‘The commune has bills to pay. It was needed. I couldn’t say no!’
‘You could! You should have!’
The argument continues and I focus hard to understand the French.
‘This village is dying and you’re letting that happen. You’re letting the people down. Those who worked hard to make it a good place to live. Now we have nothing left and no one here. We even have to rely on a vending machine for bread! It would have my grandfather turning in his grave.’
‘You should have returned earlier, then. When you could have helped him.’
There is a silence, and my heart sinks as the tall, broad, now familiar figure of Laurent storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him. He barely stops as he glares at me. I clutch the whisky to my chest, narrowing my eyes and glaring back at him.
The woman on the desk calls after him, half rising from her seat: ‘Laurent!’
He doesn’t stop. He marches out of the main doors, which clatter on their hinges as he goes. It’s like I’m in a Wild West saloon in the aftermath of a shoot-out.
The phone on the receptionist’s desk rings. The woman answers. She looks at me, purses her lips, then replaces the receiver. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, without a trace of apology, ‘the mayor is unavailable today,’
‘But I have an appointment,’ I say. I know I’m being fobbed off.
‘He has had to rearrange. He apologises,’ she says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand and her long, painted nails, ‘but,non, not today.’
I feel my phone vibrate and look down. Annie has sent asmiley face and a thumbs-up. She uses them a lot because she doesn’t always have the energy to type more. I touch the screen. I’m doing this because I have been given the chance.
‘I don’t have time to rearrange. I have plans, and little time to start on them,’ I say. I need my project to be approved as quickly as possible so that I can get my visa to stay. Suddenly I feel emboldened, not ready to be told ‘non’ before I’ve even begun. There’s a firmness in my voice I haven’t heard before. I stand up and lift my head and chin. ‘I have only four weeks left of my ninety allowed days here, so it’s really important I see the mayor today. As arranged.’
She’s surprised, clearly unused to being challenged.
I’ve been through a lot to get here, Annie has reminded me of that, and I’m not going to let Laurent from thetabacor the mayor changing his mind about our meeting stop me. This is my new start. I’ve earned it and I need it to happen now.
‘This way for the mayor?’ I ask, and point to his door.
‘Oui, mais…’ She puts out her hand to stop me but I carry on anyway. As Annie says, we’ve faced worse. Suddenly, when reminded that I might not have been here today if the dice hadn’t rolled in my favour, I’m feeling much braver than the old me would ever have been.
I march into the mayor’s office to find him holding a mobile phone to his ear. He is short and plump, wearing an ill-fitting jacket. He pulls the phone away but still holds it up. ‘I’m sorry, I have some business to attend to,’ he says, first in French, then repeats in English to be sure I understand, holding up his free hand, a universal gesture of ‘non’ I’m coming to realise.
‘Yes.’ I take a deep breath, trying to channel my innerEmily in Pariseven though she’s half my age. ‘You have business with me.’ I place the bottle on the desk in front of him. ‘A gift,’ I say, raising an eyebrow at this ridiculous ritual. It’s a tax, that’s all. Keeping the mayor sweet and in whisky.
He picks up the bottle and gives the smallest of nods before placing it on his side of the desk and sits, gesturing for me to do the same in the seat opposite.
He nods slowly, then answers in French, and before I have time to translate, repeats it in English.
‘So, it is you that has boughtle moulin. You are here with a family?’ It’s more of a statement than a question.
I shake my head. ‘No, just me.’
He looks at me as if it’s British humour, waiting for me to say I’m joking. When I remain silent he finally says, ‘An old mill, in the middle of practically nowhere.’ He frowns. ‘In our quiet village? It’s a lonely place for a woman on her own. Why would you do that?’ he snorts.
My mouth is dry but I lift my chin again. ‘I have plans for the place. I want to turn it into asalon de thé, for local people and passing tourists,’ I say, pulling out my notebook. ‘I have lots of ideas.’
‘Asalon dethé?’
‘Yes.’ I focus on my notebook. ‘I’ll be serving afternoon tea, cakes,patisseriesfor local people, walkers or holidaymakers in the area.’
He doesn’t look at the notebook but at me. ‘So, you are a baker?’ he says, tilting his head.
‘Yes … well, yes,’ I say, more firmly the second time. ‘I learnt during the Covid lockdowns and then …’ I stop. He doesn’t need to know that baking kept me going through all of my treatment. That it was something else to think about – my safe place when the dread reared its head. It was my sanctuary, considering flavours and designs, learning from mistakes and wanting to get better. And it helped me learn to enjoy eating again. Small bites of sweet comfort. ‘Yes, I am a baker,’ I say confidently.
He says thoughtfully, ‘We need a baker in the village.’
