The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,108

show her how he felt.

Chapter 27

Fiona put her phone down with a thud on her dressing table and stared out of her bedroom window at the early hawthorn blossom in the hedgerow. She picked up the little netsuke and held it tightly, the smooth planes of the rabbit tucked into the centre of her palm. It had been two weeks and she hadn’t heard a word from Gabe. Not that she’d expected too. Not really.

Except, her exhibition opened this evening. In a few hours. Inside, she had a tiny desperate hope that he might come. Or at least wish her luck. But there’d been nothing, and why should there be? He was in love with Yumi.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. Memories of those two days at the hotel shouldn’t have burned their way into her consciousness as much as they had done. She wasn’t supposed to have fallen in love with him.

She eyed her phone and right on cue it beeped.

Even though she knew it couldn’t possibly be Gabe she snatched it up. A message from Avril.

See you soon. Break a leg. Ax.

Oh God, she felt nervous. Avril had been nagging her about what she was going to wear. In a fit of obstinacy, she’d decided she’d wear the linen jumpsuit but she had bought some navy-blue suede stiletto-heeled boots to dress it up and had abandoned the cami underneath, instead opting to wear a chunky gold signature necklace and show a bit of cleavage.

It didn’t take a psychologist to work out that she was hoping Gabe might turn up, or the message she was sending by wearing the damn thing.

Now, standing in her underwear, she reached for it with a tortured mix of emotions. Why hadn’t she decided to wear something else? It seemed impossible to erase the image of Gabe opening the buttons or his fingers stroking her skin around the lace of her camisole. With a hitch of her breath she pictured him, his fingers dipping into her cleavage.

‘Fiona,’ her mother called up the stairs. ‘Fiona, are you there?’

She closed her eyes with a sigh and resisted the urge to call back, ‘No.’

Luckily her mother hadn’t noticed her lack of appetite or propensity to stare out of windows lost in thought. She was actually busy. To Fiona’s amazement, she’d joined the WI in the village which was a very brave and unexpected new step. When Fiona had asked what had brought this on, her mother had given her a guileless shrug and said she didn’t know what Fiona was talking about.

‘Be down in a minute, Mum.’ She glanced at her watch, checking the timings again. Four-thirty train. That would get them into Waterloo at twenty past five. Then half an hour to get to Kensington which left half an hour before the official launch party began. She knew the timings because she’d been to the white-walled gallery with its stark black floors and shoji-style windows several times to supervise the final arrangement of the pictures and watch them all be hung by the gallery manager, Mr Morimoto, a small dapper man who bowed like a bobbing robin and had twinkling bird-bright eyes. He also had the propensity to worry about every last detail which was reassuring as she was confident he had everything under control. All she had to do was turn up and, thanks to Avril’s mile-long contact list, they were guaranteed plenty of attendees including her friends, Kate and Ben, David and his husband Reece, Conrad and Avril’s husband Christophe.

‘You look nice, Mum,’ she said, meeting her mother at the bottom of the stairs. Judy Hanning was always neat and tidy but today in a pale blue shift dress, she looked much younger and prettier than usual. Normally she wore unflattering mid-length skirts and baggy cardigans that made her appear more like an old lady.

‘Thank you, dear. And so do you. I do like how you’re wearing your hair down. I’d forgotten what a glorious colour it is.’ She reached forward and smoothed a curl from Fiona’s face.

Fiona swallowed and pressed her lips tightly together, worried she might burst into tears.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right walking in those heels though? I’ve put my flats on because sometimes you have to walk miles from the platform at the station down to the tube.’ She held out a leg and waggled her foot encased in a very sensible black ballet flat.

‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done the journey a few times; there’s not much