He gives me an encouraging smile and sits back to listen, and once again I feel that flicker of adrenaline inside. That positive spirit. Like old friends coming to give me a little inner hug.

TWELVE

Having said that, everyone thinks it’s a mad idea.

Even Suze, who thinks it’s a good idea, thinks it’s also mad. Luke thinks it’s a terrible idea. Mum doesn’t know if it’s good or bad but is desperate for it to work. Janice keeps flitting between wild optimism and utter pessimism. Danny’s really into it—but that’s only because he’s created my costume.

“There.” I give a final adjustment to my scarf. “Perfect.” I turn to survey my audience. “What do you think—identical twins, no?”

“You don’t look anything like her,” says Luke flatly.

“I look exactly like her!”

“Sweetheart, I think you need your eyes tested.”

“No, I can see it,” says Danny. “You look quite like her.”

“Only quite?” I feel a bit crestfallen.

“Everyone looks different than their photos,” says Danny firmly. “It’s fine. It’s good.” He takes the “Guide to Artists” booklet and holds it up next to me, open at the page with the photo of Pauline Audette. And I don’t care what Luke says, I do look like her. It’s uncanny—even more so now I’ve dressed up like her.

I’m wearing a smock-type shirt, which Danny bought at the fair yesterday evening, over some loose trousers belonging to Janice. My hair is held back by a piece of tie-dye cloth, because Pauline Audette always has some boho scarf in her hair. All morning, Danny has been tugging and pinning and adding artistic streaks of paint and clay, which we bought in the crafts tent. To my eye, I look exactly like a French potter.

“OK, I’ll practice,” I announce. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette.”

Luckily, there are lots of clips of Pauline Audette on YouTube, because she does this thing called “mini-sculpt,” where she takes a handful of clay and models it into something in about five seconds flat. Like a tree or a bird. (I must say, she is pretty amazing.) So I’ve watched her over and over, and I think I’ve got the accent. “I am ceramic artiste,” I continue. “My inspiration, eet come from ze nah-toor.”

“What’s that?” says Janice, looking baffled.

“Nature, love,” explains Mum. “Nature, in French.”

“I ’ave come to Arizona for ’oliday. I ’ave remember Monsieur Raymond who write me ze kind lettairs. I seenk, Zut! I will visite Monsieur Raymond.” I pause and look around. “What do you think?”

“Don’t say Zut,” says Luke.

“You sound like Hercule Poirot,” says Suze. “He’s never going to fall for it if you talk like that.”

“Well, it’s our only shot,” I retort. I feel a bit offended, actually. I thought my accent was pretty good. “And, all right, I won’t say Zut. Come on, assistant, let’s go.”