Chapter 14
I don’t know what compels me to do it. I just know that if I’m going to open a boulangerie , I need to see how it all works.
Not just pop in for a baguette, but watch and understand.
And there is only one boulangerie I know of around here.
It’s in the neighbouring town and it’s Claude’s.
I’m not going to run away and hide. I want him to know I’m here to stay, that I’m not just a tourist whose feelings he can toy with.
I get into my car – it’s hot, hot, hot – and turn the blower on full blast, but it’s throwing hot air at me. I open the windows and drive out of the square towards the bigger town.
As I head into the roundabout, the traffic is building on the way.
It’s market day and people are parking along the main road and walking.
There are tourists in straw hats and shorts, sauntering along, sellers hoping they’ll stop and buy from their stalls.
It’s surprising that so many people are visiting the town, yet in the Village du Grand Lac, there is no one.
Maybe I’ll be able to persuade them to come to the salon de thé when I open.
But first I need to do some boulangerie research.
I drive into town and park near the chambre d’h?te where I stayed.
I get out, put on my sunglasses and follow the narrow streets towards the main square, past stalls selling jewellery, baskets and scarves.
Closer to the centre there are stalls selling seafood on piles of cold ice, cheeses, cider from family-run orchards with samples being handed out, and the smell of crêpes hangs in the air.
And then I see Claude’s bakery. A smart light grey exterior, white writing on the window, and a sheaf of wheat underlining the family name: Guiomar.
Claude Guiomar. The man who made a fool of me.
I stroll towards the bakery, keeping my eyes on it, moving around the shoppers and holidaymakers enjoying the Breton sunshine, stopping and tasting from producers.
At the boulangerie , a steady stream of people are going in and leaving with baguettes and croissants.
I step into the long, narrow shop. The baking kitchen is nowhere to be seen.
There are rows of loaves in tall baskets, croissants fat and flaking under the glass counter, like I remember from the first day I arrived back in France, when I pulled over and ate the baguette with coffee. I intend to do the same now.
I stand and wait. Eventually, a woman at the far end of the shop turns to me.
And then I hear his voice, barking instructions from a concealed kitchen.
The tall, slight woman turns to him and says something back, nodding to a trolley containing trays of croissants and baguettes.
He steps out into the shop and, although I’ve prepared myself for this, my insides lurch – and not in a good way.
At first he doesn’t see me, or maybe doesn’t recognise me. But I recognise him.
He does a double-take.
‘Ah, the lady from le moulin ,’ he says.
He turns to the woman and says, in French, ‘She has bought the old mill. The one I told you about. Wants to make it into a salon de thé . She found me a very attractive man. I had to tell her, “ Désolé , I am married.”’ He’s entertained by his own version of events.
I squirm but am determined not to be deterred. ‘I have come to try your bread. Une baguette, s’il vous pla?t , and a croissant,’ I say, keeping things polite and professional.
‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘My wife will serve you. I have to take the van out.’
She stands at the till. Not smiling, not at all.
‘ Bonjour ,’ I say to her, remembering my manners.
For a moment she says nothing, then, ‘ Bonjour ,’ barely moving her lips.
She moves to the till and stands poised over it and I wonder what Claude has told her about me.
I bristle and my cheeks burn at the thought of him telling her I was practically coming on to him and how disappointed I was that he was married!
When in fact, it was very much the other way around, him coming on strongly to me!
‘ Je voudrais ,’ I say, in clear, correct French, ‘ une baguette et un croissant, s’il vous pla?t .’
‘ Une baguette , which?’ She waves a hand at the rows of bread and I feel she’s making this difficult for me.
‘As you recommend, Madame,’ I say, trying to get her to guide me. She takes a baguette, rolls it in a square of paper and puts it down firmly on the counter, clearly bored of my custom. So, one thing I need to offer at the boulangerie is service with a smile. I make a mental note.
‘ Et un croissant ,’ I repeat, pointing to the fat, shiny croissants under the glass counter. She steps towards them, looks up at me, goes to the back of the shop and the trolley of trays there. I’m hoping they’re fresh out of the oven. My mouth is actually watering.
She puts one into a paper bag and hands it to me, then types it into the till and says the amount too quickly for me to understand.
‘ Pardon ?’ I say. She sighs and shows me the amount on the card machine. I tap my card, and before I’ve even put it back into my purse, she has turned away and is wheeling the trolley of trays to the kitchen.
I leave the shop and head to the café on the other side of the square, not wanting to be close to the bakery. I’ve seen what I needed to see. Where the bread comes from around here. What a local bakery offers. Now for the bread itself …
I order a café crème and a glass of water from the waiter with the tray.
While I wait, I tear off some bread and try it.
It’s nice, just bread. The waiter comes out with my hot, frothy, milky coffee and the water.
I thank him, then take the croissant from its bag, waiting for the smell to hit me.
But nothing does. I pull off the end and touch the inside.
It’s solid, cold. I take a bite. Disappointment is all I can taste.
It’s dry. Not crunchy outside, not soft and buttery within.
I put it down and dust off my hands. She’s sold me yesterday’s pastry. She’s letting me know I’m not welcome.
Part of me wants to go back and ask for a fresh one. But the bigger part of me wants to get back to the Village du Grand Lac and start getting ready to open the boulangerie , in the hope I never have to come here again.
I have been put in my place. Served the insult. I didn’t deserve fresh croissants – I am a tourist and wouldn’t know the difference.
Well, I do. And I’m about to make a difference. Claude needs to learn to treat people with respect: me, his wife and any other unsuspecting woman who momentarily falls for his fake charm. It was a moment of weakness. But now I know where I will find my self-respect – on the baking battlefield.