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Doctor Fuller looked over her glasses in a way that she surely must have practised in front of the mirror some time. ‘It’s good to see you, Rebecca,’ she said, smiling.

‘Thanks.’ Becky sat on the chair opposite her desk, trying to smile in return. In truth, her heart was hammering: nerves, probably. But whether she was nervous that her request to return early would be refused or accepted, she wasn’t sure.

‘It says here you feel more than ready to return to the office a little earlier than planned,’ the doctor said, looking at an email on her screen. ‘Your HR team certainly feel that you’ve made a full recovery. But obviously I can’t sign off on it without a consultation.’

‘I know.’ Becky nodded.

‘So, how are you?’ The doctor clasped her hands together and looked at her earnestly. ‘Any anger issues? Residual stress in the body? How’s the eye?’

The eye hadn’t actually twitched for over a week, Becky realised. It was funny that something that had plagued her so much had quietly retreated without her really noticing.

This was her chance, if she wanted it. To exaggerate her stress and get a few extra days under her belt. But Becky was hard-wired to ace any test she was set. ‘Oh. It’s fine,’ she said.

‘That’s good.’ Her doctor made a note. ‘And how did you spend your medical leave?’

‘I actually went to France,’ Becky said, smiling genuinely for the first time as she pictured Vaudrelle.

‘I have an aunt who lives in the country.’ She elected not to tell the doctor that her aunt had been presumed dead a few weeks ago, but was actually very much alive.

It probably wouldn’t look too good on the notes.

‘Great! And you certainly look rested. Must have been lovely to see your aunt too, I expect.’

‘Yes. It was.’

‘You know,’ the doctor said, ‘I thought about moving to France myself once. Doing something different.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes. Years ago, now.’

‘And what stopped you?’ Becky asked curiously.

The doctor threw her hands up. ‘Ah, the usual. Work. Life,’ she said. ‘Nice fantasy though.’

‘Yeah, definitely.’ Although was it a fantasy? For Maud it had just been her life. And France wasn’t a problem-free utopia. Being there, living there, had its own challenges. It was just a different choice, surely?

The questions continued – her physical symptoms, how she’d been spending her time. How she was getting on with her mother. When Becky mentioned Amber, she scribbled furiously in her pad for a minute before asking whether Amber’s situation had caused additional stress.

At last, it was over.

‘Is there anything else?’ the doctor asked finally. ‘Anything you want to share?’

It was now or never. ‘Actually…’ she said, sitting forward. ‘Although of course I’m keen to get back, I wondered whether you thought it would be a good idea to have a few more days to get things together.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow?’

‘I’ve got some loose ends to tie up and…’

The doctor sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘As far as this interview goes, you’re cleared for work. Anything else you’ll have to agree in house, I’m afraid.’

‘OK.’

‘I expect you’re itching to get back to your normal life.’

‘Yes. Definitely.’ Although would it be her normal life? The world had moved on while she’d been in France; the life she was returning to wasn’t the same as the one she’d left.

‘All OK?’ the doctor asked.

‘Yes. Just thinking about it all.’

‘Right.’ The doctor began tapping on her computer. ‘Well, I’ll just pop this information in…’

The café swam into her mind. Pascal serving coffee. Maud in her care home. It seemed odd, sitting here, that that world existed still; would exist even if she weren’t part of it.

‘So… anything else?’ The doctor gave her watch a surreptitious glance.

Becky stood abruptly; embarrassed. ‘No, that’s great. Brilliant!’ she blurted. Her mouth ached as she forced it into a smile. ‘Thank you.’

She hadn’t spoken properly to Pascal since arriving home. They’d exchanged text messages, but she’d deliberately missed his calls, writing instead to explain why: ‘Sorry, was at the hospital, everything OK?’ or ‘On the train – did you call?’ But now there was nothing for it but to confront things.

She took the bus home; preferring suddenly the natural light it afforded her over the gloom of the Tube and, sitting on a relatively uncrowded top deck, she pulled out her phone and finally rang his number.

‘Becky!’ The happiness was evident in his tone. ‘You called!’

‘I did!’ She found she was smiling at his voice.

‘Amber – is she still OK? You said in your message, but…’

‘Yes. She’s OK. She’s being discharged soon, going to her mum’s.’

‘But this is wonderful news!’

‘Yes. It really is.’

‘And you will be back soon? Because I have been working hard for the launch,’ he said, in the tone of someone confident that the person he was speaking to was on the same page.

‘I think people are quite excited. I will close the café tomorrow to assemble the new tables and practise the machine. And then, voilà ! You will be back and on Saturday, Vaudrelle will have a brand-new place to drink coffee!’

Something rose inside her and she pushed it down. ‘Pascal, I…’ She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t come. That he’d have to do the last bit on his own. But she couldn’t find the words.

‘ Oui ? There is something you need?’

‘Oh no. Just… I’m looking forward to it,’ she lied, feeling sweat bead on her brow.

Her bus stop loomed and she ended the call with relief, not wanting to dig herself an even bigger hole.

Stepping onto the pavement, she began walking towards the flat, her body fizzing with adrenaline.

You’ve really done it now, Becky, she said quietly as she let herself in and dropped her bag and coat on the floor.

Tomorrow she would be back in the office; firmly back in her old life.

She’d have to find a way to let Pascal down.

It would feel absolutely awful. But perhaps once she stepped back into the fray, she would buy into that world again, forget about him.

About France. These thoughts that were plaguing her would fade as her mind became occupied in strategy, and her days became filled with important phone calls, presentations, campaigns.

She’d lose herself again.

And maybe that was what she needed. It certainly seemed to work for her mum.

The evening stretched before her and she found herself pacing up and down.

One minute resolving to get back to work and laying out clothes for the next day; the next, hanging them back up and pulling her suitcase from under her bed.

She tried watching TV, reading, listening to the radio.

Even resorted to a bit of cleaning, but nothing seemed to calm her.

In the end, she sat at the table and pulled an old letter from the bank towards her.

Turning it, seeing its bright blankness, she pulled out her phone and brought up the picture of the Tudor-style building she’d photographed near her office that morning.

She picked up a pen, propped her phone against the salt pot and began to draw.

And everything else stopped.

She took in the details of the wood, the contrast between the building’s age and beauty with the modern chaos around and in front of it. She felt the hustle and bustle of the street and the calmness of the hundreds-year-old structure against it, withstanding the storm year after year.

When she next looked at the time, it was almost midnight and she’d produced a reasonable sketch, under the circumstances. Her heart rate had slowed and she’d created a gap in her mind, given it a chance to stop chewing over and over the same things time and time again.

Maybe that was all she’d needed. A hobby to give her a little headspace and calm her down. Not an escape to another country, another life.

She texted her mum:

Becky

Got the go-ahead for tomorrow!

And soon received a response:

Mum

That’s brilliant. So proud of you!

Then she texted Amber:

Becky

Back to work tomorrow. Hope to see you after hours.

It wasn’t a lie, was it? It was what she hoped. Even if it looked like she might have to let her friend down.

Amber

Good luck! I’ll be at home, at Mum’s by 2.

That was a relief. If Amber was home, the pressure to visit would be off.

Finally. Pascal. ‘Not sure I’ll be able to make it back for the launch,’ she drafted, looking at the words on the little screen – words that would sever that part of her life. And deleted them. She’d talk to Pascal properly, however difficult it was, she thought. Tomorrow.