of the blisters where they had bitten into her heels – and tiptoed to her room, not wanting to dispel the sense of joy by having to share the details of her evening with any of her flatmates just yet.
As she lay in her narrow bed under the eaves that night, Claire dreamed she was dancing on in Ernst’s arms beneath a gilded ceiling, borne on a tide of desire – a feeling to which she had been completely unaccustomed up until now – as the clocks of Paris struck twelve and the old year died.
Harriet
I look up from the newsletter I’m translating as Simone comes back into reception, having delivered coffees to one of the office’s meeting rooms.
‘Your phone rang,’ I say, nodding to where it sits at the end of the desk.
She picks it up and listens to a message. Her expression is inscrutable. ‘That was Thierry,’ she says flatly. ‘He wants to know if I can let him have your number. Says he’s working at a concert next Saturday night and he thought you might enjoy it.’
I shrug and nod. ‘That’s fine. Sounds good.’
As she taps a text message into her phone by way of reply she says, without looking up, ‘He likes you, you know.’
‘I liked him too,’ I say, leafing through the large Larousse dictionary that I use whenever I need to look up a particular word. ‘Seemed like a nice guy.’
‘Yeah, he is,’ she agrees.
‘Simone,’ I begin. And then I stop, not sure how to phrase what I want to ask her.
She glances at me, unsmiling.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if there’s something between you and Thierry. But if there is, I don’t want to do anything that might upset you.’
She shrugs. ‘No. There’s nothing. He’s just a friend.’
She turns to her computer screen, apparently checking her emails, but the silence between us is pregnant with something more. I let it sit, giving her time.
Reluctantly, she raises her eyes to meet mine at last. ‘I’ve known him for years,’ she says. ‘Too many years, maybe. We’ve been friends ever since I came to Paris. You’re right, though. I did hope we could be more than just friends. But I’m like a sister to him, he says. So it’s just not going to happen. I suppose seeing him with you – how he lights up when he’s talking to you – has forced me to admit that to myself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, meaning it.
She shrugs. ‘Why should you be sorry? It’s not your fault he likes you.’
Then she smiles, thawing a little. ‘And he really likes you, by the way. I could see it that evening. There’s definitely a connection between the two of you.’
I shake my head and laugh, taking my cue from her, trying to keep it light. I’m not great at relationships. At university I tended to find them a bit overwhelming and I came to the conclusion that it was easier to be on my own. It always felt like there might be too much to lose if I let myself fall in love. And I knew that I couldn’t bear to lose more than I already had done.
I admit that I’d enjoyed talking to Thierry that night though. I’d felt liberated by the novel sensation of being able to be myself, in French. And a concert would be a good way to spend an evening, especially if he was busy working at it. It wouldn’t be a big deal then. So, when my own phone buzzes a minute later, encouraged by Simone’s smile and nod of approval, I reply ‘oui, avec plaisir’ to his suggestion that he puts a ticket on the door for me next Saturday and that we might go for something to eat afterwards. Then I firmly put my phone aside and get on with my work.
One of my duties as an intern involves sorting the mail when it arrives at the agency each morning. I am stopped in my tracks today by the sight of an official-looking envelope with a UK postcode, addressed to me. I never usually get any post, so I know that this must be the certificates I requested from the records office and that they will tell me more about Claire’s life. And her death, too. I set the sealed envelope aside, underneath my phone, so that I can stay focused on my work for now. I’ll open it this evening, when I can have a proper look at the contents