Page 56 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Well, I suppose she did say she’d wanted to see me, hoped the gift would encourage me to visit. But obviously she wouldn’t give me a café just to get me to book a plane ticket.’

Another silence. ‘So you’re coming home soon? Look, I’ve been thinking about the flat. And I could sub you the money – easily, in fact. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!’

‘Because you wanted me to stand on my own two feet?’

‘Well, perhaps Maud’s inspired me. The money will be yours eventually, of course. After I’ve gone.’

‘Mum, you’re sixty-three.’

‘I am aware of that, Rebecca!’

‘You’re not going anywhere. It’s me who has all the health problems!’ Becky said, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Land sakes, Rebecca. You are fine.’ Her mother’s voice seemed to crack slightly on the final words. ‘Look, come home. Let’s get that flat of yours sorted, shall we? And perhaps we can pop back again together to see Maud at some point, if you’d like?’

‘Thank you, Mum. It sounds… it’s a lovely offer.’

‘So, I’ll see you soon?’

‘I’ve got some things to do… some thinking. But thank you. It’s so nice of you. And you know… I’ll call you.’

‘And book your ticket soon, too, I hope?’

‘Yes,’ Becky found herself saying. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good. Good girl.’ Her mother hung up without saying goodbye.

Well, that was – as her mother would no doubt term it – ‘a turn-up for the books.’

If only she’d known that all she had to do to get a bit more financial support from her mum was to suffer burnout, inherit a café in France, travel to the continent and resurrect an aunt from the dead, then she’d have done it years ago.

Her mum’s offer would have simplified things enormously a couple of weeks ago. But now, she wasn’t sure why, the choice didn’t seem so clear-cut. And the flat didn’t seem very important at all.

She tried to ring Amber again.

The phone cut to an answering service, but she didn’t leave a message.

21

Two days on, when her phone trilled, she guiltily pressedDismiss.It was the second time Mum had rung that day. As she looked at the screen, frowning, and pressedDecline,she saw Pascal looking at her from behind the stepladder.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

‘Just Mum.’ She made a face.

‘You are declining a call from your mother?’ His face was somewhere between impressed and aghast. ‘I would never dare.’

‘Not sure I dare myself. I’ll be for it when I finally do answer,’ she admitted.

‘Have you had a fight? Argued?’

‘No, it’s just…’ She dipped her brush into the tin of white paint and began to stroke it onto the skirting board, turning it from dull mahogany to something fresher. The walls were now finished, and this was the final coat.

She hated decorating. But spending time with Pascal, barely talking, just getting on with the job in hand, had been surprisingly soothing. There was something lovely, too, about seeing the café gradually become a new version of itself.

In the days that had followed their night together, they’d settled into something that felt like a friendship. Neither mentioned anything more and while for her, the question sometimes fizzed between them, she didn’t let herself say anything out loud. What was there to say?I wish you wanted to stay and be with me, even though I’d turn you down if you asked? ‘It’s complicated.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Complicated, I understand completely.’ He stepped back from where he’d finished papering the back wall and inspected his work, hands on hips. She watched him – his narrow frame in its customary chequered (and now paint-splattered) shirt, messy jeans; hair with a few flecks of blue paint in it. And felt a sudden rush of affection for him, but forced herself to face facts. They’d had a one-night stand and now he was helping her decorate, probably more out of loyalty to Maud than anything else.

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