They look at it, then back at me, unsure.
‘Please, help yourselves, I made too much. You’ll be doing me a favour.’
They reach out and tentatively take a sandwich each. ‘Is the bread going to be as bad as last time?’ I hear one ask another in French.
‘I prefer her funny little cakes,’ says another, thinking I don’t understand and making me smile.
‘My wife will kill me if I’m not back in time for dinner as usual.’
‘Bon appétit,’ I say. They look nervously at the sandwiches and at each other. But this time I am much more confident that they’ll like the bread.
‘Et un cadeau,’ I say, ‘a present,’ and hand them all baguettes to take home with them. It’s that or throw them to the ducks again.
‘Merci, très gentille,’ one says.
‘No cakes today?’ another asks, in English this time.
I laugh. ‘I’ll make some more soon,’ I say. At least someone likes what I’m doing.
Laurent tops up my glass of rosé and one for himself. ‘We deserve this. To the first week of the mill … and your first day of opening theboulangerie.’
But if I can’t sell the bread, it’ll all be for nothing, I think but don’t say. I don’t want to spoil this lovely gesture, and the mood here in the littletabac.
‘Santé.’
The three men are clearly enjoying the sandwiches, biting into the bread, chewing big mouthfuls with joy and raising their glasses to me.
‘Magnifique!’ they say, and I beam, as if I’d made it all myself.
‘Laurent, une bouteille de vin rouge,’ one calls to Laurent.
The three take their sandwiches into the sunshine, with a bottle of red wine, sit back and enjoy lunch in the sun. After a while, I wonder if they’ve actually fallen into a doze.
Laurent and I enjoy our relaxed picnic, me on the stool and him behind the bar, as occasional customers come and go – a few walkers, passing through the village looking for lunch and, after a drink, moving on.
‘So, how is this?’ Laurent asks, as I sip my wine.
‘It’s lovely, thank you. Just what I hoped life would be like – not full of canoes, flooding and badly baked bread!’
‘And you will stay, if you can?’
‘It depends on my visa.’
‘But if the mayor agrees?’
‘Of course. But if I can’t get my visa, where will I go?’
‘What about home? Do you miss it?’
I consider his question carefully. ‘I had a good life with my husband … but we had come to the end of the road. I wanted more. He didn’t. I need to live the best life I can. I’m not sure I could go back.’
He nods. ‘It was the same for me returning here. It just felt like something I needed to do.’
I find myself smiling at him. A smile I haven’t felt in a long time, as if I’m sharing a special secret with someone.
‘Mais, alors!’ I hear a shout. ‘This is where I find you!’ I manage to make out what’s being said in furious fast French. ‘I have been waiting. You were going to bring home the baguette from the machine, and here you are, eating with friends!’
It’s one of the short, smart women I see waiting for bread at the vending machine in the mornings.
