IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

Day 3 Cont.

LONG TIME NO SEE! I haven't forgotten about them, I promise. As ever, if my French is shit please correct me xx

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The first bus doesn't show up.

Una isn't sure if it's her complete lack of French, her inability to understand the Timothée in the pâtisserie, or the very likely event that the entire French transportation system is on strike.

Either way, she sits for a while longer. Tears the end off of a croissant and nibbles it. Once she's been waiting another half hour for a bus that seems to have no intention of showing up, she reaches into the bag to tear off another bit of croissant, only to find that she has polished off half of them. She doesn't even remember starting the second one.

Una turns her head and studies the timetable behind her shoulder, willing it to make more sense, when she sees a timetable she hadn't seen initially, labelled in tiny writing - vacances scolaires. School holidays.

Oh.

There is a dash next to the next bus due to arrive. The next bus to actually get there will be in an hour and ten minutes.

She stands up and starts to walk.

—

A fine drizzle starts up halfway through Una's journey there. Rain mists her face, congealing strands of hair, alighting in a cloud of fuzz in the loose hair on the top of her head. So much for having washed it this morning.

Her jumper is several shades darker, the fleece lining clinging uncomfortably to her skin by the time she makes it to the bus stop she was supposed to arrive at an hour or so ago.

Una passes through a small square, skirting around a gaggle of pigeons gossiping by the central fountain. She keeps walking for a while, looking for a side street, a large window, a green door.

Almost at the point of giving up and asking someone for directions, the place appears - not as she had imagined. It looks newer, cleaner. The light inside is warm and enticing, but the paint isn't peeling and the window is free of childrens' sticky fingerprints against the glass.

A few metal tables and chairs, painted in the same green as the shop front, stand jauntily outside the bakery. If you sat there, your chair, and possibly coffee, would constantly be tilting to one side because of the cobbles. She hides for a minute, obscured by her position close to the wall.

The rain slants gently into her face, and she stares at the pastries lined up in the window. It's not the largest offering, but each one looks neat, perfect, clearly the subject of care.

Una's gaze trails to the cakes. A particular one catches her eye. She pronounces the name under her breath, and it sounds like a summer she cannot forget. It brings back the feeling of warmth and dark corridors, lingering glances, the brushing of bare skin.

She walks towards the door and pushes it open. A bell rings above her head and she takes a few steps inside, the sweet, earthy smell of freshly baked bread engulfing her senses. Without anyone behind the counter, she feels at liberty to look around, however briefly. Her eyes dart across the room.

Two polished wooden tables. Four matching chairs. A painting of a lake on the wall. Three low hanging lampshades suspended from the ceiling. A display cabinet stretching around the back of the room. A bundle of baguettes, slightly depleted on one side, leaning against the back wall.

For a moment, she stands very still, clutching the paper bag in her slightly clammy hand. There is a definite hitch in her breathing, a small buzzing sensation working its way from her throat into her lungs.