Fred snorted, but before he could inevitably disagree, they heard the sound of a car pulling into the yard. Steph jumped down off her chair and ran to the door, calling out, “Maman! Maman!”
Bridge followed, waving at Izzy as she approached the car. “Anything I can carry?”
Izzy stopped mid-exit from the car, confused. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Lovely to see you, too, ma soeur. I’m on a work trip up north; thought I’d drive down and surprise you.”
“Maman, Maman,” Steph tugged at her mother’s leg. “Auntie Bridge brought macarons.”
Bridge shrugged, and Izzy rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe you can have one — one — after your lunch. Now help take the shopping in while I get your brother.” Hugo was fast asleep in the back. As Izzy removed him from the child seat, Bridge opened the boot and picked out a small bag for Steph to carry into the house, taking a larger one herself. Her niece walked side by side with her, carrying the bag with a pride normally reserved for diplomatic gifts at state functions.
Lunch was a simple affair of bread, cheese, and a light wine. Bridge didn’t allow herself to drink too much despite her sister’s protestations, and was momentarily horrified when Izzy poured a small glass for Stéphanie. But it was relaxed and cheery, and as the tension in her shoulders eased, Bridge realised how rigid she’d been for the past few days without noticing. Even Fréderic begrudged her a smile or two.
After lunch, Steph took Bridge by the hand and marched her out through the yard, collecting a football along the way. Bridge was somewhat surprised that the miniature lady she’d had dinner with less than a fortnight ago now wanted to kick a ball around a field, but didn’t argue, and Steph ran rings around her. Bridge was working out a little in the guest house room, and taking an occasional run around the streets of Agenbeux, so keeping up with her niece wasn’t a problem. But her ball skills were non-existent, much to Steph’s delight. After five minutes she accused Bridge of letting her win, and a laugh from the direction of the house revealed that Izzy was watching them from the yard, with Hugo sleeping on her shoulder.
Over the years Bridge had often been envious of Izzy, for various reasons. Her beauty, her sophistication, the ease with which she moved through life. But now there was something different, a longing for a way of life she knew, deep down, she would never have. Calm, content, bucolic; these were not words Bridge ever expected to feature in her story. She walked a very different path to her sister, one Izzy didn’t even know existed. It was undeniably stressful, and the sudden temptation to surrender and move to a farm in the middle of nowhere, popping out children while cooking for a gruff French husband, was strong. But it also struck Bridge as an undeniably English fantasy, and that part of her — the aspects of her father’s character she’d so easily inherited — was the very same part that ensured it remained a fantasy. Six months living like this and she’d be bored shitless.
After the football they returned inside to nap, read, and prepare for dinner. Bridge put all thoughts of work out of her mind, until later that evening after Fréderic had taken Hugo to bed. She’d found a battered old copy of Moebius’ Le Garage Hermétique, in the original black and white, which she’d only previously read in translation. Engrossed in Major Grubert’s travails, she lost track of time and only realised it was dark when a cough from the doorway made her look up. Steph was standing there, with Fred behind her, looking stern.
Izzy, who’d been reading a magazine on the couch, looked over at them. “What’s up?”
“Auntie, why does your computer say ‘Bridget Short’? That’s not your name.”
Bridge inwardly cursed her niece’s insatiable curiosity. She’d brought the Dell laptop with her as a matter of habitual security. Leaving it behind in the Agenbeux guest house was out of the question. If anything happened to it, Giles would roast her alive. She didn’t intend to actually use it here, especially with the lack of internet access at the farm. But Steph must have opened the lid, and been confronted with the login screen for Bridge’s cover identity.
“Stéphanie, those are Auntie Bridge’s private things,” said Izzy. “You mustn’t touch them unless invited to.”
“I wanted to play a game,” said Steph, downcast.
Bridge smiled sympathetically, grateful Izzy had unwittingly given her a few seconds to think. “It doesn’t have any games on it, I’m afraid. It’s a work computer. And that’s why it has that name, it’s a silly joke by the people I work with.”
Fred looked sceptical. “What kind of joke is that?”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Fred, I’m quite tall.”
Izzy snorted. “Not very funny, if you ask me.”
“Well, that’s the civil service IT department for you,” Bridge shrugged. “Stitch me back together again, know what I mean?” She took a swig of wine, hoping to put an end to the line of conversation, but she could see Fred didn’t believe a word of it.
He looked at Izzy and said, “Glaubst du wirklich diesen Mist?”
Izzy looked annoyed, though whether it was because of what Fred said, or because he’d lapsed into German, Bridge couldn’t tell. It was a favourite trick of his. Bridge’s German was poor, and Fred knew it, so he did this when he didn’t want her to understand his conversations with Izzy. Izzy shot back, “Nennen sie meine Schwester nicht eine Lügnerin. Und sprich gefälligst französisch.”
Bridge caught the gist of that, and realised she didn’t care if Fred believed her, so long as Izzy did. But there was now tension in the air, and Steph looked from one parent to the other, confused. “I know,” said Bridge, smiling at her niece, “how about we all play a game together? Do you have any cards
