JUNE 2016 Montreux, Switzerland

JESS

I smooth down the wrinkles on my shirt and run my fingers through my tangled hair. The back of my neck is slick with sweat. It’s probably only 25 degrees, but the sun feels even stronger after the grey, humid day I left behind in London. It’s just a few hours since I was there, but already it’s as though I’ve stepped into another life. Back home, right now, commuters are dodging puddles whilst running for the tube, heading home on a crammed Northern Line train that smells of cheap burgers and wet dog and armpits. But after only a short plane journey, an hour’s train ride and a ridiculously expensive taxi up a steep hill from the station, I’m standing on a doorstop in Montreux in the blazing sun, looking out over a vast lake fringed by hazy mountains and dotted with sailboats, as if the tube and puddles don’t exist at all.

I watch the taxi drive off down the hill and rummage in my handbag for a pocket mirror. I dust off the crumbs and give it a rub until I can see a square of my face in it. Dark smudges under my eyes. A spot brewing on my chin. Nose red from the heat. I look older, wearier, than I did when I picked up this little carved mirror from a Thai market stall on my honeymoon five years ago. Hardly surprising. I lick my finger and rub the mascara from under my eyes. There’s little else I can do about my appearance right now. I ring the doorbell.

‘You made it! Bienvenue. Welcome, Jessica.’ The woman sticks out her hand. ‘I’m Julia.’ I see glossy dark hair and olive skin. She’s wearing a vivid pink cardigan – in this heat? – over a cream camisole, with black cropped trousers. I smell her perfume when I step forward to shake her hand, my sticky palms meeting her cool skin. ‘We’re so pleased to have you here.’ Her accent is lyrical, singsong, and makes me smile back.

‘I’m glad to be here,’ I say. ‘Please call me Jess.’