Page 21 of Where Do We Go From Here?
She regrets inviting Jill. Because of course, with Jill coming, she can’t go home, can she? No, she thinks. That’s rubbish. Jill wouldn’t mind at all. She’d probably be overjoyed for her.
Is going home really what I want?
She pictures the scene again. She’d let herself in while everyone was out and have dinner ready when they all got home. ‘Enough is enough,’ she’d tell Harry. ‘This has all gone on for too long. I’m back.’
The idea feels exciting. She has butterflies in her chest just thinking about it. And it’s got to be more constructive than sitting here, on her own, on a freezing mountain in France, hasn’t it? Because what did she ever expect to achieve by being here?
The backlit peak she’s been staring at starts to blaze as the sun moves above it. A ray of sunlight hits her left cheek.
She moves her head lower so that she can feel the rays warming her eyelids, then sits back and watches as the strip of sunlight begins to stretch downwards with surprising speed, along her arm and leg, and then onward across the floor until the whole apartment is bathed in orange light.
She pulls her new slippers on and steps outside to sniff the pine-scented air.
The frost on the grass is already melting and steam is rising from the ground creating horizontal strips of brilliance where the sunlight cuts through the trees.
My God, it’s so beautiful.It’s like a little treasure, purpose designed to send her a message, a message she really needs this morning: that being alive to see this is a gift.
Of course she’s not going home! This is why she’s here – to reconnect with life.
She blows through pursed lips at her own madness.
You’re all over the place today, she tells herself.But that’s OK, too.
She eats muesli and throws the leftover bread out for the birds.
She locks the cabin and starts the car. She has decided to return to the supermarket for a longer-life form of bread.
But as she passes by the bakery she sees that it’s open, so she swings around the roundabout and returns, pulling up in the little car park.
The shop, overnight, has been transformed. Where yesterday it looked almost derelict, today it’s sparkling. The windows have been cleaned and are bordered with coloured flashing lights. The wooden interior glows orange, like a lump of luminous amber.
As she pushes the door, an old-fashioned bell announces her arrival. A woman appears from another room, backing into view, her arms laden with baguettes. The smell of freshly baked bread is intoxicating.
‘Bonjour !’the woman says brightly, speaking over one shoulder as she loads the bread into a rack.
‘Bonjour,’Wendy replies, taking a deep breath and promising herself she’ll do better than she did with the post lady.
‘Deux secondes !’the woman says, as she continues to organise the bread.
Wendy scans her surroundings. Thereare four or five kinds of fresh bread, pizzas and quiches, and shelves stacked with honey and jam. There’s even a tiny vegetable section in the far corner.
‘Voilà !’the woman says, turning to face her.‘Je suis à vous.’
Wendy’s not quite sure what that means, but the hands on the hips and the inquisitive smile are easy enough to interpret.
‘Une baguette, s’il vous plait ?’Wendy says, trying to sound like the woman in her French language app, trying not to think about how bad her accent must sound.
‘Tradition, aux céréales, ou normale ?’the woman asks.
Wendy grimaces. Whatever she’s been asked definitely didn’t feature in the bakery lesson. In the app, the woman asks for,‘Une baguette, s’il vous plait ?’and the baker replies with the price.
The baker smiles at her and repeats her question more slowly, this time pointing to each kind of baguette.‘Tradition … céréales … ou normale ?’
‘Oh,’ Wendy says.‘Um, normale, s’il vous plait ? Non, tradition !’
‘Et avec ça ?’the woman asks, placing the bread on the counter. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh, um,une croissant et une pain au chocolat.’
