Her shop was completely deserted this morning. I watched it from Le P’tit Pinson, and no one came in till half past twelve. A Friday, and no one came; not the grossly fat man who never shuts up, not even a neighbour or a tourist in passing.

What’s wrong with the place? It should be buzzing with customers. Instead, it’s half-invisible, hiding in the corner of the whitewashed square. Surely that’s bad for business. It wouldn’t take much to gild it a little, to enhance the place, to make it shine as it did the other day – and yet she does nothing. Why, I wonder? My mother spent her life trying vainly to be special – why does Yanne exert so much effort in pretending otherwise?

6

Friday, 9th November

THIERRY CALLED ROUND at twelve o’clock. I’d been expecting him, of course, and I’d spent a sleepless night worrying about how I was going to handle our next meeting. How I wish I’d never drawn those cards – Death, the Lovers, the Tower, Change – because now it almost feels like Fate, as if this were inevitable, and all the days and months of my life set out like a row of dominoes ready to fall . . .

Of course it’s absurd. I don’t believe in Fate. I believe we have a choice; that the wind can be stilled, and the Black Man fooled, and even the Kindly Ones appeased.

But at what cost? I ask myself. And that’s what keeps me awake at night, and that’s what made me tense up inside as the wind-chimes rang out their warning note and Thierry came in with that look on his face – that stubborn look he gets sometimes, that speaks of unfinished business.

I tried to stall. I offered him hot chocolate, which he accepted without much enthusiasm (he prefers coffee), but which gave me a reason to keep my hands busy. Rosette was playing with her toys on the floor, and Thierry watched her as she played: lining up rows of loose buttons from the button-box to make concentric patterns on the terracotta tiles.

On a normal day he would have commented; made some observation about hygiene, perhaps, or worried that Rosette might choke on the buttons. Today he said nothing; a warning sign that I tried to ignore as I set about making the chocolate.

Milk in the pan, couverture, sugar, nutmeg, chilli. A coconut macaroon on the side. Comforting, like all rituals; gestures handed down from my mother to me, to Anouk, and maybe to her daughter too, some day in a future too distant to imagine.

‘Great chocolate,’ he said, eager to please, cupping the little demi-tasse in hands best suited to building walls.

I sipped mine; it tasted of autumn and sweet smoke, of bonfires and temples and mourning and grief. I should have put some vanilla in, I told myself. Vanilla, like ice cream – like childhood.