Page 33 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘I’m aiming to come soon…’

‘Well, good. Darling, I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just that I worry about you there, what with your health.’

This was news to Becky. Surely her mum hadn’t bought into the idea of her being burnt out. ‘I’m fine! You said so yourself. It was just the doctor being overzealous.’

‘Still, I’d prefer you to be here for me to keep an eye on you.’

Becky’s mum worked such long hours that they barely saw each other – the idea of her mother actually hovering over her, looking after her was almost laughable. Plus, she didn’t need that. She was perfectly fine. ‘Mum, you know I’m thirty now, so… honestly, I can look after myself.’

‘Hmm.’ Her mother didn’t sound convinced. ‘Yes, I daresay. But it’s that place, Rebecca. It had an effect on you and your father. Both of you became complete slugabeds whenever we went there!’

‘Slugabeds?’ Despite her mother’s stern tone, it was impossible sometimes to take her talking-tos seriously.

‘You know, you laid about like a couple of dilly-dalliers. And then your father – God rest him – started to talk about moving there. I mean. Can youimagine?What on earth would we have done?’

‘It might have been OK?’

The silence prickled on the line.

‘Rebecca Thorne, are you telling me that you think I should have done things differently?!’

‘No, no – I understand.’ Becky rubbed her forehead with her fingers, wondering how they’d got here, conversationally. ‘Look, I do mean what I say. I want to come back as soon as I can. I just… things are complicated.’

‘Well, work a bit of that Rebecca magic on them all,’ her mum said firmly. ‘You’ll soon show them what’s what.’

‘Great. I’ll just do that then.’

But her mother didn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm. ‘Atta girl. You show that squatter who’s boss. And get back here, to reality.’

‘Will do.’

Once the call had ended she sent another message to Amber.

Becky

Are we OK? You still complete me!

They’d argued before, from the get-go. Squabbling over balls and games in the school playground, fussing over this and that. Living together in their shared flat, they’d often had disagreements about teabags, or mess, or whose turn it was to take out the rubbish. But they’d never fallen out properly, not like this.

It was hard to remember what it had even been about. She’d rung up upset from her argument with Pascal and Amber had given her short shrift, she remembered that. Amber was stressed about work, Becky got that. But what had she said that had upset her friend so much? She’d been in such turmoil she couldn’t really remember.

She felt a pang in her chest, probably indigestion from rushing her coffee, and rubbed it absent-mindedly, wondering what she could do to make things OK again between them. If she were home it would be easy – bringing a cake home after work, offering to get a takeaway. Here, she was at a disadvantage. Especially if Amber wouldn’t even speak to her.

Then a beep from her phone.

Amber

It’s OK.

She seized it and began to type ferociously.

Becky

Oh! I’m so glad. Amber, you can’t imagine how difficult it’s been! I have so much to update you on here. Pascal’s actually a great guy and I’ve been serving coffees, can you believe? I’ve got stuck in with the decorating too. Not that successfully. But I’ll explain when we speak. Oh God, and Mum is on the warpath! I think she worries I might ditch my job altogether and come and live a life here like mad Maud.

The little icon appeared, confirming that her message had been seen. But Amber didn’t respond. Becky waited for a moment, to see whether the three little dots that indicated someone was typing appeared, but nothing did. Then again – she checked her watch – it was 8a.m. back in the UK now. Amber was likely on her way to work. That was probably it. Still, it was odd that she’d texted so much only to be ignored once again. She noticed that her knee had started its habitual tremble and stilled it with her hand.

Amber had become so much part of the furniture of her life that she hadn’t realised how crucial her presence in it was; how vulnerable she felt without the woman she jokingly referred to as ‘my other half’. Perhaps Jerry Maguire was right, perhaps some people really did complete each other.

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