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The next morning, Becky reached for her phone but found that her last few messages to Amber still remained unread.

Surely Amber wouldn’t ignore her though?

The only other explanation she could think of was that there was some sort of technical fault on the line.

Perhaps it was something to do with Becky being in France.

She’d called the number a few times, too, but who’s to say it wasn’t ringing in some cyberspace void rather than actually in Amber’s pocket or bag?

Becky couldn’t think of a rational reason why Amber wouldn’t be answering her. They’d parted on good terms, hadn’t they? And in any case, Amber was more the sort of person to try to talk something out rather than sit and brood on it.

She had several missed calls from last night from her mother. But those could wait. To try to put her off a little, she’d sent a breezy text:

Becky

Sorry! I’m so busy with decorating! Will call soon!

She just needed a bit of time; a little space to think.

To work out how she felt about everything that was happening.

After living in London for several years, working at the same firm, seeing the same people, to be plucked out of there like a toy in a candy grabber machine and plonked into this totally new situation was a lot.

She wanted to mull everything over herself rather than have her mother’s forceful opinions and guilt trips in the mix.

But it would be a lot easier to mull things over if her best friend would pick up the phone and call her.

The irony of being ghosted, while simultaneously ghosting someone else, wasn’t lost on her.

But she doubted her mother really yearned to speak to her the way she did to Amber.

She would just be calling to berate and bully her into booking her ticket home.

She sighed loudly and flung her phone onto the covers.

Pascal, next to her in bed with a notepad open and wearing just a pair of briefs, looked at her. ‘Amber hasn’t replied?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It is early. Try not to worry.’ He smiled. It was odd how she felt so comfortable around him, despite the fact he was nearly naked and that his body was even more attractive than she’d imagined it might be before she’d been confronted with reality.

Remembering last night – his gentle caresses, the ability he seemed to have to set her whole body alive with tingles at the slightest touch – she shivered, resisting the urge to reach forward and drag him back under the covers.

Was it true what they said about French men making good lovers?

Or was it that she and Pascal were so right for each other?

All she knew was that when they were together, everything in her felt on fire.

As if she suddenly realised what sex was all about.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just thinking.’

They’d come up with the idea of the launch about an hour ago after waking up together. Pascal had fetched coffee and they’d sat up in bed, chatting and sipping, watching the early morning sky come into itself through open blinds.

She’d got used to early starts now. When she’d first arrived, she’d found herself sleeping – perhaps making up for all the years she’d spent reacting to six o’clock alarms. But there was something refreshing about waking up early and slowly coming to as the light turned from silver to gold, then bright brilliant white as the sun rose and began to gently wake the earth.

‘We should have a grand opening!’ he’d said.

‘But the café is already open!’

‘But we can do some… finishing touches. Then have an event. It’ll bring new people to the café, and maybe demonstrate that what we’ve been doing is for the community – the whole community.’

‘Even the yellow chairs?’

‘Can I tell you something,’ he’d said, his eyes on her face. ‘Something I have kept from you?’

She’d felt a frisson of anxiety. ‘Of course.’

‘I am not sure what has happened to me, but I am starting to like the chairs.’

‘Ah, you’re just saying that,’ she’d teased.

‘ Non ! It is serious. The café, the whole aesthetic you’ve created. It’s something really special, Becky. You have an eye.’

She’d basked in his praise. ‘Thank you.’ Then put a hand to the gauze. ‘Hopefully I have two.’

He laughed. ‘It is sure,’ he said, gently caressing the skin next to her dressing. ‘But you have truly transformed this place. That is why I think this launch is so necessary. To get people from farther away to come and try. To really show people what you have achieved.’

‘We.’

‘You are speaking French, oui ?’

‘No! I mean “we”. What we have achieved.’

Smiling, he’d leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips, before sitting up and picking up the notebook and pen.

‘Do you think we should bring Maud here first, too? So that she gets to see everything before the party?’ she mused.

‘Maybe.’

She crawled out from under the duvet and sat next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. His skin was cool to the touch. ‘Time to open up in a minute?’

‘ Oui .’ He looked at her. ‘It was good,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

She nodded. There was something in his eyes, an emotion she couldn’t quite put a word to.

But she felt it too. They barely knew each other; but it felt somehow that they’d known each other forever.

She’d felt it yesterday when they’d kissed, and again this morning when she’d woken up next to him and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world.

Somehow, things that hadn’t made sense to her before were starting to fall into place here. ‘I want to stay,’ she said impulsively. ‘I want to stay here with you.’

‘I would like that too,’ he said, maintaining eye contact for a moment, his dark eyes serious, watching hers. ‘I wish it could happen.’

Moments later he went to get showered and dressed, ready to start work for the day, and she was left simply with his words – I wish it could happen.

What did he mean? That he wanted it to happen, but it couldn’t? That he wanted it to happen, and would make it so? Was it a grammar faux pas or a gentle brush-off? And how was she supposed to know?

This was what best friends were for. Picking over important words and working out what they actually meant.

She pulled out her phone and rang Amber’s number yet again.

But nothing. Her thumb even wavered over Mum’s number.

But Mum would be no good for this kind of conversation.

Becky knew exactly what Mum would make of all this, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear it.

It struck her, then, that she didn’t have anyone else she could call, not really.

There were friends, sure; people she’d have a drink with after work or meet up with occasionally.

But nobody she could call in the early hours to try to pick apart Pascal’s words and help her to decide what she ought to do about it all.

Amber , she said to herself. Where are you?

She tried once more. This time leaving a short message after the tone. ‘Amber, call me back? Hope everything’s OK!’

Then, not knowing what else to do, she bathed and dressed, made her way downstairs for breakfast. As she approached the large, tiled kitchen that served both the café and the house, she heard the sound of talking.

Recognising Pascal’s voice, she paused, listening out for the other person’s voice.

But there was only his; he was either talking to himself or on the phone.

Not wanting to interrupt, she waited. And although she tried not to listen, at least… a little bit, she couldn’t help but overhear some words in French.

‘ Oui, Maman! Je rentrerai bient?t !’ She closed her eyes, trying to grasp the meaning – he would be home soon. He must be calling his mum to tell her about the book. About his upcoming move to Paris. ‘ Oui , oui ,’ he was saying.

She was just about to disappear back up the stairs until he finished the call when she heard the words.

‘ Bien s?r, il n’y a rien ici !’ – there is nothing here.

What did he mean? Nothing holding him back?

That it was boring in Vaudrelle? Or was this evidence that what had happened last night hadn’t meant much to him at all?

Did he mean that? Hearing his words filled her with sudden doubt. And her idea of staying and having Pascal at her side – perhaps not running the café, but working on his writing, staying local – started to crumble. Was she kidding herself?

She crept back a few stairs, then re-trod them, making sure she was as noisy as possible. Then she flung open the door. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb.’ He ended the call and looked at her.

‘Did you fall?’

Clearly, she’d overdone the banging. ‘No. Not quite. Just, um, stumbled. Were you calling your mother?’

His face darkened. ‘ Oui . You would think when I told her that I have this amazing publishing deal she would finally be happy for me.’

‘And she wasn’t?’

He shook his head. ‘Well, perhaps a little. Perhaps if you had heard her, you would think she was ecstatic. She makes the right noises. But I can feel the heart of it. She is still disappointed that I don’t work in a bank.’

‘But she must be pleased you’ll be living closer soon?’ she prompted.

‘ Oui . I think so.’ So he really, really was going.

‘Well. Good,’ she said.

‘Perhaps after the nurse has called you could serve for a little? I can make invitations for the party. Then this afternoon we will close – it is often quiet in early afternoon – and go to buy things. It is very exciting!’

‘Sure.’

Before she could say anything else, her phone rang loudly, making her jump. Fishing it out of her pocket, she saw it was Amber’s number rather than her mother’s. At last. Feeling a surge of happiness, she answered immediately. ‘Amber?’ she said. ‘Oh my God, I’m so glad you called. I…’

But the voice on the other end wasn’t Amber.

As Pascal watched her, he saw her face fall, then turn pale. And in the end, her arm simply fell to her side, the phone still clutched in her hand.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Amber,’ she said, before collapsing into tears.