Page 6

Rather than let the intimidating atmosphere of La Petite Pause get to her, Becky put back her shoulders and walked up to the coffee shop counter, behind which a man was preparing an espresso for a customer.

As she waited, feeling both impatient and nervous, she took in the dull decor, the old, worn wood, original floor tiles.

The tables that didn’t match and the individual chairs made in a variety of woods and finishes that definitely hadn’t been bought as a set.

It was quaint, but more than a little run-down.

The air was thick with the smell of roasted coffee beans and the rumble of conversation.

An occasional exclamation pierced the air as confidences were exchanged or anecdotes relayed.

It had a homely feel, but other than that wasn’t a patch on the light, bright, modern coffee shops she was used to.

Even the ones which purported to be years old, or traditional, or even French, opted for a more polished look.

Many of the customers wore boots – either of the wellington or thick walking variety.

There were a couple of women with pushchairs sipping espresso.

But they didn’t look like the coiffed ‘yummy mummies’ who populated the café around the corner from Becky’s flat – they looked pretty and young and energised, but without make-up or heels.

At last, the man finished serving the customer before her and Becky had his full attention. ‘ Bonjour ,’ she said, trying not to smile at his beaming face. This was no time to be friendly, she was on a mission.

‘ Bonjour, madame .’ He smiled, then rattled something off in such rapid French it was impossible to keep up.

His dark hair was neatly combed, but the neatness was jeopardized by an untamed curl at the front that stuck slightly in the air.

His eyes were dark and warm, and she found herself smiling back in spite of her determination to be ruthless.

‘Can you speak any English?’ she asked him.

It put her on a back foot, having to ask this.

Although she’d mugged up on some of her schoolgirl French on the plane, hearing it fired at her with conversational rapidity, instead of being written clearly on a screen, threw her completely.

But it was what it was, she decided. She had no need to speak French in her real life.

Anyway, she’d managed so far thanks to Google and a bit of paraphrasing.

‘ Oui , a little,’ he said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘Cappuccino, if that’s OK?’

He made a face. ‘I can do a café long with a little milk?’ he suggested.

‘That will do.’ It seemed bizarre that a coffee shop didn’t serve one of the most popular types of coffee, but then again it seemed bizarre that the café was open at all four months after Maud’s death.

She took a breath as he began to prepare her drink.

‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for the manager. ’

‘ Oui , that’s me,’ he said, barely glancing up. ‘Is something the matter?’ He put the coffee and a little side-jug of milk in front of her and she took a rather dubious-looking sugar lump from a silver pot to add to it.

‘Well, it’s complicated,’ she said. ‘But I think I need to talk to you in private, if that’s OK?’

‘René!’ The man yelled, making her jump. One of the farmer-looking chaps at a far table looked over. A conversation ensued that sounded close to an argument, but eventually René got to his feet and came up to the counter.

‘ Merci ,’ the server said. Then, ‘Come, we will go to the back where it is quiet.’

It occurred to her that she was going into a private space with a man she didn’t know, which she would never usually do.

But he seemed friendly and the café was well populated – if he decided to murder her, she’d probably be able to raise the alarm, she decided, and followed him through the door that led to Maud’s former kitchen.

He closed the door and the noise of the café was shut off, reduced to a murmur. ‘Pascal,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘You’re Pascal?’

‘ Oui . Why?’

‘Nothing. I just… nothing. You live here?’ Someone must have got it wrong. This youngish man couldn’t be a sitting tenant, surely.

‘ Oui . What is this about?’ his eyes narrowed a little. Perhaps he thought she was from the tax office.

‘I’m Becky.’ She shook his hand awkwardly and he looked surprised, as if this hadn’t been what he’d expected, but said nothing.

‘Take a seat, Becky.’ Her name – she’d always hated its ordinariness – sounded different on his tongue. Somehow exotic, with his French accent.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

She perched on a chair and he sat opposite her. ‘You wish to speak to me.’

‘Yes. It’s a little awkward. But I’m Maud’s great-niece. She used to run…’

‘ Ah, mon Dieu! ’ He exclaimed, raising a hand to brush back some of his thick brown hair.

The wayward curl sprang forward stubbornly after it was briefly flattened by the manoeuvre.

‘But of course you are! You are the image of some of her pictures. I should have recognised you.’ He smiled.

‘It is wonderful that you have come at last. And you will be running the café now, I expect?’

‘No. Not exactly.’

His face dropped like a child’s refused an ice cream. ‘ Non ? Then why are you here?’

‘Well,’ she explained her predicament; she had no intention of moving to France and becoming a barista, she had a perfectly good job in the UK.

But things had become so complicated with the sale, it seemed easier to address the issues first-hand.

She didn’t mention the burnout or the fact she’d been signed off work but, as if on cue, her eyelid started to twitch as if it were trying to communicate the missing piece of the story to this man via Morse code.

Pascal looked at her, his thick eyebrows knitted together. ‘But this is not possible,’ he told her.

‘Well, certainly not for a good price while it’s tenanted,’ she said. ‘Is it… you’re the one living here?’

‘Yes! I am your great-aunt’s friend and have been looking after everything.’ He seemed inordinately pleased with himself at this revelation.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to stay here?’

He shrugged. ‘It is my home, I suppose.’

‘But can’t you find, like, another home?’

‘ Oui , of course. When it is time, I will go.’

‘Oh,’ she said, fiddling with the edge of her coffee cup. ‘Well, I’m not sure how much you’ve been told, but I’m afraid I need you to vacate the property so that I can sell. I know it’s possible to sell with you in situ , but I’d lose thousands.’

The confused look was back. ‘But Maud did not want you to sell immediately! And there is no urgency. I will stay as long as I need to.’

‘But,’ she said, wondering how well he’d known her great-aunt, ‘well, without being indelicate, the café’s mine now. And it’s not as if Maud will mind.’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘ Non . She would mind! It would break her heart! She told me she was gifting the property to you, of course. But I know that she hoped you might spend some time here, perhaps even fall in love with it the way she did.’

‘That’s very… sweet. But the letter said only that the property was being gifted to me. There was no mention of any terms. Nothing in writing.’

‘Ah! Of course! Writing! I have a letter. I will show you.’ He moved over to the corner of the room and opened a tin marked farine, which seemed to contain a load of disparate papers.

‘Ah!’ he said, pulling out an envelope. He removed a piece of paper from it and, coming back to the table, laid it out, smoothing the creases where it had been folded.

The paper was lavender in colour and smelt faintly familiar. And the writing too – Maud’s scrawl from Christmas cards in years gone by, all the swirls and loops of proper cursive. ‘Oh,’ she said, feeling her heart shiver slightly in her chest. ‘She wrote this to you?’

‘Yes. But she wrote it in English, for me to show you when you came. Because she wondered, when we made this plan, whether you might have some questions.’ He turned the paper and passed it to Becky. As she picked it up, she felt a lump rise in her throat, but swallowed it down.

Dear Pascal,

This is to confirm that I would like you to stay in the café and mind the business for me once I am no longer around.

I have made plans with my notaire to pass the building to my great-niece Rebecca, when this can be arranged.

I realise that she may wish to sell it, but I have a request for her before she does so.

Please tell her this when she gets in touch.

Becky, darling. Please try to run the café for a month. Then, if you do not fall in love, you can sell it with my blessing. But spend a little time here first. Remind yourself of the times we spent here together. And see whether it might suit you, even a little.

With much love,

Maud

Becky closed her eyes and remembered the woman she’d known all those years ago.

The memory was patchy, made up both of photos she’d seen and her own individual experiences.

There were glimpses of happy holidays, of fun times spent together.

But the truth was, until recently, she’d rarely thought of her great-aunt.

Ever since the falling out with her parents, Maud had barely been mentioned – the odd reference to Mad Maud in France would be bandied about, but like many insulting terms, she hadn’t thought too deeply about it.

It was just a fact: her great-aunt was a bit odd, she lived in France.

They didn’t have anything to do with her.

It was sad that Maud had been thinking about her so often. Perhaps she should have taken the time to write, to return the odd Christmas card. Poor woman.

‘So?’ Pascal said.

‘So what?’

‘Well, you see it is your aunt’s wish for you to do this; it is a condition .’