Page 36 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘OK. Of course.’ Pascal set his empty water glass down. ‘But still, it would be a good idea perhaps just to take a little time off.’

‘No.’ She said this more firmly now.

‘OK.’ Pascal smiled a little sadly and walked towards the café door. Then, turning, he said: ‘But answer one question for me. Why are you afraid to stop?’

‘I’m not afraid to stop!’

‘You are afraid to relax.’

‘Relaxing is over?—’

‘Non. These are not your words. Why are you, Becky, so afraid to be with yourself, without a distraction?’

Was she afraid? She pictured lying on her bed – not to sleep, not to read or scroll her phone but simply to rest and shuddered. ‘I guess I probably think too much,’ she said at last.

‘And you are afraid to think?’

It did seem a bit weird when he put it like that. ‘Not exactly. Just… I suppose I’m not used to it. Being idle. It feels better when I’m doing something.’

‘And were you always this way? Perhaps as a child?’

She shut her eyes, picturing her life at home: colouring books, piano lessons, ballet, homework, reading more and more challenging books. Then holidays – football clubs, Girl Guide camps. Those breaks in Rome and Greece her parents took her on. Never the pool. Always guidebooks and tours and ancient ruins. Except in France. She tried to picture those holidays all those years ago. Painting and running in grass. Sitting on Dad’s knee and looking at the sunset. Restaurants and walks and playing silly games. Her eyes snapped open.

‘Not always,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Perhaps you need to find that part of yourself. The part that can stop for a moment and really feel. Perhaps that is what the burnout is trying to tell you.’

‘What are you, a therapist?’ She was half joking, half annoyed.

‘Non, but I am a writer. I think a lot about things. And it makes me sad that you cannot do this, that you are afraid to stop and be with yourself.’ He shrugged.

‘But you know, I am happy. My life is… good.’

‘Except that you have burnout.’

‘But I don’t! That was just some stupid doctor who…’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! I just had a bad day at the office and…’ Pascal’s eyes remained on her and her words petered out.

She thought about the eye, which handily twitched her a reminder, the trembling leg. The panic. The fact that she’d been here for more than week and hadn’t really stopped, explored the town properly or done anything other than try to push forward her plan to get Pascal out and the café sold. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.

Pascal nodded. ‘OK. Well, perhaps be gentle to yourself just in case?’

She nodded, feeling suddenly teary.

‘I will go to work. But you must call me if you feel unwell.’

‘OK,’ she said, looking up at him, feeling the warmth of his soft, concerned gaze. ‘And thank you.’

‘De rien. It is nothing.’

After a morning’s work and a light lunch, she returned to her room and changed into some fresh clothes. If they were going to use the evening to update the decor, then maybe she really did have time to take a walk and look at the town properly, in daylight. She could label it research to give herself permission.

Checking her watch, she realised that Amber was likely on her lunch-break: 1.30p.m. in France would be 12.30p.m. back home. Tentatively she scrolled through her contacts and pressedCall.

‘Hi,’ Amber answered almost immediately. She sounded as if she were walking; Becky could hear traffic, the background hum of the city. She felt a wash of homesickness for the polluted, crowded, bustling melting pot of home. Or perhaps just for her best friend.

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