The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,115

and an impressive hipster beard.

‘Can I help …?’ his voice trailed off and he stared at her, his mouth actually dropping open.

‘I’m looking for—’

‘The Gabe Burnett exhibition,’ he interjected recovering quickly, ‘of course you are. Through the gallery to your left.’

‘Thank you.’

His sombre face suddenly broke into a broad smile. ‘My pleasure.’

What? Was she covered in fairy dust or something? The world had gone mad today. Puzzled, she cast a backward glance to find him staring after her, still smiling.

Following his directions, she walked along the highly polished wooden floor, her feet echoing within the high-ceilinged space of the old Regency building which had been sympathetically modernised with discreet contemporary fixtures. There was a quiet, hushed library-air to the space and she was aware of a couple of people examining some pictures at the opposite end of the gallery. She turned left and her feet skittered to a halt as she stopped dead.

Shock and surprise flashed over her like an April shower.

It felt as if she’d run into a wall. Her runaway, racing heart came to a thudding halt.

She stared. And stared. And stared. Then her pulse burst back into action, thundering through her veins so hard she thought she might faint.

Opposite her, hanging on a partition wall, her own face stared back at her. Lips slightly parted, her hair loose, rippling and shimmering with gold in the slanting sunlight and her eyes glowing with a secretive smile.

Her mouth moved with unintelligible words. How? What? Why? Again she took in all the details, her hand clasped over her mouth as it dawned on her. Oh my God.

The subtext was unmistakable, blown up for the whole world to see. A woman in love. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was a small title card beneath the picture saying exactly that.

She blinked as if that might change things. There was no mistaking what this woman was thinking or feeling and Fiona had to swallow back the sudden tears.

It was the picture Gabe had taken in the Kyoto suite, the moment she realised she’d fallen in love with him again.

Stunned, she began to move forward, transfixed by the image. As she neared it, she realised there was a small square room beyond with a simple wooden bench situated right in the middle. On the walls were six more pictures. Her heart pitched again as she sucked in a gasp.

They were all of her.

Hardly daring to breathe, she moved to the first one. Her face was blown up to poster size.

Lying on the sofa with her hair spilling over the arm like a molten golden waterfall dappled by the sunshine, her face was serene and happy, her mouth curved in a satisfied smile.

Then, still dumbstruck, she moved to the next.

Her, under the cherry blossom at Churito Pagoda, laughing up at the photographer, warmth and tenderness in her eyes.

One by one, she took each one in.

Wet and triumphant at the Meji Shrine, chin lifted.

Leggy and impossibly glamorous, caught mid-stride at the Shibuya crossing, her skirt whipping up around her thighs.

Wide-eyed with enthusiasm and passion on the train, the moving background a blur.

Perched on the top of the vendor’s cart at Shibuya, excited and animated. He’d called that one ‘Surprise at Shibuya’.

Overwhelmed, she sank onto the bench opposite the final image and her heart almost burst.

Gabe had taken it at Tenjozan Park, the morning after they’d first slept together, when he’d asked her not to care too much. She was looking down at him, sadness in her eyes but her chin lifted and a determined set to her mouth.

Her heart contracted; it was picture of such piercing tenderness it made her cry.

With blurred vision she stared at the picture, amazed and touched by how much he’d seen. By his sheer talent and the depth of emotion he’d revealed in each and every one photo. He’d seen into her soul.

And played it back to her.

Love Letters. The name of the exhibition, it clicked. Each one was a love letter. To her.

Silent tears ran down her face, her heart filling with so much joy she would surely burst with it.

She was aware of someone sitting down beside her, sliding closer, thigh to thigh, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she whispered.

He squeezed her hand.

‘They’re not supposed to make you cry.’ His voice was gruff.

And then she did, small hiccupping sobs and he put his arm around her, pulling her into his chest, holding her so tightly with both arms as if he couldn’t