‘Oh, come on!’ I look in my purse, but there are no other euro coins. I stick my fingers into the machine and check the coin-return hole. Nothing. I press eject, several times, to get my coin back, but nothing appears.
‘I need my baguette,’ I tell the machine, and give the clear glass a firmer bash with the flat of my hand, hoping it will shift the stuck loaf. ‘This is my special picnic! And you aren’t going to stop me!’ I’m sounding slightly unhinged, but cheese and tomatoes with no bread is not lunch.
‘I’m out of euros!’ I try to reason with the machine. It does nothing.
‘Okay, well, if you’re going to be like that, there’s only one thing for it!’
This time I reach my arms around the machine, ready to wrestle and shake it. I’m tired and hungry and I need to eat. And my baguette is just in front of me. My baguette I’ve paid for. This is my celebration baguette! Everything I’ve dreamt of since I first got here: eating it on the lawn by the lake.
I shake the machine but the baguette isn’t budging. ‘Oh, come on, give me my bread!’
‘Madame.’
My head snaps up and I realise how this looks. I stand back from the machine and straighten to see a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking man, with long dark hair and a beard. A very good-looking man indeed.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, then adds, ‘We have laws against vandalism,’ an amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. My cheeks flush. ‘I saw you from there.’ He points at thetabac, with tables and chairs outside. ‘I can see you have a dispute with our bread machine. We would appreciate it if you didn’t break it. It is our only way to buy our daily baguettes around here.’
‘Monsieur, bonjour,’ I say, taking another step away from the vending machine and feeling hot. I lift my shoulders and tilt my head. ‘This is not what it looks like,’ I say evenly. ‘I wasn’t trying to vandalise it.’
‘I see.’ He folds his arms across his chest. ‘You had your arms around it. Maybe you were embracing it. Madame, have you been drinking? I haven’t seen you in the bar. Maybe the sun has affected you. Do you need help? Can I ring someone for you?’
‘No,’ I say, horrified, and if it weren’t so embarrassing, I’d be laughing. ‘I’m not sick. It’s just my baguette, it’s stuck. I only had one euro. And now I have no bread, and that means I have no lunch.’
He holds my gaze and I wonder if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me, or is just teasing me. He steps around the vending machine.
‘See, that one,’ I point to the listing baguette. ‘I’ve paid. It won’t drop it,’ I say, pointing to the balanced, angled loaf.
He looks at it, arms folded again, his checked shirt rolled back to his elbows, his small hoop earring catching the light. ‘You’re right. I can see the problem,’ he says, staring at the baguette matter-of-factly. ‘We all need to eat.’
‘I know!’ I put my hands on my hips and let out a sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I wave a hand, backing away. I look around the village square, at thetabac, where he’s come from. It seems to sell cigarettes, scratch cards, coffee and pastis. Three old men are stepping out of it, in flat caps and short-sleeved shirts,with braces holding up their trousers, clearly coming to watch my frustration with the bread machine. Oh, God, I have an audience! Let’s hope none of them had a phone to film me. I very much doubt it. This is rural Brittany, not some suburban sprawl where everyday life is recorded for others’ amusement.
‘I’m sure it’ll work for someone else,’ I say, keen to move away from the curious eyes. As I turn I notice a face in the window above the closedboulangerie. The sun makes it impossible to see properly. I shade my eyes and squint, but the face has gone.
‘Is there anywhere else I can buy food around here?’
He shakes his head.
‘What about thetabac?’
He shakes his head again, his long hair rippling. ‘Sadly, this is all we have now.C’est dommage.’
‘Yes. It’s a shame. Well, I must be going.’ I’m keen to remove myself from the centre of attention. I can see the local gossip now: mad, middle-aged British woman hugs baguette machine in the midday sun. That won’t help my business plans. ‘Au revoir,’ I say, raising a hand.
‘Attend!I may be able to help,’ the man from thetabacsays. He takes a euro from his top pocket and holds it up. ‘It is always advisable to keep a spare euro for moments like this. Always be prepared.’
Then he puts it slowly and deliberately, with a little pressure, into the coin slot. I wonder if there’s a technique I don’t know about. Another baguette moves and this time releases, knocking mine out of its stuck position. Both land in the tray at the bottom. He lifts the hatch and coolly takes out two baguettes. He hands one to me.
‘Merci,’ I say, realising he may not be quite as fierce as he first appeared.
‘You have to have the skills!’ He grins.
‘What’s the secret?’
‘Trained engineer!’ He laughs, tears off the top of his baguette and tosses it into his mouth and chews and swallows. ‘Now, no more vandalising our bread machine.Bonnes vacances,’ he says, and tears off another piece.
‘Merci,’ I say again, and smile. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘Could be better,’ he says, raising the bread in his hand. ‘Much better.Au revoir,’ he says, before I have the chance to explain I’m not on holiday but going to be living and building a business here. A van pulls up and the door opens.
