Nearly thirteen years later, I switched on my computer and did a search for his name. I’d never done that, despite the ease with which the god Google spat out information to anyone who asked. I had forbidden myself to do so; that book must stay closed. It didn’t take long for my search to produce results. Matthew still ran the same gallery, at the same address. How old was he now? Fifty-seven, fifty-eight? I clicked on the Images thumbnail and received a shock. Louis was the spitting image of Matthew, the resemblance was striking. I stared wide-eyed at the photos of recent exhibition openings. Matthew, glass of champagne in hand, broad smile. Matthew, arms folded, tight-fitting suit and salt-and-pepper hair, posing in front of the works of an obscure New York artist. Matthew, still as good-looking. How many other Thelmas had he ensnared? I scrolled down the page. Then I saw her – sure of herself, of her power. Whatever Matthew had got up to, she was still there. Deborah was smiling, Matthew’s arm around her waist.

I suddenly wanted to throw up.

I was thirteen years pregnant. I was going to have to deal with my nausea.

The address was 80 Portobello Road. I could have found my way there blindfolded.

21

Day 2

Reminders

I took an early-morning Eurostar. The Gare du Nord was heaving. I found myself caught up in a school party on its way to London – the kids probably around Louis’s age. My initial reflex was that of the uptight middle-class woman. I sought out the train manager, determined to try to move to a different carriage. And then I had a change of heart. I sat down in my seat. I was at a table with three year-eight kids – class 8D, from the Collège Anatole France in La Roche-sur-Yon. I talked football and Pokémon cards with them, and they were gobsmacked that I was capable of having such a conversation. I showed them the video of me jamming with Maître Gims and earned their lifelong respect. They asked for my autograph. I’d touched their idol, which, by association, made my signature priceless. I didn’t notice the time going past. I’d stopped navel-gazing and it was doing me good.

On arrival at St Pancras, I took a taxi to Notting Hill. I didn’t give the exact address. I needed to walk for a few minutes, to decompress. I didn’t want to turn up right outside Matthew’s gallery; I wanted to watch it first from the outside, before going in. I couldn’t have coped with another encounter with Deborah. The last one was thirteen years ago, but I was still smarting from it.