Page 88 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

Maud’s eyes were fixed on hers. ‘Why is that, Becky? What makes it natural?’

‘Well… it’s what people say…’ Becky shrugged. ‘It’s most people’s experience, I suppose. People grow up, have families. Time gets stretched and friends fall by the wayside. Sooner or later Amber or I will meet someone and we’ll move apart from each other anyway. Maybe I’m putting too much stock into holding on to something that’s… well, kind of doomed, long term.’

‘Yes. People do say that. And it’s true of most friendships I suppose. But it’s not a given. Nothing is. Just because things have happened before to other people doesn’t mean that our lives are made inevitable. Everyone, everything, every situation is different. When I stepped off the kind of… carousel of work that I’d created for myself, the world didn’t fall apart as I’d thought. And I was able to live differently, on the edge of it all. It made me realise?—’

‘What?’ Becky prompted gently.

‘That all the things we take for granted – the life recipes we’re given – the benchmarks we’re expected to hit… Education, work, relationships, children. Someone at some point made them up. And if measuring ourselves against them makes us unhappy, well then there’s something wrong.’

‘So you’re saying I should choose Amber? Try to stay close to her?’

‘Being with Amber… it makes you happy, doesn’t it?’

‘I never had a sibling,’ Becky said with a shrug. ‘She’s it, I suppose.’

‘Then why do you let other people’s assumptions affect you? People only grow apart if they neglect their friendships. It’s not necessarily the path you have to take.’

‘But it’s hard. Because I can’t have it all, can I?’

‘None of us can,’ Maud said softly. ‘But perhaps you can have more than you think.’

A moment later, Pascal entered the kitchen. He’d changed into a powder blue shirt, black jeans. His hair was gelled. ‘Are we ready, ladies?’ he said jovially. Then his smile disappeared as he saw the expressions on each of their faces.

Standing up, Becky shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Pascal. I know what I said. But I just can’t.’

33

Of course it was raining. It might be June, it might have been dry for the past week. But if Becky was going to do something like this, then fate dictated that it would rain. She’d watched enough movies to know that.

Her lightweight coat was soon saturated. Her hair hung against her face in thick wet strands and she understood perhaps for the first time why people tended to call them ‘rat-tails.’ She thought of the café; now closed for the night, how well the launch had gone and how, for a moment there, she really thought she’d found her niche. Part of her wished she was there, ready to climb the stairs to her room and fall into bed.

Instead, she had decided to rush here. Soaked to the bone and completely alone. On a mission that might well end in tears.

It was dark, and she’d felt vulnerable walking the last hundred metres or so. Nobody was about, but the street that looked so welcoming in the daytime had taken on a more menacing air in the blackness; the lights gave out little halos but didn’t share much brightness with the street below. The rain made things even more impossible, hammering on her head, running into her eyes. She was bedraggled, freezing, and wouldgive her right arm now to be tucked up in her bed above the French café.

But she was here. And it was important, she reminded herself. It was one of the most important things she’d ever done.

She opened the gate and crept along the side passage, hoping that there weren’t any security lights to spring to life and alert those sleeping above to her presence. Luckily, everything stayed dark.

Feeling a little shaky, she stood on the darkened patio and looked up at the window. There were no lights on in the house; clearly everyone was asleep. Was she being completely insane? Could this not wait until morning, when she could return in dry clothes with an umbrella? She checked her watch; it was 3a.m.

But for some reason she felt it had to be now.

Taking a deep breath, she selected a stone – one with enough weight to make it possible to project and aim it, but not so much that it would cause any damage, hopefully – and threw it at the window. It bounced on the sill and landed back next to her with a gentle click.

Annoyed, she picked up another. This one struck its target, making a little clink against the glass. She held her breath. But nothing.

This time she picked up a handful of smaller stones and flung them with all of her might. They sprinkled the window, making a tiny clatter. She was bending down to pick up another stone, wondering whether to risk a bigger one, and feeling the rain drip down her back from her wet hair, when there was a voice from above.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’ll call the police!’

She straightened, looked up, allowed her face to be seen in the light now emanating from the window.

‘Fuck’s sake. Becky! What are you doing here?’ Amber’s voice was softer now. If anything, concerned. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Kind of,’ she said.

‘Why aren’t you in France?’

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