Page 29 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

Not usually a big drinker, the upset of earlier, the fact she was in a strange place, her eyelid’s determination to keep on flickering now and then, whenever she thought it might have stopped, had tied her insides in knots. A glass of red would help her to relax.

The woman nodded, said something rapidly in French – about the special perhaps? – and disappeared with a smile. She’d eat whatever she’d ended up ordering, Becky decided. She looked at the few other patrons: a couple in their seventies, the man pouring the woman a glass of wine from a carafe; another much younger couple, holding hands across the table. Watching them, it didn’t bother Becky that she was alone; she was used to being single, often popped out for a bite on her own during lunchtime or sometimes in the evening.

The final table was occupied by three women who looked to be in their thirties and were a little more dressed up than the rest of the clientele, in fitted trousers and colourful tops. They were laughing at something, one of them leaning on another and all completely lost in the moment. Watching them, Becky felt a sudden longing to call Amber. Or to be at home in their flat, putting the world to rights with her best friend. She turned away, feeling suddenly flooded with emotion, not wanting to embarrass herself in this restaurant, which might well be the only one in Vaudrelle. Without a hire car, she was going to need to come back here frequently if she hung around.

An hour later she made her way a little unsteadily along the dusky road, the light fading and making the houses look more uniform, their colours merging together into an indiscriminate grey. She passed a couple walking their dog, but otherwise the streets were silent and felt rather eerie. Her footsteps echoed on the stones of the pavement and she felt strangely isolated. Lights shone in the windows of houses, the flats above the few shops, but here she was, alone in the shadows.

She shook herself. ‘Just get home and sleep it off,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning.’

When she reached the café, she let herself in the front door, winding her way around the furniture – the old tables and the new chairs clashing even in the half-light – and made her wayto the kitchen. Pascal was nowhere to be seen – hopefully he’d gone to his room for the night and she could avoid him until tomorrow. She didn’t know whether she was angry or ashamed, but knew she couldn’t cope with any more conflict tonight.

She’d overeaten a little and her stomach felt uncomfortable. She’d been so hungry that she’d eaten the rather plain-looking, but actually delicious stew she’d been served in hungry gulps, washed down with red wine and followed by an ill-advised mousse-cake for dessert. She’d never sleep like this.

She helped herself to a glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge door and took a few sips. A little light still came through the window – the last of the daylight mixed with the first light from the moon – and rested on the tins of paint she’d stacked in the corner.

Pascal was wrong, she decided. The café needed a makeover and there was nothing wrong with bringing something up to date. In fact, she’d prove it to him. Suddenly energised, she slipped off her shoes and pulled her hair back with a band she kept on her wrist. Then, before she could overthink it, she lifted one of the paint pots and inspected the colour. It was beautiful, even in this light.

She’d show him. Taking a brush, a palette and the tin, she made her way a little unsteadily through the door to the silent café. There was no way she’d be able to paint the whole thing, but a few metres of colour would be a great way to prove to Pascal when he came down in the morning that Becky meant business.

She switched on a couple of the low lamps rather than go the whole hog and illuminate the café at this late hour, and dipped in her brush, drawing it across the flat, plastered surface, watching it turn from off-white to a gorgeous deep blue. Then again and again.

But soon she was flooded with tiredness and regret: the paint was thin, the paintbrush poor quality, and her body felt heavy and tired as the wine and the adrenaline wore off. She kept having to revisit her work to pick out hairs and work the paint to get it smooth.

Her back began to sweat, her neck prickled and she began to wish she’d never started. But she had to at least leave it in a reasonable state before she went to bed. ‘Fuck,’ she said to herself as yet another hair came out of the brush and stuck to the badly painted wall.

Bending down to dip the brush in again, she took in the smell of the paint and gagged slightly – it was non-toxic, but still packed quite a heady punch. She was so tired. And so overfull. And probably a little bit drunk. Then, out of nowhere, she felt a strange sensation fizz through her limbs; felt her knees buckle. She grabbed for something, and in her haste upset the tin which spewed its contents across the floor, turning the tiles blue. Just as her vision began to flicker, she heard her name being called.

Strong hands grabbed her waist and helped her move to a chair where she slumped, her head on the table as the dizziness subsided. When she finally raised her head, aware that her hair was sweaty and messy, her face red, her body still not quite sure whether it was going to remain conscious, she saw Pascal, dressed in chequered pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt, hair dishevelled; his eyes filled with concern. ‘Here,’ he said, pushing a glass of water towards her on the table. ‘Drink.’

She lifted the cool glass and drank, feeling how dry her throat was. Finally, she looked at him.

‘What were you doing? It is almost midnight. I thought someone had broken in!’ His voice was tense, but his eyes remained fixed on her; kind, gentle. He was worried, she realised.

‘I know, I just wanted… Needed really to… This wall – I just thought…’ Their eyes met.

‘You are rushing,’ Pascal said simply, putting up his hand and touching her shoulder lightly. ‘First we look after number one. Then we work.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Like on a plane: the mother must fit her own oxygen mask before she looks after her child. You must take care of yourself before you can take care of the café.’

She felt a slight wave of dizziness and nodded mutely. Then, ‘I just want to make this work,’ she said. ‘This has to work. Otherwise…’ Her voice cracked.

‘Otherwise what? Otherwise the café will be white instead of blue? The chairs will be slightly less comfortable? It is nice to improve things. But it is not important. Not really. Not worth making ourselves ill over.’

‘But I can’t fail at this too,’ she found herself saying.

‘I am sorry if I made you feel like this,’ he said. ‘Like you are not succeeding. Sorry for my words earlier. I do not think you have nothing. Perhaps I find it hard to understand you. But I should not have said those things.’

‘It’s not you. I’m just… I feel a bit lost I suppose. Anyway, you were right really. I actually do have nothing. My mum, well, she’s… I suppose she’s never been quite like you’d imagine a mum would be. Never very… nurturing. I have my friend Amber – although I think I’ve messed things up with her. And my work is a disaster. I’m a disaster. And now I’ve made a mess of this too.’

Her head fell forward, partly from tiredness, partly from misery. But Pascal reached out and lifted her chin gently with his fingertips. ‘Non,’ he said. ‘You are tired. And perhaps have chosen a bad time to paint. But nothing is so bad. It is just paint.It will dry. We will correct it. In ten years, maybe less, someone new will paint it again. It does not matter.’

She nodded miserably.

‘Let me clear this up,’ he instructed. ‘You go to bed. Things will be better in the morning, you’ll see.’

She nodded again and got to her feet, standing for a moment to test her balance before finding that she was OK to walk. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

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