Page 11

An hour later she was feeling less confident and definitely less relaxed.

She’d never seen the road from this angle.

Compared to the small cars she’d driven in the past, the van she’d hired was enormous.

Add to this the fact that she had to drive on the wrong side of the road along a route she’d never travelled before, and it made the hour-long journey to the out-of-town retail park she’d earmarked seem both terrifying and precarious.

Then again, she was glad to have been able to hire the van at all. The guy behind the cash desk had looked at her dubiously when she’d handed her UK driving licence to him, as if he doubted it was real.

To save face though, she’d smiled as if she’d expected this outcome all along, yanked open the rather stiff door and half climbed, half clambered into the driving seat.

She’d even made sure to give the member of staff a cheery wave as she’d departed, before returning her hand to its white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

Now on the road and following a satnav that refused to speak English, she felt a little more nervous, mitigating her fear by driving as slowly as she dared and causing a long line of cars to build up in her wake.

Ignoring the odd beep of a horn or savage look by a driver who’d finally found a piece of road straight enough to overtake, she tried to focus instead on the shopping expedition ahead.

Cups. Coffee maker. Chairs. Small tables.

Tablecloths. Paint. Wallpaper. Brushes. Then home.

When she arrived, and after managing to park the van, she finally felt herself relax. And as she took in the variety of large and small stores that populated the retail park, she smiled to herself. Admittedly she was a little out of her depth in the café. But shopping? Shopping she knew.

She took a selfie outside a cute-looking furniture boutique and sent it to Amber:

Becky

Channelling my inner Carrie Bradshaw: you can never have too many… soft furnishings!

Amber

I dunno, pretty sure Carrie said that about shoes, not tablecloths…

Becky

Style is style, my friend (smiling emoji)

Amber

OK good luck! You still complete me!

Becky

Me too.

It felt good to be in the bright lights and busier atmosphere of a retail park, even though she had to complete mental gymnastics every time she wanted to work out whether something was affordable.

She invested in thirty porcelain mugs with gold rims, ordered some small tables, found a paint in a vibrant, sunshine yellow for the door, and a colourful wallpaper designed to look like blue wooden cladding that would do wonders for the blank back wall.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she needed in terms of amounts so overbought, if anything, and invested in a range of brushes and rollers to get the job done.

In a large DIY store she found material that could easily be fashioned into tablecloths, and just as she was giving up on finding suitable chairs, she popped into a little furniture boutique and managed to find some gorgeous ones with padded yellow cushions in soft velvet.

They were expensive, but she forced herself to think of the bigger picture, buying the ten they had in stock and ordering a further fifteen.

She focused on the money she’d make after selling as she typed in the PIN on her credit card once again.

The enormous van was still only half full as she pulled out of the car park onto the busy road, the content sliding around in the back despite her best efforts.

But she was pleased with herself. She’d covered a lot of ground – done the hard bit, really.

The choosing, considering colour, ambience.

Trying to recreate everything she loved about coffee shops back home.

She had in mind the type of soft chairs you could sink into with a book, or relax in when meeting with friends.

Neat square tables that could seat two, or be pulled together in larger groups by customers when needed.

A colourful feature wall, and muted tones for the rest of the café to highlight the space, the light and create a positive atmosphere.

Cake and pastry sales seemed to have petered out, but she’d love to reintroduce the kind of fayre that Maud had once served – macarons in colourful piles, fresh croissants, chocolate-dipped madeleines and tiny chouquettes to place on each customer’s saucer.

The coffee selection could be widened, with special flavours for each season.

And something in the decor to make it personal, special.

Local art or sculpture. Maybe photographs.

It would take time, but this was at least a start. And perhaps Pascal would begin to see both that she was serious and that she actually did have pretty good taste.

After a couple of wrong turns and a strange encounter with a farmer, she found herself on the main route into Vaudrelle, and minutes later pulled up outside the café, causing the ten or so coffee drinkers inside to pause and stare as she stumbled out of the front seat onto the street.

Stomach rumbling, but with no time to lose as the van needed to be back in two hours, she began to unload, carrying rolls of wallpaper, paint trays and brushes through the café behind the counter and stacking them in the kitchen.

Each time she passed customers, she’d hear them exclaim in French, but had no idea what they were saying.

In the little village, everyone would probably already know who she was and why she was here.

Perhaps they were excited about the refit?

Or impressed that she was getting on with things essentially alone and so rapidly?

‘Do you want some help?’ Pascal asked when she passed him a second time, carrying two heavy tubs of paint.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, despite being anything but. And actually desperately needing some help. She staggered into the kitchen, deposited the paint and walked back outside, cursing herself for saying what she had, but somehow unable to roll the time back and change her mind.

The chairs finally undid her. They were heavy, solid and she could only manage one at a time.

Her plan was to clear a little space at the back, away from the counter, and stack them there as best she could until later; after closure, she could replace some of the ramshackle seating with her new, fancier versions.

It was a shame the tables hadn’t been available to take away, but it was a start.

Opening the door with her back, she heaved the first chair inside, feeling herself break out in a sweat almost instantly.

She dragged it noisily across the floor into the corner and, once deposited, had to fight the urge to fling herself onto it.

She had nine more to do. There was no time for a rest.

When she was back in the van, moving the second one towards the exit, with plans to hop down and lift it to the ground when she got there, she saw Pascal exit the café, rubbing his hands as if dusting coffee granules or sugar from them.

He looked at her, his enormous smile stretched across his face again.

It was a lovely smile. Pascal was a good-looking guy. But for some reason he seemed to only smile properly when she was struggling in some way, which definitely made it less endearing. ‘What?’ she said.

‘I am here to help.’

‘Well, I don’t need any help,’ she snapped, feeling the prickle of heat in her neck.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But maybe you will allow me to anyway? It will be quicker.’

This swung it. She really didn’t want to have to deal with the fallout if she got the van back late. She’d signed so many forms with very little idea of what they said, and no idea what the penalty might be for any missteps.

‘OK, if you want.’ She gave a little shrug and just caught his grin before he turned his face quickly away.

‘I know you do not need help,’ he said. ‘But I am worried that if I don’t do this, the customers will think I am a terrible person, to allow you to struggle on your own.’

She nodded, intent on getting her chair out of the van. Pascal picked another one up with enviable ease and they staggered and walked respectively into the café, heads turning to watch their progress, then following them out again.

‘Let me finish with the chairs?’ Pascal suggested. ‘Perhaps you can bring in some of those…’ he trailed off, looking at the boxed-up mugs, ‘enormous cups.’

It was unintentional, but Becky saw him grimace at the sight of the coffee mugs. ‘They’re porcelain!’ she said, as if to defend them. ‘Top quality. And they all match.’

‘Of course. Of course…’ Pascal said carefully, pausing and standing with a chair in his arms by the open van doors. ‘It’s just… never mind.’

‘Just what?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps most of our customers, they will struggle with such an enormous coffee. We prefer the petite, the little pick-me-up, not… a whole litre.’

‘Yes, but I’ve ordered a machine. We can do lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos – you wait. People will love it,’ she said firmly.

‘OK,’ he said, nodding.

‘No, wait,’ Becky said, jumping down next to him, holding a single mug. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like them?’

Pascal lifted a shoulder. ‘I am a writer, not a businessman,’ he said. ‘But except for the tourists – and we do not get many in Vaudrelle, mainly in the summer months – it is rare that people do not simply order espresso.’

‘Yes, because you don’t offer anything else!’ she said, somewhere between amused and exasperated. ‘So they can’t.’

Pascal nodded. ‘I am sure you are right,’ he said, in a voice that suggested he thought anything but.

Eventually the van was emptied, the kitchen stacked high with purchases, chairs teetering in loosely stacked piles in the corner of the café. Becky’s muscles ached, her hands were red from carrying so much, her fingers tingling. Her back was wet with sweat and she felt revolting.

She sat in the kitchen for a quick rest before taking the van back to the rental company, sipping a glass of tap water that tasted slightly metallic.

Pascal came in and out, fetching things, putting used crockery in the dishwasher, often whistling to himself.

From time to time his eye would graze the pile of decorative items she’d purchased and a judgemental eyebrow would shoot up, she assumed in response to her wallpaper choice, or colour palette.

But she decided to not let it bother her.

She didn’t know much about Pascal. Perhaps he just wasn’t into decor.

So what if he thought her coffee mugs were too big, that the chairs were too colourful.

Perhaps he hated the idea of the wallpaper or the colour she’d picked to complement it on the opposite wall.

He probably didn’t want her to paint the rather rustic wooden door, and maybe even felt insulted that she’d invested in a coffee machine and new cups.

Yet somehow, for some reason, she really wished he’d show some pleasure in what she was trying to do.

But he simply couldn’t visualise it like she could.

She worked every day in a world where people talked about vision and appeal – sure, she wasn’t an interior designer, but she definitely had good taste.

She’d been in a thousand coffee shops and could judge where this one was letting itself down.

Besides, although she ached and her bank account had taken a hit, she felt positive and buzzy from the task in hand, and when envisioning what lay ahead.

What better way to take the sting out of an incorrect diagnosis and a shattering period of enforced leave?

In a few weeks this place would be transformed. She’d have jumped through her aunt’s hoops by working in the café for a period of time. Pascal would agree to go once the property was sold, and she’d put it on the market as soon as everything was organised.

By the time she returned from the rental company, in a taxi she’d had to wait an hour for, Pascal had just finished closing up.

As she climbed out of the cab, he was in the process of turning the little cardboard sign in the window to ‘ Fermé’ .

He saw her and smiled, opened the door and bowed a little as she went past. ‘Good evening,’ he said in quite a good British accent, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

A few minutes later, he was taking off his apron in the kitchen when he said, ‘I am going to see Maud this evening. I wondered if you wanted to come with me?’ His voice was casual, but she felt weight behind his words.

An accusation, maybe. And perhaps he was right – she was here because of Maud’s gift, but it hadn’t occurred to her even once to visit her great-aunt’s grave.

‘I should,’ she said. ‘I thought I might today, but I’m just… I’m exhausted, to be honest. But yes, I must do. Soon. Is it far?’

He shook his head. ‘Not so far. I have a car, so it is not difficult.’

‘Do you go… often?’

‘I try. Usually once a week.’

‘Wow! that is a lot!’ She flushed. ‘I mean, I’m sure she’d appreciate it, if she knew,’ she added hastily.

‘Oh, she knows,’ he said confidently. ‘She is always pleased, I think. But when you come – she will be delighted.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Next time?’

‘Next time.’