‘I am going for a rest,’ Madame B informs me, Bibi under her arm, as morning moves towards midday. ‘I shall return later to make a fresh batch and tomorrow’s dough. We’ll do it together.’
‘What if we don’t sell any? What’s the point?’
‘It will take time,’ she repeats. ‘You should get some rest too.’ She walks out of the door, and the bell tinkles behind her. I look at the unsold baguettes and sigh.
I’m clearing the bakery room and sweeping the floor, ready for our next batch, when I hear the bell over the shop door ring, telling me we have a customer. It required the same precarious process of climbing on a table to put it back up again, but I hope it’s return is a good sign; the place seemed bare without it. I put the broom to one side and go into the shop. I stop.
‘Bonjour,’ says Laurent, smiling. ‘Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.’ He looks around at the empty shop. ‘I’m not too late, am I?’
His grin makes me grin regardless of the disappointment I’m feeling. ‘No, we have plenty left. Take as much as you want,’ I tell him, tears of tiredness prickling my eyes.
‘I want to be a paying customer. Your first, maybe?’ He holdsup the euro from his top pocket. ‘You never know when you’re going to need it.’
A wave of emotions is tumbling in on me. Pride about the bread that’s been made here today, the flour we used and thesavoir faire. But also furious and frustrated that people would still rather trust the machine and the mediocre bread from Claude’s bakery. A loaf made without passion, just for profit.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘In that case …’ I take the euro and hand him a baguette, putting the euro into the empty till. It rattles around and eventually settles. I push the till shut and sigh.
‘Now, I have bread. I also have wine, ham, tomatoes and cheese. Would you care to join me at thetabacfor lunch? To celebrate your first day as an openboulangerie?’
My arms are folded, but I’m laughing. ‘Even if I haven’t had any customers?’
‘You’re here, and that’s what matters,’ he says.
I misjudged and misunderstood this man, who is kind and thoughtful, someone I’m really enjoying spending time with. The more I think about his respect for his grandfather, his kindness to Madame B, his loyalty in being here today, the more attractive he’s becoming. He’s the sort of man I would trust – and I did! I trusted him with my life on the lake! I wouldn’t have done that with just anybody! The memory makes me laugh, and my retelling of the story to Annie had prompted a laughing-with-tears emoji back. I haven’t heard from her for a few days, not since my last video showing the wheel in action and the stone turning. I’m beginning to worry.
Laurent interrupts my thoughts. ‘What do you say? A celebration of being here?’
‘That,’ I say, ‘sounds perfect. On the condition that you let me bring bread over and hand it out to whoever will take it.’ Maybe giving out samples will help sales.
‘It’s a deal.’ He holds the baguette, touching his forehead with it, like a salute. ‘See you over there.’
I close the shop door and carry the basket of baguettes to thetabac, where the three regulars are sitting in the shade, out of the midday sun.
Inside the cool bar, I sit on a bar stool. Laurent has laid out tomatoes, cheese and ham on a wooden board, with a sharp knife. He pours me a glass of wine and slides it across to me.
‘No company today?’ I ask, remembering the mayor’s receptionist who was parked here last time.
He gives a little laugh. ‘What can I tell you? Not everyone is put off by the stories Claude spreads about me.’ He gives a wicked smile. ‘So, tell me, how was it with Madame Bertou? Did she terrify you?’
I shake my head. ‘No. She’s a woman who commands respect, but actually, she’s fascinating … and funny.’ I add.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ I start to tell him how I felt being in theboulangeriethat morning, from the welcoming lights, to the smell and taste of the bread. I was privileged to be there, I thought, watching a true artisan at work. As I talk, I idly make up sandwiches from the bread and ham, cheese and tomatoes. ‘It’s all about thesavoir faireapparently,’ I tell him what he of course already knows. But I’m just in awe. ‘She knows exactly what she’s doing. And she says it’s never the same two days in a row. She works with the weather, if it’s hot, cold, somewhere in between. You have to learn to read the dough and what it needs. And the bread is amazing. Here, try!’
‘Finally,’ he says. ‘I thought we were just going to keep talking about the bread! Now I actually get to taste it! To see if the flour is every bit as good as I think it is!’
I hold out a piece of bread for him and, for a moment, Iwonder if I’m going to put it into his mouth, but he gently takes it from me, our fingers touching.
He chews, nodding. ‘It’s amazing. Just as it should be,’ he says.
‘I have to find a way of getting people in to buy it! If I can’t, we won’t need any more flour …’ I tail off. I’ve made a pile of sandwiches. ‘Sorry, I got carried away.’
Laurent laughs. ‘We’ll have to find hungry mouths,’ he says, as the three old men come inside out of the heat of the day to see what’s going on.
‘Messieurs!’ Laurent says, as they arrive at the bar. He lines up three glasses and fills them withpastis, then puts out a jug of water. The men sit at the bar and spot the pile of sandwiches I’ve made.
‘Jambon-beurre au tomate et fromage,’ I say, offering the plate to them.
