Gare du Nord.  Not a place to loiter, so I came straight back once he’d got his train.  Inside the apartment, I remove my coat and gloves to pour out the remainders of a bottle of Bordeaux we had started and stare at the dark sky.  Snow begins to fall, flakes crowding up against the glass.  I run to fetch the camera from the bedroom to take shot after shot of snowflakes tumbling, as if seeing it for the first time.  I want to race down the stairs and burst outside, to stand with the ice cold snow on my face but there is nobody to share my fun, so I sit back down on the sofa, accompanied only by silence.  I could be snowed in here for days and no-one would know.

‘Are you doing ok?’ Jack had asked.  

‘I don’t have a plan,’ I said and he didn’t believe me. I trusted that something would materialise but my doubts lingered.

Unable to sleep, I got up and went out to the sofa, still made up as a bed for Jack, and flicked through the free property magazine from a few days earlier.  The studio I had visited leapt off the page.  Minuscule and in need of decorating, it was only a few stops away. I hadn’t mentioned it to Jack for fear of appearing foolish but it had potential for a project that would not be feasible back in London. First thing in the morning, fortified by strong coffee, I would ring the estate agent to submit an offer.

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In an unprecedented gesture of trust, Clarisse stood with her back to the fish stall, and handed me the shopping trolley, along with a heavy set of keys. I was to go ahead to prepare everything for the cookery class while the participants were given an insider’s tour of the market and a boulangerie. Racing ahead, on the by now familiar route, I arrived at the porch and held my breath to enter the digicode.

A click allowed me to push open the gates and step inside the courtyard, to the world one layer back from the street that few tourists see. Hauling the trolley bursting with fresh vegetables and cheese up the spiral stairs left me wheezing as I unlocked the apartment, placed the keys by the door where I would remember them, and leant the trolley against the wall out of the way to switch on the floor lamp and the one on the table.

Flinging off my coat, I washed my hands and tied an apron round my waist; filled a carafe two-thirds with cold tap water; set out the recipe sheets - one for each person; unpacked the trolley and washed the carrots, potatoes, parsley, asparagus and leeks in the sink at my prep station; then peeled the asparagus; found the red plastic steamer; lit the gas; filled a pan with water; lay the asparagus spears down inside the plastic basket; put the lid on and plonked the pan on the hob to steam; keeping one eye on the time and one on the cooking.

I checked there were six glasses, counted them a second time, and put out the pens, tea-towels and two piles of laundered aprons. Finally I threw open the windows and dared to stand still for a moment.  It was mid-morning. I was alone in a Parisian apartment.

Ten minutes later the sound of the bubbling water was drowned out by chatter, as the guests arrived. Their gasps at how the room had been set out made me smile. Clarisse corralled everyone in closer so she could began the cookery demonstration, pointing out the ingredients, and as she did so I realised that I had forgotten to salt the asparagus. 

Clarisse would know immediately.  I may never be allowed to go ahead again having failed in this small but critical detail.  My thoughts kept wandering to yesterday’s viewing of the studio, my heart telling me to put in an offer so that I could to own a piece of old Paris: an attic room at the top of four flights of stairs, with no lift and ‘oriental’ WC.

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