He narrows his eyes and the three men watch with interest. Then he says, ‘Are you serious?’
My pride may be bigger than my bank account, but I have no desire to go back to theUK. Not yet. This is beginning to feel like home. ‘Never more so. I’m not giving up yet.’ I stare at him, challenging him again – this time to say yes.
‘You are suggesting that we work together to get the mill up and running?’ he clarifies.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
A small smile creeps onto his lips and he laughs as if he can’t quite believe what I’m saying.
‘Just one thing,’ I jump in, determined not to make any more mistakes. ‘I’m not interested in you … romantically.’
He laughs again and I squirm. ‘Really, I’m not looking for anything like that,’ he says.
I joke back: ‘You don’t need to have a middle-aged woman fawning over you and your good looks.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You think I’m good-looking?’
I laugh. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that. But just so we’re clear, I’m here to find my passion in baking. We both want theboulangerieto work, you for the mill and thetabac, me for my visa. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ he says.
‘So?’
He shakes his head again. ‘I wish I could say yes but, I’m sorry, I don’t think it can happen.’
I throw my hands up in frustration. ‘You just said you understood!’
‘I do, but I am sorry, I don’t think it can happen.’
I let out a long sigh of disappointment and leave. As I do, I look towards Madame B sitting in the window and understand that she wasn’t dismissing me: she was directing me, telling me what I needed to know, that the answer is in the mill. If only Laurent had agreed to help. But now I’m out of options.
Chapter 23
I’m sat outside the big door to the mill, on the tree trunk there, which must have fallen in a storm. I’m holding my cup in my hands, clutching it to me as I watch the morning light, promising a warm day to come. I wish the kingfishers would appear and show me some kind of sign about what I should do. I lift my face and breathe in the freshness of the morning air.
I message the family WhatsApp group, then Annie, telling her I’m waiting for the kingfishers, who are being shy. I describe the colours of the dragonflies darting over the water and the hum of the bees, hard at work. She sends a thumbs-up – at least it’s a reply, but her messages are less frequent, even though I know she’s enjoying hearing about life at the mill. I have to keep going to have more news for her. She is pushing me on. I hope my promise of getting her to the mill is doing the same for her.
I shut my eyes. In the background, I can hear the cars pulling up, doors slamming, the fisherwomen greeting each other. They will take time to kiss each other lightly on the cheeks. It’s a routine, a formality, one they won’t miss out. It is considered, not rushed. It’s what keeps life ticking over in France. Routine, formality, and taking time to enjoy the good, simple things, like fishing together. It’s a simple pastime where they come together and quietly support each other. Life here seems to be much more about actions than words. It’s a way of showing understanding, of saying, ‘I know what you’re going through and I’m there for you,’ without having to use words. Everyone needs support, just as I’ve needed Annie’s and I think she’s appreciated mine.My photographs and updates have given her something else to think about. We all need to lean on others who know how we’re feeling. I have no idea why I thought I could do this on my own. I can’t. I realise that now. I need support too. If only Laurent had wanted us to do it together.
I hear the women walking up the side of the mill towards the lake. I open my eyes, nod as they each raise a hand to me and wish mebonjour. Clearly not as embarrassed as I am about them using my bread as bait and laughing at the British woman wanting to open aboulangerie. Because they’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just winging it badly.
I shut my eyes again, listening to the good-natured conversation as they make their way around the lake and set up for their Saturday fishing day. As for me, I will have to make an appointment to see the mayor. Tell him I tried, but it can’t be done. No one wants to eat my bread. And I can’t improve it without the right flour and the … What was it Laurent said? Thesavoirfaire.
Even if I could produce a decent baguette, the villagers aren’t likely to break their habits. Everything has a place in France and, no matter how much energy I put into the bread, I won’t be able to compete with Claude and his vending machine. They won’t buy from me. I’m not French and I’m not aboulanger… and I can’t get anyone to help me.
Not unless you offer something different, or special. I hear Laurent’s words in my head. But I have no idea what else I can offer with the four ingredients used in making bread.
‘Okay, I’ll help you.’ I hear his voice.
‘If only that was the case,’ I say.
‘I will. I’ll get the mill running and we’ll make the flour. Something different. Something special.’
I spin round to see him standing there, tossing a euro up and over in his hand. ‘But you said it couldn’t be done.’
‘I didn’t say it couldn’t be done. I said it couldn’t happen.’
‘Well, yes, but if it can’t happen …’ I gaze at him standing on the grass beside the lake in jeans and a rugby shirt.
