I leave the shop and head to the café on the other side of the square, not wanting to be close to the bakery. I’ve seen what I needed to see. Where the bread comes from around here. What a local bakery offers. Now for the bread itself …
I order acafé crèmeand a glass of water from the waiter with the tray. While I wait, I tear off some bread and try it. It’s nice, just bread. The waiter comes out with my hot, frothy, milky coffee and the water. I thank him, then take the croissant from its bag, waiting for the smell to hit me. But nothing does. I pull off the end and touch the inside. It’s solid, cold. I take a bite. Disappointment is all I can taste. It’s dry. Not crunchy outside, not soft and buttery within. I put it down and dust off my hands. She’s sold me yesterday’s pastry. She’s letting me know I’m not welcome.
Part of me wants to go back and ask for a fresh one. But the bigger part of me wants to get back to the Village du Grand Lac and start getting ready to open theboulangerie, in the hope I never have to come here again.
I have been put in my place. Served the insult. I didn’t deserve fresh croissants – I am a tourist and wouldn’t know the difference.
Well, I do. And I’m about tomakea difference. Claude needs to learn to treat people with respect: me, his wife and any other unsuspecting woman who momentarily falls for his fake charm. It was a moment of weakness. But now I know where I will find my self-respect – on the baking battlefield.
Chapter 15
What on earth have I agreed to?
It’s the following morning, and I’m standing outside the disusedboulangerie, with the peeling maroon paint on the wood around the big window, covered from the inside with yellowing netting. I’m looking at the ‘Fermé’ sign through the glass door with the sun-bleached blind pulled down. I give myself a good talking-to and remind myself I’m doing this to get my visa, and to set up thesalon de théwhere I will live a lovely quiet life on the banks of the lake with the kingfishers, making cakes for people to enjoy. I pull out the key from my bag and slot it into the lock. I turn it and push the door but it doesn’t open. After giving it a shove with my shoulder, it still doesn’t budge. It’s stuck at the bottom. I kick it once, and then again, harder this time. It flies open, sending the bell above the door into a frenzy. I hear the bang of a window opening above and a dog barking furiously.
‘Allô?’
I step back from the door to look up.
‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ a sharp voice says.
‘Hello?Bonjour?’ I shade my eyes from the sun with my hand.
‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ a white-haired woman repeats. She has a cigarette in one hand and leans out of the window, a silk scarf tied around her neck. ‘I will call thegendarmes!’ She points at me with bright red nails, cigarette smoke swirling.
‘Oh, I’m not breaking in. I have the key.La clé.’ I hold it up. She says something quickly in French.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Could you repeat that, please? Do you speak English?’
The woman sighs deeply. ‘Why, Madame, would you have the key to theboulangerie?’
‘I’m reopening it.’ I remember my manners. ‘I’m Juliet. I own the old mill. I’m opening theboulangerie. People will have fresh bread every day again.’
‘Oh, mon dieu!’ She waves the hand with the cigarette. ‘C’est pas vrai!’ she rolls her eyes upwards.
I’m confused. ‘But this has always been a bakery, hasn’t it?’
‘A noisy one at that! Much better now it has closed. I should know.’
‘But the town wants a bakery.’
‘The obsession with bread. There is a machine they can use. Why must we be so obsessed with bread in this country?’
‘Well, it does appear on every meal table here,’ I reply, trying to be jovial.
She looks at me and I look back at her, her short white hair curled neatly into a soft quiff at the front. ‘Are you a chef?’ she asks sharply.
I shake my head.
‘Are you French?’
I shake my head again.
‘Phffff!!’ She throws up a hand. ‘If a French baker can’t make it work, how will you? A British woman! I will speak to the mayor. A ridiculous idea!’
The window slams, startling me, and then I feel my backbone stiffen.
I stare at the shop front again, the peeling paint and old leaves gathered in the doorway. Behind me, smartly dressed women carrying baskets are arriving in the square. It’s mid-morning and there are a few stalls at the foot of the church steps. One man is selling oysters, another langoustines from the back of a van.A chap with an old 2CVis selling vegetables off the bonnet and a woman with a table is offering goat’s cheese and homemade wine from large plastic bottles. Two women kiss each other briefly in greeting before picking up their oysters and vegetables, then walk over to the fully stocked baguette machine. I can’t help but wonder what this place might have been like when theboulangeriewas open, if the market was busier. It feels flat. Not like the market I’ve just come from in the neighbouring town. Or others I’ve visited when I waited for the purchase of the mill to go through. This village seems almost deserted, waiting for someone to close it for good.
