Page 74 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘I did!’ She found she was smiling at his voice.

‘Amber – is she still OK? You said in your message, but…’

‘Yes. She’s OK. She’s being discharged soon, going to her mum’s.’

‘But this is wonderful news!’

‘Yes. It really is.’

‘And you will be back soon? Because I have been working hard for the launch,’ he said, in the tone of someone confident that the person he was speaking to was on the same page. ‘I think people are quite excited. I will close the café tomorrow to assemble the new tables and practise the machine. And then,voilà! You will be back and on Saturday, Vaudrelle will have a brand-new place to drink coffee!’

Something rose inside her and she pushed it down. ‘Pascal, I…’ She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t come. That he’d have to do the last bit on his own. But she couldn’t find the words.

‘Oui? There is something you need?’

‘Oh no. Just… I’m looking forward to it,’ she lied, feeling sweat bead on her brow.

Her bus stop loomed and she ended the call with relief, not wanting to dig herself an even bigger hole. Stepping onto the pavement, she began walking towards the flat, her body fizzing with adrenaline.You’ve really done it now, Becky,she said quietly as she let herself in and dropped her bag and coat on the floor.

Tomorrow she would be back in the office; firmly back in her old life. She’d have to find a way to let Pascal down. It would feel absolutely awful. But perhaps once she stepped back into the fray, she would buy into that world again, forget about him. About France. These thoughts that were plaguing her would fade as her mind became occupied in strategy, and her days became filled with important phone calls, presentations, campaigns.

She’d lose herself again.

And maybe that was what she needed. It certainly seemed to work for her mum.

The evening stretched before her and she found herself pacing up and down. One minute resolving to get back to work and laying out clothes for the next day; the next, hanging them back up and pulling her suitcase from under her bed. She tried watching TV, reading, listening to the radio. Even resorted to a bit of cleaning, but nothing seemed to calm her.

In the end, she sat at the table and pulled an old letter from the bank towards her. Turning it, seeing its bright blankness, she pulled out her phone and brought up the picture of the Tudor-style building she’d photographed near her office that morning. She picked up a pen, propped her phone against the salt pot and began to draw.

And everything else stopped.

She took in the details of the wood, the contrast between the building’s age and beauty with the modern chaos around and in front of it. She felt the hustle and bustle of the street and the calmness of the hundreds-year-old structure against it, withstanding the storm year after year.

When she next looked at the time, it was almost midnight and she’d produced a reasonable sketch, under the circumstances. Her heart rate had slowed and she’d created a gap in her mind, given it a chance to stop chewing over and over the same things time and time again.

Maybe that was all she’d needed. A hobby to give her a little headspace and calm her down. Not an escape to another country, another life.

She texted her mum:

Becky

Got the go-ahead for tomorrow!

And soon received a response:

Mum

That’s brilliant. So proud of you!

Then she texted Amber:

Becky

Back to work tomorrow. Hope to see you after hours.

It wasn’t a lie, was it? It was what she hoped. Even if it looked like she might have to let her friend down.

Amber

---