Page 47 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Oh. That’s good.’

‘Yes, and he is very pleased to hear that you are seeing Maud today. He asked if you would talk to her about the café – whether it could now be put up for sale, but I said I don’t think this visit is one for business.’

‘No. Bit nosy of him to ask?’

‘Nosy?’

‘You know. Sticking his nose in.’

‘Asking things that are not his business?’

‘Exactly.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Ah Georges, he takes his job very seriously. To him, in Vaudrelle at least,everythingis his business.’

She smiled. ‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Thanks for closing the café for this,’ she added.

Pascal shrugged. ‘It is your café.’

That was true. It didn’t feel like hers though. And she had no idea whether it could weather the lost revenue an afternoon closing would cause. She’d learned how to pour a couple of coffees, but she had no idea of the profit and loss, the workings of the business. She should, really. Although he could show her the ledger books and she’d probably still be clueless.

‘I’m so nervous!’ she found herself saying as they climbed into Pascal’s car. The vehicle smelt like polish and leather and dust and the kind of unspecific ‘old’ smell that you find in museums. The seats were cracked and sun-bleached and as she sat down, the whole thing wobbled on its dubious suspension.

‘About my driving?’

She laughed, although he wasn’t completely wrong. ‘Mostly about meeting Maud.’

‘It will be fine.’ He reversed out of the space, the car emitting a puff of putrid exhaust fumes as he did, then began to drive along the slightly bumpy road through the village. Becky had never been in such an old car, certainly not one that was practically falling apart; but at least the fear of potential deathor breakdown prevented her from worrying too much about her upcoming meeting. The route took them out of the village and left, along a road she hadn’t yet travelled down. They passed a cemetery with ornate family plots, a farm where a dog watched them suspiciously as they drove by, but didn’t bark. The worst moment was probably when they confronted a tractor head-on and Pascal was forced to reverse into a lay-by that had an enormous ditch just next to it.

Between these moments of trepidation though, she was able to take in the sun-drenched scenery, the sparkle of light on water as they crossed a river. And feel, with pleasure, Pascal’s hand as he rested it briefly on hers from time to time for reassurance.

She wondered what he thought of the night before. He seemed completely at ease with her, but hadn’t mentioned it directly. How did he view it? Had it been a one-night stand for him? Or the start of something more meaningful?

They stopped in a small convenience store, and she managed to pick up some chocolate and a magazine – feeling she ought to take something. ‘Do you think this says, “Sorry I thought you were dead”?’ she asked Pascal, waving the large bar of Milka and the copy ofVoici!

He laughed. ‘They are perfect.’

By the time they pulled into the car park of the residential home, her knuckles were white from gripping her seat, yet Pascal seemed completely relaxed and oblivious to the terror she felt winding around some of the sharper corners close to the residential home.

The building they’d parked next to was pretty – not what she’d been expecting at all. It had been created inside what had evidently once been a rather grand family home – not quite a chateau, but with aspirational turrets hinting that it was doing its best to be a luxury residence. Pascal closed his door withoutlocking it, leaving the keys in the ignition. She nearly pointed it out, but decided against it.

The day was warm once again, and it was easy to forget that at home the weather was less than clement. The alerts that had pinged on her phone this morning had predicted twelve degrees and rainy in London – not the best June weather. Here, it was warm with an edge of heat that would only increase as the day grew into itself. She was getting used to it: no longer carrying a ‘just in case’ cardigan or coat, and ensuring she applied sun cream to her shoulders before stepping out.

As they walked together along the path that led to a giant wooden door, Pascal’s fingers brushed hers, holding her hand briefly and giving it a squeeze, then dropping it, leaving her hand feeling somehow incomplete without his.

She let him lead the way into the building and to a reception desk made of polished mahogany. A woman behind the desk smiled herbonjourat him, dipping her head a little when they spoke, and barely acknowledging Becky at all.

‘Does she always flirt with you like that?’ she asked quietly as they walked away from the counter.

‘Flirt?Non. She is just friendly,’ he said, oblivious.

Pascal led her through to a bright, light conservatory scattered with comfortable chairs. In the corner was a grand piano, its keys bright in the sun, just waiting for the next set of fingers to tickle out a tune.

There were three chairs occupied. One by an old man, another by a woman who was holding a book and frowning at its contents. A third chair had a crutch leaning up against it, and was occupied by a woman whose face was turned away, looking outwards towards the sun-drenched garden. Seeing her, Becky gasped in recognition.

It had been twenty years. And Becky had worried she wouldn’t recognise her great-aunt easily. Yet instantly she knew,even without seeing the woman’s face. It was something in the way that she held herself, the arm that draped on her lap. The glimpse of an emerald earring in her ear.

And something in Becky’s body changed, too, on seeing her. She’d been nervous, holding herself back, her limbs stiff and awkward. But it was as if her muscles, her subconscious, recognised Maud and she became the little girl who’d hugged her fiercely when they’d last left, with no idea it would be the last time for a long time.

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