‘I love you, Louis.’

He looked at me.

I think he smiled.

Thelma

Not to be opened until 17 February 2027

Dear Thelma,

When you read this letter, you’ll be ten years older than you are at the time of writing. You’re nearly fifty. You’re still alive, despite all your overindulging – congratulations, that’s no mean feat . . .

It’s a beautiful morning. The sort of winter sky you so love. Winter 2017 is now just a dream. When you talk about that difficult time, you and Louis even manage to laugh about it. You haven’t forgotten, of course. The memories are intact. Vivid. Time has polished them, your mind has gradually erased the pain, the contours are less sharp, beauty has taken its place. Louis often watches the videos you made with your mother. He always laughs when he watches you sing Johnny Hallyday in Tokyo. And, best of all, those images are now mixed in with others – the ones you took afterwards, when you went on exciting new adventures from Louis’s notebook together. That was very special.

It’s a beautiful morning. You’ve just got up and you’re looking at the trees through the window. Because there are trees where you live, in Provence. They’re a bit bare, but spring is just around the corner, and, besides, it’s never really cold here. The garden is enormous. You and Edgar haven’t had time to prune all the branches yet. You’ve got time. You’ve got all the time in the world. Edgar’s already up, you can see him in the distance. He likes to rise very early, much earlier than you. It’s his favourite time of day. He goes and sits by the lake below the house, alone, and he paints. You love watching him draw, paint, sculpt. Sometimes, you sit for him. Edgar is so talented.

It’s a beautiful morning. You go downstairs into the big living room. Mum’s already there, bustling about, getting breakfast ready. She smiles at you, asks if you slept well, calls you her pussycat, as always. You smile at her, kiss and hug her. It’s your new morning ritual. You’ve become the most demonstrative mother–daughter duo in the world. Who would have believed it? You tell her you’re going to help her, that there will be a lot of people this morning, that it’s all hands on deck. She laughs and answers that she didn’t wait for you to get started. You roll up your sleeves and start to lay the long, solid-wood table.