Page 67 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

Becky shook her head. ‘We’ve planned a launch for the new decor, so I might pop back to do that. Say goodbye.’ She swallowed. ‘But this is my reality, Amber. You and Mum and my job. My future here is… well, secure. Planned.’

‘What about the flat?’

‘I think Mum will lend me the money for the deposit if I want, but I’m not even sure I want it now. And our flat won’t be the same without you. But that’s life, isn’t it! I’ll find somewhere new to rent or whatever. It honestly, honestly doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, Becky.’

‘I wish you’d said,’ Becky told her. ‘I wish you’d told me sooner that the rent was too steep.’

‘It was OK. I managed to pay my share all those years. Just some months, it was a bit of a stretch. But you loved it so much, it was infectious. I’ll never regret living there with you.’

‘It’s only a flat. A gorgeous flat, admittedly. But I only enjoyed living there because of you. Not because of the en suites.’

Amber gave her a look.

‘OK,’ Becky smiled. ‘Maybe a little bit because of the en suites too.’

It was nice to see Amber laugh.

Behind them, a nurse coughed pointedly.

Becky looked at the clock. ‘I think I’m going to get chucked out soon.’

‘It’s alright. I’m pretty tired, to be honest.’

‘You’re feeling better though, right? I mean, you’re going to be OK? There isn’t anything else wrong?’

‘I’m fine. Well, fine-ish.’

‘Because if… I can’t lose you, Amber. Without you I’m… well. Incomplete.’

‘I know.’ Amber said, smiling tiredly. ‘Me too.’

As she exited the sterile light of the hospital into the fresh summer evening, Becky drew her phone from her pocket and booked an Uber. Then, after texting a quick, ‘All OK. Speak tomorrow’ to Pascal, she rang a number that she’d ignored for too long.

‘Barringtons?’

‘Hi, Julie. It’s Becky. Can I speak to HR?’

It was time to get things back on track.

25

It was odd being back in the flat. Having been vacant ever since Amber’s trip to hospital a few days prior, it had settled back into itself; walking in, everything seemed different, as if it were somewhere that belonged to a stranger. Becky started by switching on all the lights, then opening all the windows just a little, ignoring the fumes and the traffic noise, hoping to let some of the staleness out and welcome life into the place which felt barren and unloved. But it was no use: one way or another, she’d be leaving this place soon and already it had stopped feeling like home.

Three weeks ago, when she’d stepped out of the front door, she’d been a different person. Twitchy and stressed and desperate to prove herself at any cost. It was only now that she’d rested and gained a little perspective that she could admit that she probablyhadbeen suffering from burnout, or something close to it. An image of herself hurling a laptop across the office space, face contorted, phone clutched in a fist, flitted into and out of her mind. Had that been her?

Tomorrow she would be going into the office, meeting with HR. Starting to smooth the path to her return. Convince themthat all traces of burnout had left the building. And they really had, she realised, looking at herself in her wardrobe mirror. She looked different. Healthier. It was more than just the fake, healthy glow delivered by additional time in the sun, and the fact that she’d started to wear her shoulder-length blonde hair loose more often than not; it was something about her eyes, the set of her mouth. The way that she could look at her reflection and smile.

She opened her wardrobe and ran her fingers over the rack of expensive corporate wear that she’d accumulated over the past few years. Neat, tailored trousers and skirts. Fitted jackets. Heels that were just high enough without being overly showy. Nothing particularly distinctive, but everything smart and orderly and on point. In these clothes she became someone else entirely – part of a collective whole. There was a comfort in that, somehow. In everything being the same day in, day out. Predictable and manageable – and not like life in France at all.

There was noise suddenly in the downstairs flat. Just a slight scraping as someone moved some furniture or dragged a chair nearer to the TV. But it reminded her that below her feet was another person, living the same sort of life, in the same sort of flat. And below them, another. And, to that end, another person above in the top flat. And she thought how odd it felt to be part of a building where people lived on top of one another, stacked a convenient distance from their various offices, with wardrobes probably similar to hers. And how tomorrow most of them would probably be donning their outfits, slipping onto the Tube and becoming part of the blood in the veins of London.

Part of the machinery.

She shook her head. Of course it was going to feel a little odd after spending time in France with the space, the freedom to work when she chose, to explore, to get a little sun andperspective. But nobody could serve coffee forever. It had been a holiday. And holidays were always better than real life.

Here, she had family. Her mother, but also Amber. The girl who’d held her hand at playtime. Who’d got in trouble for giggling in assembly with her. The girl she’d grown up with, laughed with, argued with, who was so essential because she knew Becky almost as well as she knew herself. The heart of her. And if her being in France had in some way contributed to Amber’s situation, all the sunshine, freedom, happiness, fledgling romance and body-quivering orgasms were not worth paying that price.

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