The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,73

and radically rewritten her historical foundations. She lay in bed reliving the moment, ten years falling away. Gabe had confirmed he had kissed her back. She hadn’t imagine those brief touches, the husky tone when he spoke to her or those meaningful eye meets. Although, it had been a game to him … But she could be excused for her naivety. He was so handsome, a hero in her eyes … and considerably more experienced. Even though it hadn’t meant much to him, she felt a thousand times lighter. He had kissed her back. He hadn’t been horrified.

What would have happened if Evie hadn’t come careering around the corner?

Nothing, she told herself, firmly imagining the embarrassment when they pulled apart. But he might have invited her out for a drink …

And this way lies madness, she told herself. It was ancient history. A sliding-doors moment that was best left shut. Gabe was in love with Yumi, anyone could see that, and despite his nice comments about her, who would seriously choose big-boned Fiona over a tiny, delicate waif like that?

Eventually she slept, grateful to wake to a sunny spring morning, although not to the three texts from her mother which she wearily responded to. Today she was going to the teashop to take some photos of Setsuko at work.

Fiona stared at herself in the mirror as she brushed out the night’s tangles. She’d been in too much of a tizz to re-plait it before bed or to pay much attention to her usual routine which was why her mouth felt so fuzzy this morning; she hadn’t even cleaned her teeth. She examined her hair in her reflection. She had her dad’s colouring, although apparently he’d been more of a redhead with Irish ancestors. Her mother had commented many a time that she should be grateful she wasn’t a proper ginger but no one had ever said it was beautiful before. She tossed it over her shoulder and glared at herself, snatching up the brush to part it into its usual three strands. She studied herself again in the mirror and dropped the skein of hair in her hand. It wouldn’t hurt to wear it loose, just for one day, and before she could change her mind, she hurried down to breakfast following the familiar smell of miso soup.

***

‘I’m going to miss this when I go home,’ she said to Haruka as she sat down for breakfast, inhaling the simple broth that she’d quickly become used to.

‘You take some back. Very easy to make.’ She grinned, suddenly mischievous. ‘Comes in packet.’

Fiona laughed. ‘Even I can manage a packet, although I might stick to my toast and Marmite.’

‘Marmite?’

‘It’s a savoury spread that we put on bread. It’s very unique to Britain. I’ll send you some.’ Fiona realised as she said it that she was going to miss Haruka and Setsuko and their calm, quiet ways. She fingered her phone in her pocket which had been vibrating with new text messages since she sat down.

‘Thank you.’ Haruka bowed and Fiona bowed back, realising that too had become an automatic response, along with not pointing at things.

‘I would like to take some pictures of the garden.’ Maybe she should build a garden like Haruka’s at home, get her mother involved. It could be a joint project; it would bring them both solace.

‘I would be most honoured.’

‘Perhaps a few with you and Setsuko.’ She didn’t think she’d ever recapture the mother-daughter warmth of the picture she’d taken in the cherry blossom, but she’d like to take a picture of Haruka in her kimono in the dappled shade of the acers. A woman of mystery and wisdom. Fiona smiled at the image. ‘Yes, one of you in your kimono.’ She nodded to the traditional dress that Haruka was wearing in preparation for another tea ceremony later that morning.

‘Now?’

‘Yes. That would be great,’ said Fiona surprised by Haruka’s alacrity. Setsuko hadn’t been keen on having her picture taken until Fiona had explained that they would be working shots rather than posed. The light today would be perfect and she could fit it in before the minibus arrived with the tourists. ‘I’ll grab my camera.’

Haruka was the perfect model, pottering about in the garden, trimming the bonsai, sweeping up leaves, totally indifferent to Fiona’s camera and the frequent buzz of her phone. The shot of her, her slender slight frame bent over as she tended to one of her bonsai, mirrored by the bend in the trunk of