Page 57 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Have you spoken toyourmum yet?’ she asked. ‘About your book deal, moving back to Paris?’

She’d meant it to be a genuine question, but he turned and laughed. ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘I am also guilty of withholding information from my mother. Although I would ignore her calls at my peril. But then it is complicated for me too.’

‘Sorry!’ she said, grimacing. ‘You know what, if we ever have kids, let’s make a promise never to… well, you know. Pressure them to the extent that they have to lie to us.’

‘Kids?’ He looked at her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

She flushed. ‘I meant, with other people of course.’

He gave her a little grin that showed he’d already known how she’d intended the sentence to sound. ‘Yes, we will have to make sure we do not use our children to right our own wrongs. Fulfil our regrets.’

‘Is that what you think our mums are doing?’

He shrugged. ‘My mother thinks she should have started younger, made more of herself. So it is my job to live her life instead of my own. At least, that’s my impression.’

She nodded. She understood. ‘With my mum, I suppose it’s more about protecting me. She went through some hardship, and having money makes her feel safe. She just wants the same for me, I guess.’

Pascal nodded. ‘Je comprends.’

Straightening up, Becky inspected the section of skirting board she’d now finished. There were just a couple of metres to go. Pascal’s eyes followed hers.

‘It looks good,’ he said.

‘Yours too.’

‘I think perhaps another day or two and it will be complete.’

And then what?she wondered. Would she start trying to employ a new manager? Tell Maud it was all too much, and that someone local ought to take it over? Leave Vaudrelle and return to work? Part of her still wanted to drop the brush, flag down a cab (a literal impossibility in Vaudrelle) and get back on a plane as soon as possible: reclaim her life, her flat, her best friend.

And her work too, she supposed. Although for some reason, although she loved her job, she didn’t feel in such a rush where that was concerned.

She sighed more loudly than she intended.

‘What is wrong?’ Pascal said, walking over to the skirting board as if to take another look. ‘It looks fine!’

‘It’s not the painting. Just… feeling a bit…’ she said, shrugging in the place of an adequate word.

The past days had been spent visiting Maud, working in the café, then taking a break before continuing to decorate in the evening. Busy days. But productive. And they’d given her the kind of buzz her job had used to do before it became all-consuming, and she hadn’t had time to think about whethershe enjoyed it or not. She’d been struck on one of her walks yesterday when she glimpsed herself in the window of a shop and seen that she was smiling. She’d looked different. Lighter.

But that was because, she’d reasoned later, she was effectively on holiday. This wasn’t real life. If she stayed – and she wasn’t really considering that, not in any real sense – these exceptional, unusual days would become ordinary days. Would she enjoy them so much then?

She wasn’t sure what the future held, or what the right direction was. But she knew that she wanted to see more of Maud while she could; that she wanted to find out why Amber was angry at her – if indeed she was. Against her better judgement, she still had this underlying desire to get Mum’s approval; to make her proud. And all of these things fought one another daily in her mind. Except when she was decorating, or sometimes when she was talking with Pascal, and she found herself briefly existing only in the moment – the feeling slipping away the second it was noticed.

‘You are unhappy?’ Pascal asked. ‘Homesick, perhaps?’ He picked up a second brush and dipped it into the gloss she was using for the skirting board. Then, kneeling down a little farther along the wall, he began to help her with her task.

‘I just don’t know,’ she said. ‘There are so many unanswered questions, if that makes sense?’

‘With Amber?’

‘With everything! I came here with all these plans. This… agenda. And now Maud’s alive, and there’s no way I can sell the café. And Mum’s offered me money – I could buy my dream flat, go back to my job. Live the life I wanted so much.’

‘But?’

‘I just don’t know any more,’ she said simply. ‘All my life I’ve had this planned trajectory – this route that I was expected totake. And the easiest thing was just to take it. It’s worked out great… on paper.’

‘But you are not happy?’

‘I’m just not sure I know what I want! How am I supposed to decide what to do if I have no idea where I’m headed?’ She longed suddenly for the clarity of one of Mum’s five-year plans. A recipe to follow to lead her life in the right direction.

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