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She awoke the next morning in a tangle of unfamiliar sheets.

Bleary-eyed, she took in her surroundings: Pascal’s room with its double bed, soft feather eiderdown and pillows, looked completely different from the room she remembered her parents staying in all those years ago.

The pine cladding had been painted in light cream which, bathed in sunlight from the window, looked warm and inviting.

There were pictures on the walls: paintings of sunflowers and lavender fields.

And scattered around was evidence of the room’s latest occupant: a jumper over a chair, a neat line of shoes next to the wardrobe.

The space next to her was empty and, as she checked her watch, she realised that Pascal had no doubt already risen to open up the café.

Curling up luxuriously between the sheets, she relived a little of last night.

The soft kisses, Pascal’s gentle touch. The way he’d gathered her to him passionately once they’d reached his room.

The way he’d softly, teasingly touched her until she’d felt almost desperate to have him inside her.

The orgasm that had rippled through her body like a wave.

Then, later, sleepy in each other’s arms, they’d made love a second time – more slowly – eyes fixed on each other’s. It had been – without doubt – the most mind-blowing, body-fizzing sex of her life.

She stretched her arms out, feeling her body begin to come back to life, then forced herself to get up, pulling the sheets back over the bed tidily, before gathering her clothes and popping her head around the door to ensure that nobody was there to witness the naked dash back to her own space.

Sure, Pascal had seen everything last night.

But she was still keen he didn’t clap eyes on her naked bottom in the cold light of day.

After a quick dip in the tiny bath, she stood in her bedroom, still sporting just her underwear.

Everything she’d brought with her was laid out on the bed, but it was impossible to know what to wear.

She’d already tried slipping on neat trousers and a short-sleeved blouse, then a long summer dress, followed by a pair of shorts with a casual T-shirt.

Her bed was a jumble of discarded clothing, her floor scattered with sandals and shoes.

She’d literally tried on every outfit she’d brought with her and nothing seemed right.

Earlier, she’d tried to ring Amber to get a debrief on her literal debriefing with Pascal, but there’d been no answer. Now, in the middle of a brand-new crisis, she tried again. But no reply.

She checked the time. Half past eleven. Soon they’d close the café exceptionally for the afternoon and head off in Pascal’s rattling motor to the care home where Maud had moved just over a year ago.

And although she knew it was unimportant in the grand scheme of things, it felt as if she needed to select the right outfit to ensure things went well.

Every time she thought about seeing Maud again, she felt the flapping of a thousand butterflies in her stomach and chest; what would she look like?

How would she be? What would she say about the epic misunderstanding that had led to Becky thinking she was six feet under?

‘At one point, I think we all thought we would lose her,’ Pascal had said last night, leaning up on his elbow, his expression sad.

‘She seemed quite young for her age, but when she fell on the steps and her hip was broken, I realised that she was frailer than I thought. She has such a personality that it made her seem strong, solid. But after the accident she seemed smaller.’

‘Poor Maud.’

‘ Oui , but she has made a good life for herself now. And I began to run the café full time, but we both knew it couldn’t be forever.

Then she had the idea to make you a gift – in advance of her Will.

I think her dream is to see you running the café before she dies. And if not, at least to see you.’

‘And you don’t think she meant to mislead me?’

‘ Non ,’ he’d shaken his head firmly. ‘I suspect nobody ever told you directly she had died.’

Becky had tried to remember the wording in the letter. Had it mentioned a death? Perhaps she’d just assumed benefitting from such a gift must mean it had been left to her in a Will.

‘She must have thought I was very rude not to reply to her.’

‘Perhaps. But she did not say so. She still hoped, I think. Then the notaire told her you wanted to sell.’

Becky had made a face. ‘She must hate me.’

‘ Non . Not at all! In fact, although I haven’t called yet to prepare her for our visit, I imagine Georges has told her why you didn’t contact her already. She is kind. And she is British.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She will probably laugh.’

Becky had smiled. ‘But she wouldn’t if she was French? Don’t French people have a sense of humour too?’

Pascal had grinned and shrugged. ‘Yes. We French have our own humour. But we are very good at embracing the darkness too,’ Pascal had admitted.

‘Perhaps too good. It means we have some wonderful literature. But it also means that we are too often sad.’ He’d made a face to indicate he was joking, but Becky had felt there was truth at the heart of it.

‘Is your book sad?’ she’d asked.

He’d looked up. ‘It is the first time you ask me about my book,’ he’d said, seemingly delighted.

‘Sorry.’

‘ Non . I am pleased you asked. Oui , there is melancholy there, but joy too. And there is a happy ending, so it is OK.’

Now, she finally settled on a pair of shorts with a neat T-shirt.

Sandals, loose hair and a slick of lip gloss.

Before she had time to judge it all wrong and rip off the outfit again, she forced herself to pick up her bag and walk out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She then went to seek out Pascal and found him sweeping the floor of the café.

He’d seen the last patrons out, and turned the sign to ‘ Fermé ’, adding a little explanation underneath.

He looked up as she entered, and his features softened into a smile. ‘Good morning,’ he said, walking towards her and giving her a gentle kiss. ‘I hope you didn’t mind that I didn’t wake you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Georges called by just now,’ he said. ‘He wanted to know how you are. I think he feels very guilty to have given you such a shock yesterday.’

‘Yes. It must have been odd for him too. Did he speak to Maud?’

‘Yes. And it is like I thought. She found the situation quite funny once she understood.’

‘Oh. That’s good.’

‘Yes, and he is very pleased to hear that you are seeing Maud today. He asked if you would talk to her about the café – whether it could now be put up for sale, but I said I don’t think this visit is one for business.’

‘No. Bit nosy of him to ask?’

‘Nosy?’

‘You know. Sticking his nose in.’

‘Asking things that are not his business?’

‘Exactly.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Ah Georges, he takes his job very seriously. To him, in Vaudrelle at least, everything is his business.’

She smiled. ‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Thanks for closing the café for this,’ she added.

Pascal shrugged. ‘It is your café.’

That was true. It didn’t feel like hers though.

And she had no idea whether it could weather the lost revenue an afternoon closing would cause.

She’d learned how to pour a couple of coffees, but she had no idea of the profit and loss, the workings of the business.

She should, really. Although he could show her the ledger books and she’d probably still be clueless.

‘I’m so nervous!’ she found herself saying as they climbed into Pascal’s car.

The vehicle smelt like polish and leather and dust and the kind of unspecific ‘old’ smell that you find in museums. The seats were cracked and sun-bleached and as she sat down, the whole thing wobbled on its dubious suspension.

‘About my driving?’

She laughed, although he wasn’t completely wrong. ‘Mostly about meeting Maud.’

‘It will be fine.’ He reversed out of the space, the car emitting a puff of putrid exhaust fumes as he did, then began to drive along the slightly bumpy road through the village.

Becky had never been in such an old car, certainly not one that was practically falling apart; but at least the fear of potential death or breakdown prevented her from worrying too much about her upcoming meeting.

The route took them out of the village and left, along a road she hadn’t yet travelled down.

They passed a cemetery with ornate family plots, a farm where a dog watched them suspiciously as they drove by, but didn’t bark.

The worst moment was probably when they confronted a tractor head-on and Pascal was forced to reverse into a lay-by that had an enormous ditch just next to it.

Between these moments of trepidation though, she was able to take in the sun-drenched scenery, the sparkle of light on water as they crossed a river. And feel, with pleasure, Pascal’s hand as he rested it briefly on hers from time to time for reassurance.

She wondered what he thought of the night before. He seemed completely at ease with her, but hadn’t mentioned it directly. How did he view it? Had it been a one-night stand for him? Or the start of something more meaningful?

They stopped in a small convenience store, and she managed to pick up some chocolate and a magazine – feeling she ought to take something. ‘Do you think this says, “Sorry I thought you were dead”?’ she asked Pascal, waving the large bar of Milka and the copy of Voici!

He laughed. ‘They are perfect.’

By the time they pulled into the car park of the residential home, her knuckles were white from gripping her seat, yet Pascal seemed completely relaxed and oblivious to the terror she felt winding around some of the sharper corners close to the residential home.

The building they’d parked next to was pretty – not what she’d been expecting at all.

It had been created inside what had evidently once been a rather grand family home – not quite a chateau, but with aspirational turrets hinting that it was doing its best to be a luxury residence.

Pascal closed his door without locking it, leaving the keys in the ignition.

She nearly pointed it out, but decided against it.

The day was warm once again, and it was easy to forget that at home the weather was less than clement.

The alerts that had pinged on her phone this morning had predicted twelve degrees and rainy in London – not the best June weather.

Here, it was warm with an edge of heat that would only increase as the day grew into itself.

She was getting used to it: no longer carrying a ‘just in case’ cardigan or coat, and ensuring she applied sun cream to her shoulders before stepping out.

As they walked together along the path that led to a giant wooden door, Pascal’s fingers brushed hers, holding her hand briefly and giving it a squeeze, then dropping it, leaving her hand feeling somehow incomplete without his.

She let him lead the way into the building and to a reception desk made of polished mahogany. A woman behind the desk smiled her bonjour at him, dipping her head a little when they spoke, and barely acknowledging Becky at all.

‘Does she always flirt with you like that?’ she asked quietly as they walked away from the counter.

‘Flirt? Non . She is just friendly,’ he said, oblivious.

Pascal led her through to a bright, light conservatory scattered with comfortable chairs. In the corner was a grand piano, its keys bright in the sun, just waiting for the next set of fingers to tickle out a tune.

There were three chairs occupied. One by an old man, another by a woman who was holding a book and frowning at its contents.

A third chair had a crutch leaning up against it, and was occupied by a woman whose face was turned away, looking outwards towards the sun-drenched garden.

Seeing her, Becky gasped in recognition.

It had been twenty years. And Becky had worried she wouldn’t recognise her great-aunt easily. Yet instantly she knew, even without seeing the woman’s face. It was something in the way that she held herself, the arm that draped on her lap. The glimpse of an emerald earring in her ear.

And something in Becky’s body changed, too, on seeing her.

She’d been nervous, holding herself back, her limbs stiff and awkward.

But it was as if her muscles, her subconscious, recognised Maud and she became the little girl who’d hugged her fiercely when they’d last left, with no idea it would be the last time for a long time.

Rather than lingering behind Pascal, allowing him to make introductions as she’d expected, she rushed to the woman’s side. ‘Auntie Maud!’ she said, arms outstretched.

Maud looked up, her creased face breaking into a smile, her eyes dancing.

‘My Becky!’ She reached up and they enveloped each other without any self-consciousness at all.

Anyone seeing them would have thought they’d been in each other’s lives for years and years without a fracture.

And that’s how it felt, too, for Becky. She remembered Maud’s arms, the way her head rested lightly on her shoulder.

The sound of her breath. And the smell of lavender water.

She might not have seen her in the flesh for years and years and years, and yet here they were, as if no time had passed at all.

‘You’re alive!’ she found herself saying. ‘You’re really alive.’

‘Yes,’ said Maud, grinning as Becky straightened up. ‘I rather think that I might be.’