‘But it’s bread!’ I say.
‘But it’s not a traditional baguette.’ Gilles and the others agree. ‘It’s an imitation. An interloper.’ And they laugh.
‘C’est dégueulasse.’
‘Oui. How you say?’ Gilles says.
‘Disgusting,’ says another.
My bubble has burst. I’m crushed. I hurry out of the bar. And just as I do, I see the white van pulling up at the vending machine and a small queue of older women gathering beside it, waiting for their lunchtime loaves. Claude steps out: short legs, shorter than I remember, with a round belly over his belt. Why on earth did I find him so attractive in that moment of madness?
‘Bonjour, Juliet!’ He waves in some kind of polite pretence and rage fires up inside me. I’m furious.
He opens the doors at the back of the van and starts to fill the machine. I look at his bread, all the same size and colour.
‘Let’s meet again soon,’ he calls, and I blush as the women look at me.
I hurry back to the mill as fast as I can and make my way round the side of the building to see the women on the rock, laughing and joking. For a moment their joy fills me, and makes me feel better. It was a mistake. Now I need to move on, I tell myself. Not run away. Just move on. I step towards the edge of the lake and the women, who haven’t seen me. I’m curious to know what’s making them laugh so much. And then I see it: they are tossing what looks to be bits of baguette into the lake.Mybaguette.
They’re using my bread as bait!
I fling myself through the big green door into the mill and gostraight to my living area, and my bedroom at the back of the building. I lie on my bed and give in to exhausted sobs.
Chapter 20
As I hear the women leaving for the day, I stay put in my bedroom until the final car has driven off.
I came here to reinvent myself, to stop feeling invisible, and all I’ve done is make myself stick out like a sore thumb. I climb down the few steps from my bedroom and look at some of the pencil drawings here; drawings on the wall of Punch and Judy faces and, like in the cellar, lists of orders, clearly for sacks of flour, but tucked in a corner is a broken heart, with a name next to it on the crumbling plaster. I can’t quite decipher what it says, but make out the word ‘bijou’, meaning jewel, a term of endearment. There was clearly a love story here at one time, and I wish I knew more of it.
I go to the kitchen, make a cup of tea, then walk outside and watch the goldfinches on the lawn. There are dandelion seeds, like fairies, floating on the breeze, and I walk around the edge of the lake in the setting sun. Something about this place keeps drawing me back, making me want to stay, and to try harder rather than just chucking it all in. And just when I need them, the kingfishers turn up.
The following morning, before daybreak, I’m up and out of bed and heading back to theboulangerie. The little white, brown and black cat is there to greet me, purring as I bend to stroke him. It’s nice to feel welcomed, even if it’s just by a friendly feline.
I let myself in with the key and turn on the lights. A strongwind is blowing this morning and the door slams behind me. I wait to hear banging from the apartment above. And it comes.
Thump, thump, thump!‘Be quiet! People are trying to sleep!’
I sigh, head to the kitchen and turn on the ovens. Then I go back outside and put down some more water in a dish for the cat, making sure the door doesn’t bang this time. Back in the kitchen, I make up the dough, but this time with some adjustments, maybe more salt, more proving time … I’m determined to get it right.
Hours later, I’ve tried to make it lighter, darker, added more salt before the yeast, more water … but every batch has been a disaster. I’m not even going to bother getting someone to taste them. I throw them all straight into the bin and stare at the mound of burnt, undercooked, floppy baguettes.
I go to the table in the window and sit. I wipe my hands over my forehead and realise I’m covered in flour. I wipe my hands on a tea-towel and decide to take a breather outside. I make coffee in the scullery from the kettle there and walk out of the front door, clutching my mug.
I couldn’t have timed it better, or worse, as I watch the short queue of women buying bread from the vending machine, then bidding each other goodbye and hurrying home. No one is waiting to chat, just putting their coins into the machine, picking up their baguettes and leaving. The little cat weaves itself around my legs, purring. And once again I’m grateful for the uncomplicated company.
Above me, Edith Piaf’s voice is floating out from what sounds like a vinyl record player. I hum along to the song as I wander back to theboulangerieand put down my empty cup. A thought occurs to me. I go back outside and put a foot on the steps of the staircase to the side of the building, then another and another. I climb to the apartment above and stand in front of the door. Then, with a deep breath, I knock.
Nothing. Just Edith Piaf singing.
I should go. It was a ridiculous idea. But I’ve come this far, I think. I might as well try once more.
I knock again.
Still nothing.
I turn to leave when the music stops. I knock again. This time, the dog barks and very slowly the door opens. The aroma of Gauloises cigarettes and strong coffee pours out to meet me, mixed with very pungent perfume.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ I say, knowing I have to get the etiquette right.
