Page 24 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

Then again, she was glad to have been able to hire the van at all. The guy behind the cash desk had looked at her dubiously when she’d handed her UK driving licence to him, as if he doubted it was real.

When she’d finally convinced him that her licence wasn’t a fake and that she almost definitely could drive the van safely, she’d been given a set of keys and been walked over to a line of vehicles at the edge of a supermarket car park. Clicking the key fob, she’d been alarmed when, rather than the smaller vehicle she’d been eyeing, one of the larger vans had burst into life. It was truly monstrous, and not the size of vehicle she’d been expecting when she’d scrolled through her list of options at 6a.m. in bed.

To save face though, she’d smiled as if she’d expected this outcome all along, yanked open the rather stiff door and half climbed, half clambered into the driving seat. She’d even made sure to give the member of staff a cheery wave as she’d departed, before returning her hand to its white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

Now on the road and following a satnav that refused to speak English, she felt a little more nervous, mitigating her fear by driving as slowly as she dared and causing a long line of cars to build up in her wake. Ignoring the odd beep of a horn or savage look by a driver who’d finally found a piece of road straight enough to overtake, she tried to focus instead on the shopping expedition ahead. Cups. Coffee maker. Chairs. Small tables. Tablecloths. Paint. Wallpaper. Brushes. Then home.

When she arrived, and after managing to park the van, she finally felt herself relax. And as she took in the variety of large and small stores that populated the retail park, she smiled to herself. Admittedly she was a little out of her depth in the café. But shopping? Shopping she knew.

She took a selfie outside a cute-looking furniture boutique and sent it to Amber:

Becky

Channelling my inner Carrie Bradshaw: you can never have too many… soft furnishings!

Amber

I dunno, pretty sure Carrie said that about shoes, not tablecloths…

Becky

Style is style, my friend (smiling emoji)

Amber

OK good luck! You still complete me!

Becky

Me too.

It felt good to be in the bright lights and busier atmosphere of a retail park, even though she had to complete mental gymnastics every time she wanted to work out whether something was affordable. She invested in thirty porcelain mugs with gold rims, ordered some small tables, found a paint in a vibrant, sunshine yellow for the door, and a colourful wallpaper designed to look like blue wooden cladding that would do wonders for the blank back wall. She wasn’t entirely sure what she needed in terms of amounts so overbought, if anything, and invested in a range of brushes and rollers to get the job done.

In a large DIY store she found material that could easily be fashioned into tablecloths, and just as she was giving up on finding suitable chairs, she popped into a little furniture boutique and managed to find some gorgeous ones with padded yellow cushions in soft velvet. They were expensive, but she forced herself to think of the bigger picture, buying the ten they had in stock and ordering a further fifteen. She focused on the money she’d make after selling as she typed in the PIN on her credit card once again.

The enormous van was still only half full as she pulled out of the car park onto the busy road, the content sliding around in the back despite her best efforts. But she was pleased with herself. She’d covered a lot of ground – done the hard bit, really. The choosing, considering colour, ambience. Trying to recreate everything she loved about coffee shops back home. She had in mind the type of soft chairs you could sink into with a book, or relax in when meeting with friends. Neat square tables that could seat two, or be pulled together in larger groups by customers when needed. A colourful feature wall, and muted tones for the rest of the café to highlight the space, the light andcreate a positive atmosphere. Cake and pastry sales seemed to have petered out, but she’d love to reintroduce the kind of fayre that Maud had once served – macarons in colourful piles, fresh croissants, chocolate-dipped madeleines and tiny chouquettes to place on each customer’s saucer. The coffee selection could be widened, with special flavours for each season. And something in the decor to make it personal, special. Local art or sculpture. Maybe photographs.

It would take time, but this was at least a start. And perhaps Pascal would begin to see both that she was serious and that she actually did have pretty good taste.

After a couple of wrong turns and a strange encounter with a farmer, she found herself on the main route into Vaudrelle, and minutes later pulled up outside the café, causing the ten or so coffee drinkers inside to pause and stare as she stumbled out of the front seat onto the street.

Stomach rumbling, but with no time to lose as the van needed to be back in two hours, she began to unload, carrying rolls of wallpaper, paint trays and brushes through the café behind the counter and stacking them in the kitchen.

Each time she passed customers, she’d hear them exclaim in French, but had no idea what they were saying. In the little village, everyone would probably already know who she was and why she was here. Perhaps they were excited about the refit? Or impressed that she was getting on with things essentially alone and so rapidly?

‘Do you want some help?’ Pascal asked when she passed him a second time, carrying two heavy tubs of paint.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, despite being anything but. And actually desperately needing some help. She staggered into the kitchen, deposited the paint and walked back outside, cursing herself for saying what she had, but somehow unable to roll the time back and change her mind.

The chairs finally undid her. They were heavy, solid and she could only manage one at a time. Her plan was to clear a little space at the back, away from the counter, and stack them there as best she could until later; after closure, she could replace some of the ramshackle seating with her new, fancier versions. It was a shame the tables hadn’t been available to take away, but it was a start.

Opening the door with her back, she heaved the first chair inside, feeling herself break out in a sweat almost instantly. She dragged it noisily across the floor into the corner and, once deposited, had to fight the urge to fling herself onto it. She had nine more to do. There was no time for a rest.

When she was back in the van, moving the second one towards the exit, with plans to hop down and lift it to the ground when she got there, she saw Pascal exit the café, rubbing his hands as if dusting coffee granules or sugar from them. He looked at her, his enormous smile stretched across his face again.

It was a lovely smile. Pascal was a good-looking guy. But for some reason he seemed to only smile properly when she was struggling in some way, which definitely made it less endearing. ‘What?’ she said.

‘I am here to help.’

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