Page 17

It felt odd to be in the airport: bright lights and screens and stark white walls after spending so many days in an environment where the newest building must be at least eighty years old.

Standing in her slightly paint-scuffed jeans and hoody, Becky felt slightly out of place.

She’d meant to smarten up a bit more for Amber’s arrival, but had run late painting a bit of skirting board and had had to rush.

Pascal had offered her a lift, but she’d turned him down – he’d have had to close the café and she knew he’d hate to do that.

He’d then offered her his car, and she’d almost accepted until he’d pointed out the ancient Citroen parked up on the opposite side of the street.

Its tyres were slightly deflated and the whole car was leaning slightly to the side.

‘I haven’t serviced it for a little while,’ he’d said, grimacing.

People started to emerge through the double doors by passport control, their eyes scanning the faces outside for their family or friends, or the taxi that would meet them to take them to their next destination.

Each time the doors slid back to reveal more people, Becky’s heart leapt.

Then, as they closed, she practically bounced with impatience.

As if prompted by the stress of everything, her eyelid started to twitch; she realised that it hadn’t done so for a little while.

Perhaps France was agreeing with her after all.

She had to admit she’d quite enjoyed the last couple of days, since her panic attack and Pascal’s insistence on helping her.

They’d split shifts in the café, him returning to his writing between serving, her taking the time to walk or explore, or look up soft furnishings online; then come together for a couple of hours each evening to paint or rearrange furniture or plan things.

The yellow chairs looked a little out of place, but had been well received by customers; once they were assured that it was OK if a little mud got onto them, they’d relaxed. One old lady had even fallen asleep and had to be gently woken after an hour had passed.

Despite the fact she’d been busy – and definitely out of her usual comfort zone – Becky had found the time relaxing and had even managed to push thoughts of work to the edge of her consciousness, so she wasn’t always accompanied by the perpetual feeling of unease she’d thought she’d never shift.

It was nice coming to, sometimes, and realising she’d drifted away in a pleasant daydream rather than finding her mind chewing over the latest ad boards for Tudors.

When Amber finally stepped through the doors, Becky’s heart leaped as much as it might have had she been a long-lost love.

She found herself grinning and walking towards her friend, arms outstretched, and gathering her up in a hug.

It was ridiculous in some ways; it had only been ten days but she hadn’t been away from her friend for that long for years.

‘Wow!’ Amber said, breaking away. ‘That’s quite a welcome!’

‘Well, I’ve missed you,’ Becky grinned. She studied her friend’s face for a moment. Amber looked different. Drawn, somehow. Slightly thinner. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit… tired.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just had an early one,’ Amber said, stretching her lips into a reassuring smile.

Perhaps that was it, thought Becky. Perhaps that, and the fact that everyone around here seemed to have more of a tan than their washed-out British counterparts.

Amber’s skin was pale from too long each day in the office, and it stood out more among the healthier-looking complexions on the continent.

‘Good, glad to hear it,’ Becky said. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting, so we’d better…’ They walked quickly to the double doors that led out to the rank and beyond, to where the rather banged-up looking car that passed as a taxi in Vaudrelle was waiting.

An hour and a half later, they finally drew into Vaudrelle. Becky nudged Amber, who’d fallen asleep ten minutes into the journey, and whispered, ‘We’re here!’

Amber sat up straighter, bleary-eyed, and looked out of the window at the quaint streets, the mismatched buildings, the few inhabitants who were coming back from evenings out, or walking dogs or simply promenading.

‘It’s very sweet,’ she observed, and Becky felt a rush of pride as if she’d invented Vaudrelle all by herself and was showing it to Amber for approval.

She’d hoped they might stay up for a drink when they arrived, but Amber looked fit to drop.

It was only 9 o’clock, and just 8 o’clock back home, but Amber had had quite a week at work by all accounts.

Becky hid her disappointment and instead showed Amber to her room where she’d made up her bed with fresh sheets and created a makeshift bed on the floor for herself.

Initially she’d wondered about using Maud’s room, but hadn’t felt able to touch it, or even go in properly.

But they’d shared before on many a sleepover – this would be just like old times.

‘Sorry to be such a lightweight,’ Amber said. ‘I’m so perpetually exhausted at the moment.’

‘Well, hopefully you can get a bit of a rest this weekend.’

‘A rest? Never thought you’d be one for advocating that!’

The next morning, after breakfast and a quick meeting with Pascal before he went to open the doors to the Saturday morning rush (six people who’d already been to the market and needed a caffeine fix), Becky gave Amber the ‘grand tour’ of the building: the large kitchen tucked behind the café itself; the small, annexed living space with a couple of sofas – neither she nor Pascal tended to spend time in there and it felt a little chilly and unloved.

En route downstairs this morning she’d shown her the door of Pascal’s room but hadn’t offered to show her inside, and then nodded towards Maud’s; and Amber was already familiar with the bathroom they’d share with its special, tiny bath.

‘It’s cute,’ Amber had said. ‘And I love the pictures in the hallway and sitting room.’

‘Yes.’ Becky had realised she hadn’t really acknowledged the photos properly. She enjoyed seeing the artistic prints on the walls but hadn’t given them any more thought. Amber, however, had gone up to them. ‘Who’s the photographer?’

She’d squinted at the little strip of writing on the border. ‘Oh. Is that your aunt, your great-aunt? Maud something?’

Becky looked. ‘Oh! Yes, it is.’

‘There’s another! Wow, are they all hers?’

‘I think they might be.’ Becky had felt a little flush on her cheeks – fancy not noticing that! Although she’d had so much on, perhaps it was forgivable.

‘She was good, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. Really good.’ Becky had examined one of the pictures – a favourite – and admired the composition, the way the landscape fell away, the fact that your eye was drawn to the little shape of a dog in a distant field. She’d felt a sudden, unexpected, wave of emotion.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, just… it is sad, isn’t it, that I hadn’t seen her for so long when she died. I wish now that I’d tried a bit harder.’

‘Come on, it wasn’t as if you were close.’

‘We were once though. And she was fond of me, fonder than I’d realised.’ Becky had raised her finger and traced the outline of a tree over the glass. ‘I didn’t know she didn’t really… have anyone. I mean, she had lots of friends. But no real family.’

Amber had put her arm around her friend. ‘Well, sometimes friends can be just as important than blood ties,’ she’d said.

Becky had nodded. She hoped what Pascal had said was true, and that Maud had had some friends who’d become like family. ‘Still…’

‘Come on, Maud wouldn’t have wanted you to feel guilty, I’m sure,’ Amber had said.

‘I guess.’

‘Perhaps it’s the universe’s way of telling you to spend more time with your mother?’ Amber had suggested, looking at her friend askew.

‘Yeah. No. I don’t think that’s it,’ Becky had replied, laughing.

‘At least we know where you get your artistic flair from.’

‘My artistic flair?’

‘Yeah. You know. Advertising. Thinking up new concepts. Thinking about what appeals,’ Amber said, shrugging as they turned back towards the stairs. ‘And your drawing.’

‘My drawing? I never draw!’

‘You’re kidding, right? All those doodles on our shopping lists, the pictures you put on that little white board where we’re meant to write reminders. I always thought they were really good.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Maybe you should experiment a bit.’

Once they’d finished, Pascal made them coffee and they both joined him at the counter, leaning against the worn wood and chatting. ‘It’s a lovely place,’ Amber said. ‘I can see why you wanted to stay here.’

Pascal nodded. ‘Yes. I have made a good home here. Although I’m leaving soon. I will miss this place.’

‘Becky’s been showing me Maud’s photographs,’ Amber continued. ‘She was pretty good, wasn’t she?’

‘ Oui , she is an artist, it is sure. It is a little messy down in her studio, but I left it just as she liked it. And have you seen the pictures in her bedroom?’

‘Studio?’ Becky said, confused.

‘ Oui , of course. I thought you said you had shown Amber Maud’s works?’

‘Well, yes, the ones on the walls.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Then you have not seen anything! Let me get Stéphane to mind the café for a moment and I will show you!’

Moments later, Pascal opened a door she hadn’t acknowledged before and saw, instead of a cupboard interior as she’d imagined, that there was a set of stairs leading down into darkness. Snapping a light on, he gestured that they should follow him.

‘This is where we get murdered,’ Amber whispered into Becky’s ear, and she almost laughed out loud.

The dark stairwell opened out into a generous cellar space.

The building was built onto a slope, meaning that one side of the basement was officially underground, the other had window spaces at the top where the room emerged from the soil.

Light flooded the room and illuminated the white walls, lines stretched with photos pegged as if Maud had just stepped away.

There were piles of paper, a door reading ‘Dark room’ and camera equipment piled on tables and shelves.

‘Oh,’ Becky said suddenly. ‘I remember this!’

She did – following Maud into the darkness, feeling a little frightened until the light had snapped on.

The memories were vague, like a whisper of fog on a winter’s evening.

She breathed in the air and inhaled the specific mix of ink and paper and purpose; all with just a touch of Maud’s lavender perfume still lingering from the last time her aunt was there.

Her mind raced – and then she was there, sitting by Maud’s side in the garden, sketching a sunset.

Trying her hand at mixing paints and coming up with brown almost every time.

Another summer, somewhere in a field of sunflowers.

Maud laughing and taking her picture. The feeling of being seen and cherished and just so utterly happy.

The tears were unexpected, welling painfully in her eyes and spilling over almost before she knew it was happening.

With Pascal and Amber still looking at propped up paintings and studying the room, Becky was able to wipe the wetness with her sleeve and steady her breathing.

Still, when Pascal turned, it was clear she was upset. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.

‘Just… remembering things. Silly, really,’ she managed to say.

She paused at the back of the room to look at some photos and artwork scattered around the walls.

It was less uniform than in the corridors – the frames were mismatched and although there were a couple of landscapes, there were pictures of pyramids and sun-drenched Moroccan markets; of small children playing on a dusty street, a man silhouetted under a street light, printed in black and white.

‘She travelled?’ Becky’s voice registered surprise. Somehow, she always imagined Maud having a rather small life; lovely, of course. But small.

‘ Oui , yes, when she could,’ Pascal nodded. ‘She loved to travel, meet people, take photographs.’

‘Look at this one,’ Amber said, touching a small frame close to the work surface.

Becky looked. A picture of a child, barefoot, in a muddy dress, her hair tangled and tousled from play. Her face, despite her unkemptness, beautiful and open and smiling unselfconsciously.

‘Recognise it?’ Pascal said, as Becky picked up the frame for a closer look.

Becky’s mother’s photo collection contained shots of them at weddings, on holidays. Neat, orderly, obediently saying cheese. This photo was like nothing she’d ever seen. Yet she knew instantly who it was and where it had been taken.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’

A few minutes later, they were up in the kitchen again, Pascal returning to the café.

‘Well, that was a turn up for the books!’ Amber said. ‘Your aunt was amazing!’

‘Yes, she really was.’

The sun was shining almost directly through the kitchen window now, and as it fell against Amber’s face, Becky was struck again at just how pale her friend looked. ‘Shall we go for a walk or something?’ she suggested.

‘Yes, why not. Not too far though, I haven’t been to the gym for about two months and I’m so unfit!’ Amber replied, linking arms with her friend. ‘I got breathless climbing the stairs to the flat the other day – did I tell you? Such a couch potato.’

‘I’ll go easy on you,’ Becky said, trying to smile. In truth, part of her wanted to sit and have a good cry – at the missed opportunities, at the innocence of her past self and for the woman she was only getting to know properly now it was too late.

But Amber was here, now. And she didn’t want to waste a minute with her friend. ‘Let’s go.’