He opens his drawer and pulls out two glasses, then one of many bottles of whisky. He pours two large measures. He hands me a glass and I take it. ‘I wonder what got my visa declined the first time,’ I say.
‘Maybe you were missing some important paperwork. We can help with that. You just bring us our daily baguettes.Bon profitez!’ he says.
‘Yes, to profit,’ I toast, misunderstanding the expression but feeling it’s appropriate anyway.
‘Yes, to profit, or I’m afraid your visa won’t be approved, and I suspect the mill will need to be sold … if a buyer can be found … at the right price,’ he says, making sure I understand what he’s saying, and I realise this is not a done deal. Selling the mill will be hard. Who else would want it? It was on the market for so long that I’d probably have to sell it for much less than I bought it. This long-term visa isn’t in the bag, not by a long shot. I think about Laurent at thetabac, shouting that the mill had been promised to him and I wonder if this is part of a plan to get me out. I need to put everything into this to make it happen.
‘Here’s to bringing back theboulangerieand our daily bread.’ He holds up his glass and tips back his whisky. ‘You’ll need to meet your new landlord,’ he says, then opens his desk drawer, takes out a key and puts it in front of me.
‘Where do I meet them?’
‘Here, now. It is me.’ He smiles at his little joke. ‘I’ll have your tenancy agreement drawn up immediately.’
You can’t fault his game-playing. Like a chess master. Get theboulangeriein profit, or lose your right to a visa and sell the mill to the person I promised it to originally, but for a much lower price. Well, it looks like I’m in the game, and I want to win. I tip back the whisky and feel it burn all the way down my throat, asif I’d just made a pact with the devil. I put the glass on the table and take the key.
I step out into the village square and see a cat is lying out in the shade of the plane trees, just in front of theboulangerie. So, that’s it, I think. I’m getting a temporary visa. I can stay until 5 September. I’m not running home. I’m here for the adventure and to prove to myself I can do this. I’m going to stay and make my mark here. I deserve this chance to find my own happiness. And if this is the only way to do it, so be it. A bit like when I first found out I was ill – I couldn’t run or hide from it. I had to face it and fight it, no matter how unpleasant it got. And that is exactly what I intend to do now. Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and take a leap of faith … because going back isn’t an option.
Chapter 14
Idon’t know what compels me to do it. I just know that if I’m going to open aboulangerie, I need to see how it all works. Not just pop in for a baguette, but watch and understand. And there is only oneboulangerieI know of around here. It’s in the neighbouring town and it’s Claude’s. I’m not going to run away and hide. I want him to know I’m here to stay, that I’m not just a tourist whose feelings he can toy with.
I get into my car – it’s hot, hot, hot – and turn the blower on full blast, but it’s throwing hot air at me. I open the windows and drive out of the square towards the bigger town.
As I head into the roundabout, the traffic is building on the way. It’s market day and people are parking along the main road and walking. There are tourists in straw hats and shorts, sauntering along, sellers hoping they’ll stop and buy from their stalls. It’s surprising that so many people are visiting the town, yet in the Village du Grand Lac, there is no one. Maybe I’ll be able to persuade them to come to thesalon de théwhen I open. But first I need to do someboulangerieresearch.
I drive into town and park near thechambre d’hôtewhere I stayed. I get out, put on my sunglasses and follow the narrow streets towards the main square, past stalls selling jewellery, baskets and scarves. Closer to the centre there are stalls selling seafood on piles of cold ice, cheeses, cider from family-run orchards with samples being handed out, and the smell of crêpes hangs in the air. And then I see Claude’s bakery. A smart lightgrey exterior, white writing on the window, and a sheaf of wheat underlining the family name: Guiomar.
Claude Guiomar. The man who made a fool of me.
I stroll towards the bakery, keeping my eyes on it, moving around the shoppers and holidaymakers enjoying the Breton sunshine, stopping and tasting from producers. At theboulangerie, a steady stream of people are going in and leaving with baguettes and croissants. I step into the long, narrow shop. The baking kitchen is nowhere to be seen. There are rows of loaves in tall baskets, croissants fat and flaking under the glass counter, like I remember from the first day I arrived back in France, when I pulled over and ate the baguette with coffee. I intend to do the same now.
I stand and wait. Eventually, a woman at the far end of the shop turns to me. And then I hear his voice, barking instructions from a concealed kitchen. The tall, slight woman turns to him and says something back, nodding to a trolley containing trays of croissants and baguettes. He steps out into the shop and, although I’ve prepared myself for this, my insides lurch – and not in a good way. At first he doesn’t see me, or maybe doesn’t recognise me. But I recognise him.
He does a double-take.
‘Ah, the lady fromle moulin,’ he says. He turns to the woman and says, in French, ‘She has bought the old mill. The one I told you about. Wants to make it into asalon de thé. She found me a very attractive man. I had to tell her, “Désolé, I am married.”’ He’s entertained by his own version of events.
I squirm but am determined not to be deterred. ‘I have come to try your bread.Une baguette, s’il vous plaît, and a croissant,’ I say, keeping things polite and professional.
‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘My wife will serve you. I have to take the van out.’
She stands at the till. Not smiling, not at all.
‘Bonjour,’ I say to her, remembering my manners.
For a moment she says nothing, then, ‘Bonjour,’ barely moving her lips. She moves to the till and stands poised over it and I wonder what Claude has told her about me. I bristle and my cheeks burn at the thought of him telling her I was practically coming on to him and how disappointed I was that he was married! When in fact, it was very much the other way around, him coming on strongly to me!
‘Je voudrais,’ I say, in clear, correct French, ‘une baguette et un croissant, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Une baguette, which?’ She waves a hand at the rows of bread and I feel she’s making this difficult for me.
‘As you recommend, Madame,’ I say, trying to get her to guide me. She takes a baguette, rolls it in a square of paper and puts it down firmly on the counter, clearly bored of my custom. So, one thing I need to offer at theboulangerieis service with a smile. I make a mental note.
‘Et un croissant,’ I repeat, pointing to the fat, shiny croissants under the glass counter. She steps towards them, looks up at me, goes to the back of the shop and the trolley of trays there. I’m hoping they’re fresh out of the oven. My mouth is actually watering.
She puts one into a paper bag and hands it to me, then types it into the till and says the amount too quickly for me to understand.
‘Pardon?’ I say. She sighs and shows me the amount on the card machine. I tap my card, and before I’ve even put it back into my purse, she has turned away and is wheeling the trolley of trays to the kitchen.
