The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,114

woman’s eyes. I’ve won, you’ve lost.

‘Okay. How’s your mum by the way?’

‘Just a bad sprain … although Peter next door is insisting on chauffeuring her everywhere. I’ve never known her need to go to Tesco so often. Twice yesterday.’

‘Ooh, do I detect romance?’

‘I’ll keep you posted.’ Fiona had never seen her mother so happy.

‘Right. What are you up to now?’

‘I’m meeting someone here who wants to talk about a photography project.’

‘That’s exciting.’

‘We’ll see. Lots of people have approached me in the last twenty-four hours wanting me to take pictures except they don’t have any money. They want pictures for free.’

‘Don’t do it. Don’t you dare sell yourself short. Talk to me before you agree anything. In fact, why don’t you tell people I’m your manager. Or Christophe could be.’ Her eyes lit up with the idea. ‘Gotta go. The nanny finishes at one. But call me.’ And with that Avril had gone, making Fiona relieved that Avril was on the clock.

***

She was surprised when just half an hour later her phone rang and Avril’s name popped up on the screen.

‘Sorry, I should have switched that off. I do apologise.’ Fiona pressed the red button to ignore the call as her meeting was just wrapping up.

Now she had no excuse – all of a sudden it seemed she was surplus to her mother’s requirements whereas once she would have kept her phone on in case her mother called.

‘No problem,’ said the woman who represented an environmental charity who wanted to stage an exhibition to raise awareness of plastic pollution in British rivers and waterways. The charity, she’d already explained, did have a limited budget but Fiona would have been interested in the project anyway.

Fiona listened as the woman began to talk again, explaining more about the brief.

Almost immediately her phone rang again. She apologised and deleted the call but before she could switch it off, which is what she should have done the first time, it rang for a third time.

‘Sounds like it might be urgent,’ said the woman. ‘We’re about done – I don’t mind if you answer it.’

‘Thank you. I think it must be, although I’ve no idea what she wants. She was here half an hour ago.’

She picked up the call. ‘Hi Avril.’

‘You have to come here. Dover Street. The exhibition. Now. Today.’

‘What?’

‘Gabriel Burnett’s exhibition. You have to see it.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll know when you get here. Trust me. Wish I could hang around. Call me later.’

Fiona stared at her phone, bemused.

The woman did her best to hide her curiosity but she’d clearly heard both sides of the conversation.

‘I have no idea what that’s about.’

‘No, but she sounds insistent.’

Fiona laughed. ‘She’s that sort of person.’

‘Well, good luck and I’ll send you an email confirming some of the details.’

They wrapped up the meeting, although Fiona’s curiosity was so piqued, she could barely concentrat e.

***

Tapping her foot, she waited at South Ken for a Piccadilly train anxiously anticipating the familiar rattle of the rails. Upon arrival the tube train was packed, although nothing compared to Tokyo standards. Everyone on the platform swarmed in the through the inadequate sized doors, pushing and shoving and she ended up with her nose pressed to a grey wool coat that smelled of takeaways and damp dog. It reminded her of when she’d been squished up against Gabe, so close she could see the individual bristles of stubble. She closed her eyes, fighting against the dull, ever-present pain that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

When she was disgorged at Green Park, agitation and uncertainty made her fidgety and impatient, especially with the sheep-like horde of tourists that dithered outside the Ritz indecisively. Why did Avril want her to go to the gallery? It didn’t make sense.

‘Move,’ she snarled, which came out far more loudly than she’d meant, but for God’s sake what was wrong with them cluttering up the pavement. Why couldn’t they stand at the side under the pillars like sensible people?

A horn blared and a taxi just missed her as she nipped across the road, ignoring the rapidly diminishing countdown of the crossing sign. There it was. Dover Street.

She tracked the numbers on the building, searching for the gallery sign and nerves slowed her furious pace. What was she going to find? Why had Avril been so insistent? She shouldn’t have come.

Spotting the building, she walked across the road and without breaking her stride, she pushed the door open.

There was a reception desk manned by a young man in a sharp suit with an equally sharp haircut