‘Excusez-moi – I am so sorry. I didn’t …’ She’s tall, slim, in her forties, and her clothes are expensive, as is her make-up. Her black hair has been pulled back into a chignon. She has an air of effortlessness that probably requires a lot of effort. A lot more than I’ve ever been able to find.
‘I’m Marie Bernard. And you are Catriona – Cat – from America.’ Her long fingers reach for mine and squeeze. Her smile is too bright. ‘Ellice told me all about you, of course.’
I find the thought that El told her anything about me – of course – a lot more disconcerting than maybe I should. She smiles again, but I can see that her eyes are tired, red-rimmed. I think of the shouted relief in her ‘Dieu merci!’
‘You look so like her.’ She leans closer – I smell Chanel No. 5 – and then she shakes herself. Steps back.
‘You’re friends with El?’
‘Oui.’ Something flashes dark in her eyes before it’s gone. ‘We both are. This is Anna.’
I follow her nod towards the only cashier. Who turns, looks me up and down once, then twice. She doesn’t smile. ‘You do look exactly the same.’ She has an accent. Eastern European, I’ve already guessed, from her high blonde ponytail and cheekbones.
I finger the lapel of El’s coat self-consciously.
‘I moved from Belleville, Paris, many years ago,’ Marie says. ‘El and I first met here, in fact. When the shop was quiet, the three of us would sneak into the back room and drink bad cocktails out of cans.’
‘Old stock,’ Anna says, looking at Marie. ‘Really bad.’
Marie laughs, but her voice catches. ‘We are very good friends. We have good times together.’
‘El is a good person,’ Anna says. I’m a little taken aback at the sudden tears in her eyes.
Marie nods, turns to me. ‘There is still no news?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Nothing yet.’
There follows another awkward silence that I’m not very inclined to fill. El has never been a joiner. What few friends she had as a teenager, she knew only through me. Ross and I were the only people she ever let close, and yet these two women don’t just know her, they seem to genuinely care for her.
‘And Ross?’ Marie eventually says. ‘How is he?’
‘As fine as he can be.’ I pick two bottles of wine, start inching towards the till. ‘I should …’
‘Bien sûr. Pardon.’ Marie’s too-bright smile falters. ‘You must visit. For tea, apéritif, anything at all. I am just over there. The end house.’ She points at the Gingerbread Coop, and I notice a long keloid scar – stark against her dark skin – running from her wrist to her elbow. When she sees me looking, she snatches her sleeve back down.
‘And perhaps you could let me know if you hear anything?’
‘Of course,’ I say.
She nods, presses her hand to the emerald-green scarf around her neck, and I realise there are scars on her knuckles too. And under all that immaculate make-up, the skin of one cheek is raised, rough like damaged plaster. The silence between us lengthens. And then she’s waving, leaving in a cool jangling breeze and another waft of Chanel No. 5.
I immediately turn towards the till, feeling both guilty and relieved.
‘Do you want a bag?’ Anna says. Her expression is stony again, and when I nod, she snatches one from under the counter and tosses it at me. Begins scanning and discarding my shopping with brutal efficiency.
I clear my throat. ‘Are you all right?’
She thrusts a bottle of wine at me without looking up, although her cheeks have flushed pink. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘El told us what happened between you.’ Her eyes flare, defiant again. ‘Why you left.’
I can only imagine what she said. El can twist truth into the kind of knot that will never be undone. ‘What happened between us is none of your business.’
Anna visibly swallows. Squares her shoulders. ‘You should leave. She wouldn’t want you here.’
I press my card against the chip-and-PIN machine. Snatch up my bag and march fast towards the door and the street. I’m too jet-lagged and already angry to trust myself to speak.
‘You should be careful,’ Anna calls after me.
And although it sounds like a threat, the sudden lack of ice in her voice makes it seem like a warning.
*
Ross isn’t downstairs when I return. That’s probably just as well. I feel unsettled. The dream and the conversation with Anna have kept me on the same edge as El’s email, the page from her diary, the rediscovery of Mirrorland. I knew that coming back here after all this time would feel strange, but I wasn’t prepared for uneasy. Uncertain. Afraid.
I stand at the Kitchener. Overcook the pasta to the point of disintegration, dump it all, start again. I watch the water bubble and churn, and remember Mum stroking my cheek, her nails scratching. Don’t be like me, Catriona. See the good instead of only the bad. So I think of El and me sitting at the kitchen table, sneaking too-sweet bites of Grandpa’s coconut toffee when Mum wasn’t looking. Tossing loose socks up towards the hanging Clothesmaid we’d christened Morag. One point for landing over a wooden slat; ten for one of the cast-iron rackends. My phone vibrates, and I jump, fumble it out of my pocket.
The email is from john.smith120594. Its subject line is HE KNOWS.
And its message:
CLUE 2. WHERE GRANDPA’S FIRST MATE IRVINE DIED
The anger is almost a relief. Less welcome is the sudden rush of recognition. I turn away from the range and sit down at the table, where Grandpa first told us about the fate of doomed Irvine. In 1974, Grandpa almost lost his leg – and his life – during a two-day fishing trip in the North Sea, aboard a stern trawler called The Relict. He told us the story so often, we
