Page 9 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Then stay for me? I’m pretty stressed at work myself. Not feeling great. I could do with the company.’

‘Ah, poor baby,’ Becky said, scrunching up her face. ‘Nice try. But I’ve already booked my flights.’

‘Oh. OK,’ Amber looked a little downcast, then shook herself slightly.

‘Plus, I’m against the clock what with the flat and the deposit…’

‘What about your mum? What are you going to tell her?’

Becky lay herself fully on the bed – a gesture of mock surrender. ‘Haven’t said anything about France yet. Thought I might give her a call once I’m there…’

They’d been friends long enough for Amber to know exactly what Becky’s mother would think about the trip. For some reason, any talk about France had always been shut down in the past, especially if it involved Maud. Becky had vague memories of summer holidays with her great-aunt, but they were hazy and ended abruptly when she was ten. She’d been too young to know why they’d stopped going back so had just accepted it when their four weeks in Vaudrelle had morphed into package holidays to Greece or Spain.

They’d always received Christmas cards from Maud, then over the past two years, they’d dried up. The next thing they’d received had been a letter telling them about Maud’s legacy and how she wanted to gift Becky her beloved café, with its living space above.

‘Typical,’ Becky’s mum had muttered. ‘She was always determined to get you back under her thrall. As if you’re going to up sticks and move to France and run her crummy little café.’

‘Mum!’ Becky had been quite shocked. ‘She wasn’t a witch, you know! She was nice, as far as I remember.’

‘She was nice enough,’ Mum had sighed. ‘Just had her funny ways. Began to try to convince you of all sorts of silly things when we last went.’

‘Oh.’ Becky had looked at the letter, perplexed. ‘Well, anyway, I’m far too busy to go to France, don’t worry. I’ll just sell up.’

‘Good idea.’

Once she’d emailed the solicitor to tell of her intentions, she hadn’t paid it much thought; had naively believed she’d get something to sign and that would be it. But then, instead of news on the sale, a tax bill had arrived – clearly owning a home in France as a non-resident didn’t come cheap. And despite her emails, it seemed nobody was in any hurry to move things forward.

Finally she’d found the reason for the hold-up. The sitting tenant, Pascal.

‘Can’t I just evict him?’ she’d asked in a furious email.

‘It’s very complicated,madame,’ she’d been told. ‘He does have the right to stay in the property. Plus your aunt has given him permission to stay as long as he wants…’

She’d sent back what she’d hoped was a strongly worded reply (using a free translator, you could never quite be sure) asking him to start eviction proceedings, but her solicitor had rung her mobile and left a voicemail saying it was impossible. Hence the sudden frustrated fury and the laptop chucking. And hence her month of enforced leave.

Sure, there were other work stresses. Long hours. A new member of the team who seemed suddenly to be vying for the same promotion; there were a few problems with her main account and rivals were always sniffing around hoping to poach. But most of her stress had been about the café. She was sure once she rid herself of it, things would be better.

‘Perhaps she won’t mind you going now that Maud’s… you know. Not likely to take you under her wing now, is that what she said?’

‘Under her “thrall”, whatever that means.’

‘Your mum has an amazing vocabulary.’

‘I think her dictionary is from the 1800s. She’ll probably tell me it’s all codswallop or something.’ Becky sat up and grinned. ‘Oh God, look at the time. Want me to make you a coffee?’

Amber groaned. ‘Why can’tIget a month off work?’

‘Take a sabbatical?’

‘Can’t afford it.’

‘Then maybe try slinging a company laptop across the room?’ Becky suggested wickedly.

They both laughed.

‘I can’t change your mind? About going?’

Becky shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’

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