“You’re a brave girl, and no doubt,” said Bridie. “You might cry from time to time, but you’ll never lose heart. You won’t lose heart, will you, Yvette?”

Her eyes with a sudden speaking light in them.

—

Philip gathered up his brushes and went out to the scullery. Bridie took my hand, preparing to say something, but I forestalled her.

“Bridie, I may not come back again.”

She closed her mouth. Whatever she had been preparing to tell me, it was no longer necessary.

“It’s been a very great pleasure knowing you, Yvette,” she said after a pause. “I shall miss you.”

“And I you. But I must . . .”

“You must get on with life. Your husband will need you.”

“He thinks he doesn’t—”

Her fingers squeezed mine. “He needs you.”

—

Philip walked with me to the wall full of pink daisies where I always parked the car. He picked some and handed them to me. They were only just in flower.

“You’ve got roots there, and some soil. Plant them in a dry stony place, like this wall.”

“I hope it will turn out to be a good painting.”

“I think it will.” He grinned, and then the grin vanished. “You could come back and view it . . .”

“No, I can’t.”

“Well, I won’t sell it,” he said. “So if you change your mind. Perhaps in twenty years’ time. You might look me up. Remind yourself how beautiful you were.”

“Goodness, yes, I’ll need to. I’ll be forty-seven, after all.”

“My God, Yvette,” he said shakily. “I could spend the rest of my life looking at you, painting you. Talking to you. Loving you. We could live together, you and I, somewhere in the South. France, maybe. On a mountain, with blue sky, and sunshine, and—”

“And an olive grove to wander in.”

Such a young, freckled face. It crumpled so badly when he was sad. “You think I’m joking.”

“I think you’re kind and clever and talented and loving,” I said. “But I’m married to—”

“A man who makes you cry.”

“Go to France, darling Philip, if you can.”

I kissed him for the last time, on the cheek, and we bade each other goodbye. As I drove away I saw him in my rearview mirror, running. Not toward me but away. His long legs carrying him fast and far.

—

When I got home I opened the kitchen drawer. The paper had been crumpled up and smoothed out but the creases were still there, touchable. Hannaux, it said in French, in Arabic هانو. Reminding me of perfume and Maman and being fitted for my first brassiere. I considered the olive branch design. The leaves were tiny, stodged into one solid fringe, the olives themselves mere blobs. The best olives and oils were expensive in Egypt, they came from Greece and Spain. So this design was suitable for Hannaux, being a stamp and symbol of imported luxury.