Page 5

Becky had always liked the buzz of being in an airport.

The sense of momentum, the way everything was organised and followed a set of rules.

In the taxi en route, she’d thought about what Amber had said and wondered whether she was doing the right thing.

Perhaps it would have been nice not to strike it out alone – after all, she had no idea exactly how she was going to achieve what she was setting out to achieve – but once she’d stepped through the sliding glass doors of London Stansted, she’d fallen automatically into the airport routine.

Checked in, she wandered the shops, buying a few treats – some perfume and make-up, a book for the journey – then made her way to the gate once her flight was called.

Finally, she settled into her seat and tried to clear the niggling thoughts of work that continued to stalk her.

Somewhere, someone was taking a meeting instead of her this morning.

She wasn’t sure whether she wanted them to succeed or fail on her behalf.

She wanted to prove in her absence that she was indispensable, but at the same time, not lose her hard-won clients.

She tried to focus on the view out of the window.

Down on the tarmac, workers were removing the staircase after the plane had been boarded.

Soon the pilot gave his spiel on the loudspeaker and they were trundling along the runway, picking up speed.

Becky opened her book and began to try to lose herself in a story of someone who was clearly going to be murdered in a few chapters, but her mind kept snapping back to the café, the sale of the flat, the imminent financial disaster she had to solve.

She only had vague memories of Vaudrelle and Great-Aunt Maud.

Childish snapshots of moments that had meant a lot to her back then.

Ice creams and sunny swimming pools. Sitting in the back of their hire car, head resting against the window, spotting distant chateaux against lush green backdrops, scattered stone houses and sparkling lakes.

The way the car bumped sometimes on cobbled streets as they made their way towards Vaudrelle.

She didn’t remember Maud really – just the idea of her.

An older lady who used to pick her up and swing her round when she was tiny, who made the best macarons she’d ever tasted.

Someone benign and smiley who seemed to love spending time with her.

It was odd that this woman, whom she hadn’t felt she’d known well enough to grieve, had changed Becky’s life in this way.

No doubt with the best of intentions. She’d probably thought the café and its premises above would set Becky up in life, give her an adventure.

Instead, she’d given her the promise of cash wrapped in a logistical and administrative nightmare.

Poor Maud. From what Becky could ascertain, she’d led quite a lonely life by the end.

Mum and Dad had become estranged from her and she didn’t have any other living family that Becky knew of.

Yet she’d had quite the career in her younger years – been a lawyer living in London back in the seventies. Suddenly giving it all up.

‘She lost her mind, poor soul,’ was all that Mum would say about it. ‘Lost her drive. Wanted to live a simple life. Her parents tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant.’

‘She seemed happy though?’ Becky had ventured. ‘From what I remember.’

Mum had shaken her head. ‘No, I can’t imagine she was,’ she’d said. ‘But she was a stubborn woman, never did admit her mistake. We stayed in touch for a while but…’ She’d waved her hand as if to mime the idea of their eventual fallout.

‘Didn’t you ever write back to her? When she wrote?’

‘Oh, we sent cards, that sort of thing,’ Mum said. ‘But you know what life can be like.’

Becky did indeed.

Still, perhaps she should have made an effort to go see Maud while she was still alive.

Just to be kind, if nothing else. That was the trouble with a full-time job – the hours around the edge of every day were so stretched, the days so busy, that time seemed to fly past. All her good intentions each year – about being a better friend to Amber, a better daughter, a better advertising executive, losing the couple of pounds she was always regaining – would fall away as she struggled to keep up with the pace of everything.

It would all be worth it though when she’d made something of herself and could afford to take her foot off the pedal. At least once she’d adjusted her five-year plan to take this little hiccup into account.

The book was failing to hold her attention, so she shut it and looked out of the window at the light blue sky, the dotted clouds, which seemed so substantial from a distance but turned into nothing but mist when the plane cut through them.

Below, the sea sparkled and riffled in the sunshine.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax enough to sleep.

‘Oh my God, are you all right?’ the voice, and its proximity to her ear, made her jump.

‘What happened?’ she said blearily, her eyes focusing on the face of the flight attendant, so close to her own, his brow creased with concern.

‘Oh, nothing.’ He straightened and she noticed for the first time that several of the other passengers were looking at her. A child was pointing. ‘I think you may have had a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Did I…’

‘You screamed.’

‘Oh.’ She felt her cheeks get hot. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Something about a laptop?’ he added helpfully.

‘Right.’ She straightened up. ‘Well, I’m fine. Thank you.’

The nightmares were nothing new. She’d been having them for the past year or so, but this was the first time she’d had one so publicly. She was relieved when they landed and she was able to push her way off the plane, grab her luggage and find a ride to Vaudrelle.

The area around the airport was a little shabby, but as they drove farther out and into the countryside, the buildings fell away and she found herself looking over wide fields full of sunflowers, grassy meadows peppered with brown cows; the cars on the road thinned and the sleeker cars of the city gave way to older, clapped out rust buckets, some of which would have been consigned to the scrapheap back home.

They got caught behind tractors that looked flimsy, paint-chipped and old; a couple – neither of whom looked like seasoned cyclists – on a tandem bike of all things; at one point the driver had to stop because a couple of cows had made it through the pathetic wire fence and were chewing on grass at the side of the road.

The driver got out and flapped his arms alongside the farmer to get them back into the field.

The whole time, Becky’s eyelid was doing its stress-dance.

And she didn’t blame it, actually. Taxis were meant to take you from A to B with minimal fuss and while Jean-Luc, her driver, couldn’t be held responsible for the various hold-ups, she didn’t like his smiling acceptance of each delay, his nonchalant shrug when she reminded him she was on a tight schedule.

‘Ah, well you might need to loosen this schedule,’ he’d said, seemingly amused. ‘I think you will find that things do not always go very fast here.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ she said to herself, leaning on her hand and trying to relax as she took in the countryside.

In reality she wasn’t on any sort of schedule, certainly not a tight one, but she was hard-wired to hate wasting time in taxis and on transport when she could be Doing Something of more value.

Still, once she surrendered to the fact she had little or no control about the speed or efficiency of her journey, she felt something inside her relax.

Leaning her head on the edge of the headrest, she looked out over the scenery, feeling a little as she had as a child, sitting in the back seat and watching the open, grassy fields undulate towards the horizon, wondering at the odd tower or half-concealed building en route.

And for a second she allowed herself to believe that she was ten again, that her father was alive and driving them to Maud’s, her mother – a slightly more relaxed version of her current self – sitting alongside him, sometimes putting a hand on his arm, or passing him a toffee.

The next thing she knew they were passing a sign reading ‘ Vaudrelle’ and she had to snap back to reality. The one in which she was alone. And thirty. And on enforced sick leave.

The village was both strange and familiar at once.

The stone buildings, the little back streets, the tiny fountain; the small town looked like many they’d passed through, but something stirred in her as she took in the surroundings, all bathed in warm sunlight which bleached the stonework and threw dark cool shadows onto the road.

She wound down the window and fresh air flooded into the interior, bringing with it the scent of pollen and cut grass – and possibly the whiff of croissants, although that was probably wishful thinking, she thought, as her stomach growled.

Yes, she could handle a week or two here. Hopefully after she’d sorted the house stuff she could take a bit of a break, maybe reminisce about the old days. Perhaps learn to relax, take in a bit of French culture?

Plus, she thought, she could probably make a fortune on the café once she’d turfed out the unwelcome lodger.

She was willing to bet nobody in this little backwater knew anything about marketing; properties were probably advertised locally, sold by word of mouth.

She could get a great agent on this and really open up to some people with money who wanted to embrace a little authentic French living.

Soon her brain was ticking over numbers and she was fantasising about her new flat.

And she felt, at last, more like herself again.

The taxi slowed and turned left along a small road with a few shops dotted here and there – the boucherie , the florist, some kind of tiny nursery or crèche.

And yes, there it was, La Petite Pause , its sign slightly paint-chipped and faded, but instantly familiar in its purples and whites.

She had a flash of memory – her great-aunt smiling, welcoming them, ushering them inside.

Holding out her hand for Becky’s and taking her through the flag-stoned café and up a staircase to the living quarters above.

Her own bedroom, the small, neat box room with its painted cladding and the Blu-Tacked drawings she’d created on former holidays.

Mum and Dad’s smarter guest room next door.

And Maud’s room which she’d sometimes entered in the morning, cradling a cup of tea made by Dad as carefully as if it were made of crystal.

‘Are you OK, madame ?’ the driver said softly, and Becky realised she’d been sitting entranced, lost for a moment in the past. She shook her head as if to dismiss the memory – this kind of nostalgia didn’t help anyone – and smiled thinly.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ she said, opening the door and stepping out into the warm, sunlit air.

It was the work of a moment for the driver to get her small, wheeled case from the boot and then he was gone, meandering back to the airport with seemingly not a care in the world.

It was quiet on the street, but she could see even from outside that there were a few patrons in the café, that an ‘ Ouvert ’ sign was hanging in the glass of the purple-edged doors.

She felt a shiver of unease – she’d had no idea the café was open, and no idea what this meant.

Was there a manager she’d have to befriend or dismiss?

Was the lodger responsible for running the café?

Would the spare room – that she’d assumed would be left empty – actually be occupied, forcing her to stay in the tiny box room or pay for a hotel?

Where were the profits going? Who was responsible for it all?

She pushed open the door, meaning to walk past the few populated tables and ask to speak to someone, but the minute she stepped inside the buzz of conversation dropped to nothing.

Each and every head swivelled to take in her high heels, smart black trousers, neatly buckled coat.

Beret. She’d known on some level the beret was a bad idea – a bit too Emily in Paris probably.

Well, Becky, she thought, I have a feeling we aren’t in London any more.

Before she could ask them what they all thought they were looking at, the people turned and resumed their conversation, having decided clearly that although she was a stranger, she really wasn’t worth pausing a coffee break for.