I see my baguette rescuer’s smile freeze. Suddenly, his expression is stony.
‘Bonjour, Madame. Laurent,’ says the shorter man getting out of the van. I recognise him from the bakery where I’ve been buying croissants. He pulls out a big bunch of keys, opens the back of the van and then the vending machine.
Laurent nods at him, still eating the end of the baguette.
‘Bon appétit,’ says the man from the van to Laurent, smiling, but not warmly.
Laurent, from thetabac, lifts one side of his mouth. Suddenly the man I thought was attractive is now dark-faced and edgy. ‘Too much salt,’ Laurent says, tossing another piece of bread into his mouth. ‘And could be fresher. But beggars can’t be choosers,’ he adds rudely, raising his eyebrows.
‘You may be a beggar, but I’m doing quite well for myself,’ says the baker, gesturing to his clearly expensive, new-looking van.
Laurent rolls his eyes. ‘We are the beggars because we have no alternative to this stupid machine! It is just a money-making exercise.’
‘Business is good, yes,’ says the baker. ‘How’s yours? Selling enough coffee andpastisto your three customers?’
I’m frozen to the spot. Clearly there is no love lost between the two men. In fact, from where I’m standing, they obviously don’t like each other at all. And one is the tabac owner. The sortof place where you can buy cigarettes and tobacco, stamps and lottery tickets and get a coffee or a drink. Clearly not somewhere I’ll be spending much time.
The baker laughs as if this exchange of insults is water off a duck’s back. He pulls more baguettes from the back of the van and loads the vending machine. ‘You should have waited for the fresh ones,’ he says to me, brushing his blond hair off his face with a practised swish.
‘If you were a good timekeeper, we would know when they were going to be here,’ Laurent says. He pulls another euro from his top pocket and tosses it to me. ‘For next time,’ he says, ‘in case you have to battle with this machine again.’ He saunters back towards the bar over the square. ‘Always be prepared!Mise en place.Everything in its place.’
I catch the euro, surprising myself with my swift reaction. But I can’t help feeling uncomfortable about the exchange and wish I hadn’t been there to witness it. Clearly, Laurent is not the musketeer and rescuer I mistook him for.
‘You are on holiday, Madame?’ the baker asks. He has filled the machine and locked it. Now he empties the moneybox.
‘Actually,’ the smile returns to my face under the warm Brittany sun. ‘I live here. I’ve bought the old mill.’
‘Le moulin? Wow, that is fantastic! I think you say “congratulations”!’ he says, as if considering what I’d just said. ‘I didn’t see that happening! And when do you move in?’
‘Today!’ I’m beaming. ‘I’m going there now!’
I put my hand on my bag, with my bread, tomatoes and a half-bottle of champagne. And then I can’t help myself: I blurt out the plans I’ve been dreaming and hatching since I first saw the old mill. I’m ready now to put them into action.
‘I’m hoping to turn it into asalon de thé,’ I say, my excitement bubbling up, as if it’s going to burst out of me. ‘I just need the mayor’s approval.’
‘Asalon de thé? In that case, you will need bread. Come and see me,’ he says, then reaches into the van, hands me a card, and then, from the back, another baguette. ‘A fresher one. For your celebration. Remember, let’s talk.’
Suddenly this is all very real. My dream of a tea shop on the mill lawn is within touching distance. It will be fine, I think, as long as I steer clear of Laurent, who evidently has a problem with the baker. And once I’ve seen the mayor and got the business plan in place, the idea rolling out, it will be very real indeed.
‘I will.Merci,’ I say. I put the card and the fresh baguette into my basket.
‘I must visit, see what you’re going to do with the place,’ he says. ‘Let me know when would be good for me to call over.’
‘That would be lovely. I could do with making some friends.’ I smile, feeling warm from the inside out.
‘I am Claude. What is your name?’
‘Juliet. Just Juliet,’ I reply.
‘Bonne chance, Just Juliet.’ He looks me straight in the eyes. I haven’t been looked at like that in a long time. ‘I look forward to us becoming friends,’ he says, his eyes sparkling.
For the first time in years, I feel seen. I put my basket onto my shoulder and head for the car, smiling all the way on the short drive from the village to the old mill, the sun shining, birds singing, the hedgerow bursting over the banks at either side of the road. I’m desperate to get there: everything is falling into place.
Chapter 4
It’s hot. I pull up at the gates to the mill, cut the engine and push open the door of my Fiat Panda. The heat hits me like a wall. It might be Brittany, but even here in the north of France it’s a flaming hot June day. My life looks very different since I first saw the mill, standing here with Pete. But from what I can see, very little has changed here at the mill itself, except that there is more greenery on the trees. I stare at the mill and my heart quickens as I see it again with fresh eyes because it’s mine.
With all the paperwork in place, this is what my small pension pot has bought me. Far better than an extension to our house, or new conservatory furniture. This is exciting. An opportunity. I clutch my basket to me with my baguette, goat’s cheese and tomatoes, then pull out my phone and take photographs to send to the family WhatsApp group and Annie. I snap away, picture after picture.
