The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,60
the remise. ‘It’s too coincidental otherwise.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Grace. ‘Maybe someone else in the hotel knows about it.’
Deira opened the door to the remise and stepped inside. It was decorated in a monochrome sixties style with white chairs and black rugs, while the walls were hung with black and white photographs of the iconic actress.
‘She was stunning, wasn’t she?’ said Grace.
‘A total babe,’ agreed Deira.
‘I’ll leave you in peace to embrace your inner sex symbol. Will we meet up in an hour or so to talk about the clues?’
‘Perfect.’
Grace nodded and walked back to the hotel alone.
Grace’s own room was furnished in the style of an old country house, with dark wooden floors, luxurious furnishings and heavy drapes. She was surprised that Ken had chosen somewhere like this for her to stay. Over the years they’d travelled together, his choices had always been cheap and cheerful. He wasn’t someone who needed creature comforts or even noticed his surroundings very much.
She opened the window and leaned out. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, looking out over the trees that surrounded the hotel to the vast expanse of ocean. Calm today, and azure blue, it lifted her spirits. It would have been nice to have stayed in this place with Ken, she thought. To have treated themselves, for once in their lives. She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed hard.
She was not going to cry.
She was never going to cry.
He didn’t deserve her tears.
He’d probably spotted this place on one of his walks, she thought, as she turned away from the window and unpacked her cosmetics. He’d always enjoyed walking on his own, and on holidays invariably headed out before breakfast for an hour or so. So it was entirely possible he’d seen the hotel and wandered in to have a look. Yet he’d never said a word to her.
She’d gone on at him often enough about treating themselves when they went away for him to have known that this was the sort of hotel she would have liked to stay in. He’d ignored her when he was alive. But now, when it was all too late, she realised that he’d listened after all.
It was still gloriously warm when she walked into the garden to meet Deira, who told her she’d done some research on the Café de la Paix, which was a twenty-minute stroll from the hotel.
‘Do you want to check it out now?’ asked Grace. ‘I guess we could get something to eat there too.’
Deira nodded, and the two women left the grounds, following the quiet street with its intermittent views of the sparkling sea. There were plenty of other people, tourists and locals alike, also out taking the evening air, and it was hard, Deira thought, as a couple of young women passed them in shorts and strappy tops, not to feel a little bit summery and carefree too. After a few minutes, the street widened into a pedestrianised zone, bordered by sandstone-coloured buildings. At street level they were mostly occupied by small artisan shops and cafés with chalkboard notices encouraging visitors inside with promises of souvenirs or delicate pastries.
Then they emerged into the cobbled area of the old port itself, where coloured lights were strung up around the busy stalls. There were more pavement cafés here, as well as bigger, busier restaurants vying for business.
‘Ken always said it was the most picturesque French place he’d ever been,’ said Grace when Deira remarked on how picture-postcard it looked. ‘He loved it here.’
‘I can see why,’ said Deira as she consulted Google Maps. ‘OK, Grace, the café we’re looking for is further along, away from the port.’
They passed through a wide archway set with a large clock and continued walking until the street widened out into a plaza with a brightly coloured merry-go-round in the centre, where children, watched by their parents, squealed in excitement as they went round and round on painted unicorns. Almost directly opposite was the Café de la Paix.
‘Here we are,’ said Deira. ‘Simenon’s favourite watering hole.’
Grace looked at the building. As a family, they’d never come to this part of La Rochelle, which meant this was another place Ken had explored on his own. Until now, it had never bothered her that she hadn’t been included in his daily walks or his academic pursuits. But there was something unsettling about the thought of him finding places that had ended up as clues in the treasure hunt he’d subsequently set for her. He