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There was a crucial difference between herself and Jerry Maguire, of course, Becky thought as the plane taxied on the runway and slowed to a stop.

When Jerry Maguire left his toxic workplace, he had had a plan for his future.

He’d wanted to start a new company that would treat people with more respect.

Whereas she’d stormed out of a pretty good job to half-heartedly go to France for a few days, then see what happened.

Plus, where had Jerry’s mother been in all of this?

He hadn’t had one single conversation with her for the entire film.

His situation was definitely the more straightforward for it.

Still, she thought, looking out of the window onto the sun-dappled runway… At least, in her story, the sun was shining, and although she didn’t have her future mapped out, the next few days were spoken for. She’d tried to lose herself in them and worry about what happened next… next.

Less than an hour later she was well on her way in a taxi, watching the semi-familiar views on either side of the route to Vaudrelle.

Buildings she recognised, others she’d clearly missed on her previous journeys.

Old stone houses and peach-coloured modern cottages.

Sun-drenched orchards and children’s play equipment.

Swimming pools, restaurants and picnic areas.

The farther the taxi burrowed its way into the French countryside, the more relaxed she felt – like a hypnotherapy patient descending more deeply into her subconscious. And by the time they pulled up outside the café, she felt somehow lighter.

She’d spoken to Pascal last night after everything had sunk in – sobbing down the phone about whether she’d made a mistake; worried about references, her future.

But he’d simply said: ‘Come to Vaudrelle. Everything will be OK.’ And somehow, at least in this moment, something in her felt calm, as if everything would be.

Pascal had clearly gone to town on the idea of a launch – he’d put paper up at the windows to hide the interior, and a giant sign informed would-be punters that the café was closed until the grand reopening tomorrow.

She smiled, thinking of the type of do she’d put on for clients in London compared with their offering here.

But somehow this was sweeter, more authentic.

She used her key to open the door then, closing it behind her, she walked across the strangely dark interior, bumping into one or two tables that had been rearranged in her absence.

The air smelt of paint and paper and glue and, as she neared the counter, the unmistakable scent of freshly ground coffee beans.

Reaching the door to the kitchen, she knocked – not wanting to burst in and surprise anyone on the other side.

There was the sound of a scraping chair in the wake of her knock and when she opened the door, she saw Pascal and Georges, the former sitting at the table, the latter standing, awkwardly clutching a sheaf of papers.

‘ Bonjour !’ Pascal said, rather loudly, and stood up, arms outstretched, pulling Becky to him in a tight embrace.

Over her shoulder she watched Georges regarding them both impassively. When she pulled away, she grinned. ‘So, what are you two up to then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m joking – you just looked so guilty when I walked in. I thought you might be planning some sort of illegal deal or something!’ she laughed.

‘Ah, I love this sense of humour!’ Georges also said loudly, his words sounding a little false.

He stuck his hand out for a shake, having finally sensed perhaps that Becky wasn’t the biggest fan of the cheek-kissing he usually favoured.

She took it gratefully. ‘ Non , I was just having a look at your new interior. It is very smart.’

‘And today I offered him some of our new drinks,’ Pascal said, clearly proud of himself. ‘I read the instructions and it was not too hard.’

‘Yes, they are very nice,’ nodded Georges.

‘Right. Well, good!’ she said. ‘That’s good.’

They all smiled at one another, none of them quite sure who would make the next move. ‘Well, I must go now,’ Georges said to Pascal. ‘Remember what I said.’

Pascal’s smile looked rather forced. ‘Of course. But I do not think it’s a good idea.’

‘What was all that about?’ Becky said when Georges had finally left.

‘Oh, nothing. He likes to talk. He likes to think perhaps that he has to control everything in the commune ,’ said Pascal. ‘It is not important.’

‘Right.’

She was about to ask more when Pascal spoke again. ‘Ah, it is nearly time!’ he said, glancing at his watch.

‘Time for…?’

‘We must go and collect Maud. To show her the café!’ he said. ‘I told her I would do this tonight. I was not sure that you would be here so early, so it is perfect.’

‘Oh. Great.’ The last thing Becky felt like was getting in a car with Pascal and bumping down more French back roads. In fact, she’d been hoping for a bath – however cramped – and a bit of a lie-down before anything else. And at least a coffee or two. It was a café after all.

Then Pascal stepped forward and took her hands in his. ‘It is very nice to see you,’ he said, leaning forward and kissing her gently on the mouth.

She looked up at him. ‘How long have we got?’

He grinned. ‘Enough time for a proper reunion, if you’d like.’

When they arrived at the home two hours later, Maud was in the reception area sitting on a padded blue chair, dressed in a coat and hat, bag at her side.

They helped her to the car and she sighed as she deposited herself on the back seat.

‘Why on earth they forced me to wear my coat in this weather, I’ll never know,’ she said, pulling her arms from the sleeves.

They talked for a little while about Amber and Becky’s stay in London – although Becky omitted her brief entrance and exit from the workplace – then fell into companionable silence.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Becky saw that Maud’s eyes were fixed on the scenes that played themself out on the screen of the back door window – the familiar views that must seem like old friends to her aunt.

When had she last been back to Vaudrelle?

‘Do you miss it?’ she said.

Maud looked at her. ‘Vaudrelle?’

‘Yes. It must be hard, coming back.’

‘You have no idea,’ she said, blinking rapidly. ‘Seeing it again. I mean, I have visited occasionally. But it is hard.’

‘But you’re happy at the home, too? They’re looking after you?’

She nodded. ‘As well as can be expected.’ She paused, thinking. ‘The thing is, Becky, you’ll find when you get older that the body ages much more quickly than the mind. My body needs the home – I can’t do things for myself in the way I used to. But my spirit… It never really left.’

‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’

Maud shrugged. ‘I’m better off than lots of others my age. I’m alive, for starters.’

‘Maud! I am sure you will live a very long life,’ Pascal interjected.

‘Yes, perhaps. But there are different levels of living. Not all of them are as wonderful as we’d like to think they are.’ She shook herself. ‘But listen to me, moaning on when you’ve given up your evening to show me all your wonderful changes. I’m grateful, I really am.’

After Pascal finished parking and Becky had offered thanks to the road gods for sparing their lives once again, they helped Maud across the road and into the café, where Pascal snapped on the light.

Maud wasn’t the only one to gasp. Becky had only seen shapes in the darkened room when she’d arrived, and although she knew Pascal had been working hard throughout the days she’d been away, the final result was stunning: the painting was all complete, as he’d said it would be, but he’d also polished the woodwork, installed a glass-fronted display for cakes and pastries.

The new coffee maker gleamed and her new mugs, as well as a set of new smaller cups for espressos, were stacked neatly beside it.

But what really drew the eye were the photographs.

Black and white stills of people, vibrant views of foreign streets, local snaps of light hitting water, a crumbling yet charming building.

One or two Becky was sure she’d seen before.

But not here. Somewhere else. ‘Wow,’ she said.

‘It looks… it’s even better than I… wow. ’

She looked at Maud who was sitting on one of the yellow chairs at a new table, wiping the corner of her eye.

‘Oh, what’s wrong?’ she said. ‘I know it’s different, but…’

Maud shook her head. ‘It is different.’ She paused. ‘And when you said you’d made changes, I was worried. Worried I’d be… written out of the history of this place. But you’ve made it… it’s even more me than it was before,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘These are all yours?’ Becky gestured towards the walls.

Maud shrugged. ‘Just a few examples.’

‘They’re amazing. Mum said you’d been published in The Times quite frequently. I’m not surprised!’

‘Once or twice.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Your aunt is being too modest,’ he said. ‘She is quite famous in France as an artist. Her photographs are in many galleries in Paris.’

‘Oh!’ Becky glanced at Maud with renewed interest. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I suppose I prefer people to like me – or not, as the case may be – for who I am as a person, rather than for what I can do. I had enough of that, you see, in London. A top female lawyer, working my way to being a barrister. People always talked about what I did, and I felt…’

‘You felt…?’ Becky prompted after a moment.

‘I felt like a thing rather than a person. What I was doing was unremarkable in its own way. I just wanted to be allowed to get on with it. Here, I don’t know.

I found a whole new me and I didn’t want to tarnish that with the same problem.

I am me, and I am also a photographer. But what I do isn’t who I am. It’s better to keep the two separate.’

Becky nodded. ‘It makes sense. Do you photograph anything now, at the home?’

Maud shook her head. ‘Too difficult. Unless I want to photograph my sparse little bedroom.’ She saw the expression on Becky’s face. ‘Oh, don’t pity me. I’m happy enough in my own right.’

‘Well, we’ll bring you over more often. You should be here; it’s still your café, really.’

Pascal looked at her with surprise but didn’t say anything.

‘Thank you. Although this one is, of course, off to Paris soon!’

Pascal blushed. ‘Not quite yet,’ he said.

Later, when they’d eaten, Pascal had left to drop Maud back off at her home.

When he’d returned, she’d heard the door of the café open and shut behind him, his footsteps on the stairs.

Even so, when he knocked on her bedroom door, she started.

He opened the door a little and stepped inside, smiling.

‘Was Maud OK?’

He nodded. ‘A little sad to return to her home, I think. But very happy about the café.’

‘I’m so glad.’ Becky sat on the bed, then felt a bit awkward and stood up again. How could it be that they’d been so passionate a few hours before, and now everything felt a little bit forced?

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘You told Maud that you would bring her here more often. But I thought that you had decided to leave? To sell?’

She shook her head. ‘I knew as soon as I said it… I shouldn’t have mentioned anything. My life is in London still – I can’t stay even if I wanted to. Only when I’m here, it’s so easy to forget that – so easy to imagine that I could stay here for longer.’

He walked over to her. ‘If you were to stay,’ he whispered, ‘it might change everything.’

She looked at his earnest eyes. ‘Really?’

‘For me, oui .’ He leaned in for a kiss.

She leaned away. ‘But what about your mother? You told her there was nothing here for you.’

He frowned. ‘I did?’

‘Yes, I heard you on the phone. Sorry. But you said…’

He laughed. ‘ Non , non ! You misunderstand. There are no publishers here, not many bookshops. Nothing for me in that sense. That’s why I must go to Paris frequently.

Because I need to become involved in the book world.

But if you were in Vaudrelle…’ He kissed her and this time, she let him.

‘If you were here, then it would be everything.’

And even though she still wasn’t sure what the future might hold, Becky closed her eyes and let herself get swept up in the fantasy of it all.