Steph clapped her hands together. “No, les Petits Chevaux! Please can we, Papa?”
“You’re supposed to be getting ready for bed,” Fred grumbled.
“Oh, don’t be a grouch,” said Izzy, “let’s have one game. We’re on holiday, remember?”
Fred returned to the kitchen, saying nothing. Steph skipped to a cupboard, and flung open the door to reveal half a dozen battered and worn board games that looked as old as the farm itself. She reached in and carefully removed one from halfway down the pile, steadying the games above it with her other hand as she pulled it out.
It was a game of pure chance, a French version of Ludo, that Bridge had never seen before. She’d always been more of a strategy game player, from furrowing her brow at her father over a chess board as a child, to complex real-time computer wargames as a student. Since joining SIS she’d lost her taste for those and turned instead to European social board games, mostly German, that simulated things like 18th-century Caribbean trading or railway building in Central Europe. Not that she had much opportunity to play these days. So, despite the absurd simplicity of this game, Bridge found herself having fun just because Steph was, delighting in watching her niece go through the seven stages of grief in five seconds flat when one of her pieces was captured, or in celebrating like a lottery winner every time she rolled a six.
“One game” turned into two, because Izzy won and Steph looked like she was about to explode. Bridge won the second, quite by chance, so both she and Izzy breathed a sigh of relief when Steph won the third. While her niece was celebrating, Bridge gave Izzy a look and tipped her head toward the stairs. Izzy smiled, evidently thinking the same thing, and made a big show of looking at the clock. “All right, miss champion,” she said, “you beat us fair and square. Now let’s get you to bed.”
Steph protested, as expected, but Fred picked her up and carried her to her room. He might be an insufferable prick around the dinner table, but he loved his kids, and Bridge began to understand why her sister might be happy enough with him. Wondering if the subject might come up in conversation, she reached for her wine glass — and came face to face with Izzy, frowning at her.
“Why are you really here, Bridge?”
“I told you, I wanted to see you and the kids.”
“I just saw you two weeks ago, and now we’re in a different country, for heaven’s sake. When was the last time you came to France?”
Bridge puffed her cheeks, thinking back. “A while, I guess… oh, I visited Mum last year. Or was that the year before?”
“It was three years ago,” Izzy sighed. “You need to sort yourself out. I don’t know why you’re such a workaholic, you know? It’s not like you have a mega-exciting job, you shouldn’t give it the best years of your life.”
“Oh, come on, let’s not start this again.”
“Start what? I’m just saying you need to get out more. Put yourself out there, before you get left on the shelf.”
Bridge sighed. “That’s Mum talking, isn’t it? I’m not like you, Izz. I’m not looking for a husband.”
“Good thing too, because you’re not going to find one if you still insist on hanging round the goth crowd.”
“Says the woman who introduced me to them. Just because you don’t go clubbing any more, doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to stop.”
“There you go. ‘Clubbing’, for heaven’s sake. You’re thirty years old.”
“Twenty-nine,” Bridge protested. “I can’t believe you forgot how old I am.”
“Whatever, the point is you’re too old for that shit. Don’t they have apps on your computer for finding men, these days? Get someone to do your make-up, put a nice photo online. You’re pretty fit, you just need to sort out your hair and wear something…” she flustered, reaching for a word, “something more attractive. Look at Karen, she was Miss Ubergoth. Then she grew up, and now she looks miles better.”
Izzy had met Karen on the London darkwave scene while at uni. Karen had graduated a few years before, but was still a stereotypical big hair/white face/big dress girl with a habit of getting completely shitfaced, dancing like a whirling dervish, then drunkenly swearing everyone to secrecy about her straight-laced City job. Every weekend, without fail, until one day she just wasn’t there. Izzy had told Bridge the story many times, how she eventually went round to Karen’s flat to find she’d given half her wardrobe to charity, destroyed the other half, and spent the previous two weeks getting through several crates of wine and as many boxes of tissues. A mohawked mutual friend called Big Darren was to blame, and while he soon found himself gotha non grata, the damage was done. Karen joined a gym, found a tailor, and let her roots grow out. After six months she could have walked straight past the old crowd without being recognised by all but her closest friends, and that was how she wanted it.
A year later Izzy had followed in Karen’s footsteps, but Bridge had no intention of suffering the same fate. She didn’t club or drink as often these days, and she certainly didn’t date like she used to, but she’d always had a sort of faith that the universe would figure something out. Staring into her wine now, she wondered if she’d subconsciously been waiting for Tenebrae_Z to make some kind of move, maybe ask to meet in person or simply find her and sweep her off her feet.
“Oh God, Bridge, I’m sorry,” said Izzy.
Bridge was momentarily confused. Sorry for what? But when she looked up from her wine glass, she couldn’t seem to put her sister in focus, and realised she was crying.
Izzy put down her wine and wrapped her arms around Bridge, whispering soothing noises. She took her glass, set it
