Page 25 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Well, I don’t need any help,’ she snapped, feeling the prickle of heat in her neck.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But maybe you will allow me to anyway? It will be quicker.’

This swung it. She really didn’t want to have to deal with the fallout if she got the van back late. She’d signed so many forms with very little idea of what they said, and no idea what the penalty might be for any missteps.

‘OK, if you want.’ She gave a little shrug and just caught his grin before he turned his face quickly away.

‘I know you do not need help,’ he said. ‘But I am worried that if I don’t do this, the customers will think I am a terrible person, to allow you to struggle on your own.’

She nodded, intent on getting her chair out of the van. Pascal picked another one up with enviable ease and they staggered and walked respectively into the café, heads turning to watch their progress, then following them out again.

‘Let me finish with the chairs?’ Pascal suggested. ‘Perhaps you can bring in some of those…’ he trailed off, looking at the boxed-up mugs, ‘enormous cups.’

It was unintentional, but Becky saw him grimace at the sight of the coffee mugs. ‘They’re porcelain!’ she said, as if to defend them. ‘Top quality. And they all match.’

‘Of course. Of course…’ Pascal said carefully, pausing and standing with a chair in his arms by the open van doors. ‘It’s just… never mind.’

‘Just what?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps most of our customers, they will struggle with such an enormous coffee. We prefer the petite, the little pick-me-up, not… a whole litre.’

‘Yes, but I’ve ordered a machine. We can do lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos – you wait. People will love it,’ she said firmly.

‘OK,’ he said, nodding.

‘No, wait,’ Becky said, jumping down next to him, holding a single mug. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like them?’

Pascal lifted a shoulder. ‘I am a writer, not a businessman,’ he said. ‘But except for the tourists – and we do not get many in Vaudrelle, mainly in the summer months – it is rare that people do not simply order espresso.’

‘Yes, because you don’t offer anything else!’ she said, somewhere between amused and exasperated. ‘So they can’t.’

Pascal nodded. ‘I am sure you are right,’ he said, in a voice that suggested he thought anything but.

Eventually the van was emptied, the kitchen stacked high with purchases, chairs teetering in loosely stacked piles in the corner of the café. Becky’s muscles ached, her hands were red from carrying so much, her fingers tingling. Her back was wet with sweat and she felt revolting.

She sat in the kitchen for a quick rest before taking the van back to the rental company, sipping a glass of tap water that tasted slightly metallic.

Pascal came in and out, fetching things, putting used crockery in the dishwasher, often whistling to himself. From time to time his eye would graze the pile of decorative items she’d purchased and a judgemental eyebrow would shoot up, she assumed in response to her wallpaper choice, or colour palette. But she decided to not let it bother her.

She didn’t know much about Pascal. Perhaps he just wasn’t into decor. So what if he thought her coffee mugs were too big, that the chairs were too colourful. Perhaps he hated the idea of the wallpaper or the colour she’d picked to complement it on the opposite wall. He probably didn’t want her to paint the rather rustic wooden door, and maybe even felt insulted that she’d invested in a coffee machine and new cups. Yet somehow, for some reason, she really wished he’d show some pleasure in what she was trying to do.

But he simply couldn’t visualise it like she could. She worked every day in a world where people talked about vision and appeal – sure, she wasn’t an interior designer, but she definitely had good taste. She’d been in a thousand coffee shops and could judge where this one was letting itself down. Besides, although she ached and her bank account had taken a hit, she felt positive and buzzy from the task in hand, and when envisioning whatlay ahead. What better way to take the sting out of an incorrect diagnosis and a shattering period of enforced leave?

In a few weeks this place would be transformed. She’d have jumped through her aunt’s hoops by working in the café for a period of time. Pascal would agree to go once the property was sold, and she’d put it on the market as soon as everything was organised.

By the time she returned from the rental company, in a taxi she’d had to wait an hour for, Pascal had just finished closing up. As she climbed out of the cab, he was in the process of turning the little cardboard sign in the window to ‘Fermé’. He saw her and smiled, opened the door and bowed a little as she went past. ‘Good evening,’ he said in quite a good British accent, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

A few minutes later, he was taking off his apron in the kitchen when he said, ‘I am going to see Maud this evening. I wondered if you wanted to come with me?’ His voice was casual, but she felt weight behind his words. An accusation, maybe. And perhaps he was right – she was here because of Maud’s gift, but it hadn’t occurred to her even once to visit her great-aunt’s grave.

‘I should,’ she said. ‘I thought I might today, but I’m just… I’m exhausted, to be honest. But yes, I must do. Soon. Is it far?’

He shook his head. ‘Not so far. I have a car, so it is not difficult.’

‘Do you go… often?’

‘I try. Usually once a week.’

‘Wow! that is a lot!’ She flushed. ‘I mean, I’m sure she’d appreciate it, if she knew,’ she added hastily.

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