Page 16 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Perhaps,’ she said, feeling her eyelid twitch a little, ‘it’s none of your business.’

His eyes widened but he didn’t respond directly. ‘Well, sorry. Good day,’ he said, with a little upward inflexion of his shoulder.

They began to walk in the same direction, until she hung back a bit and pretended to fiddle with the strap of her shoe to let him get a head start. Then, when he was distant enough that shewouldn’t be keeping step with him any more, she straightened and continued her way.

To her annoyance the man went into the small door of the town hall, exactly where she was headed. She pushed open the glass door behind him and stood in a reception area where a board informed her that there were several officesin situ– finances, something called CAF, and another with the unfortunate acronym ARS which her brain kept misreading.

Thankfully, the man was nowhere to be seen.

A woman looked up at her from behind a wooden counter and greeted her in French. She had long, brown hair swept up into a bun; her face was make-up free, but had a glow that either suggested expensive facials or excellent genes. Surprisingly for this formal environment, she sported jeans with her more formal, buttoned up blouse.

Having checked a few phrases online before setting off, Becky was ready. ‘Bonjour,’ she said. ‘Je voudrais parler avec…um…le, la, le, la…themaire?’

The woman smiled. ‘You can speak English, if you like?’ she said, with thinly disguised amusement.

‘Oh, thank God. Yes, I’d like to see themaire– make an appointment if that’s possible?’

At that moment, a door to the woman’s left marked ‘Bureaux’ opened and the man she’d seen earlier appeared. ‘You are here to see me?’

Of course.Of course,he was themaire.

‘Yes,’ she said, trying to keep her tone official. ‘About the café in town?’

He nodded, picking up a few folders from the desk and tucking them under his arm. ‘Come through,’ he said, indicating with his head that she should push open the door next to her.

When she did so, he was standing just inside, at the end of a small, tiled space, in front of a door with a gold plaque. He opened it for her, unsmiling, and gestured her inside.

She felt her eyelid take on a life of its own. She wondered, for a moment, whether eyelid twitching burned off any calories. If so, she’d have the body of her dreams in a few more weeks’ time.

He sat behind a desk piled with files and leaned forward. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We have already met. But let us start again. I am Georges Fournier, the mayor.’

‘Rebecca Thorne,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry about…’

He waved a hand. ‘No matter. What can I help you with?’

She explained who she was, why she was there.

‘Oh, so you are Maud’s niece,’ he said, his manner changing, a smile once more stretching across his face. God, his teeth were white.

‘Yes,’ she said, not bothering to correct him with the ‘great-niece’ title. It would just confuse things.

‘Well then, you are very welcome,madame!’ he said. ‘Maud is a wonderful lady and has been the beating heart of our village for many years.’

The present tense disturbed her slightly – had he not heard of her aunt’s death, and was she about to shatter him with the news? Or was it simply that his English wasn’t as accomplished as she’d thought at first. Perhaps he was in the wrong tense out of necessity.

‘You know… of course that she…’ she began.

He nodded, his smile falling slightly. ‘Moved on? Yes, it is very sad. She had been running the café for many years. But she is in a good place.’

Becky nodded solemnly, feeling a little like a fraud. She hadn’t really grieved her aunt. The first she’d even heard of her death had been when she’d received the letter about the gift inher aunt’s Will. This man probably had more right to inherit from her than she did.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Anyway, she has given me the café, which I’m so grateful for. But unfortunately, my life is in the UK. I have a great job, good friends, somewhere to live.’ An image of the lovely flat flashed into her mind, spurring her on. ‘What I’m saying is that I can’t adhere to the demands she’s made.’

‘Demands?’ Georges’s eyebrows rose half an inch.

‘Yes.’ Becky explained about the requirement to work for a month. ‘Only in a hand-written letter,’ she said. ‘So it’s not really…’

Throughout, he nodded his head as if understanding, sympathising. ‘I see, I see,’ he said. And ‘Oh yes, it is difficult.’

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