The Prisoner(9)

“?a me manque de ne plus parler Fran?ais,” I admitted, because I hadn’t spoken a word of French since Papa died.

“Yes, Lina told me,” Justine replied in English. “Don’t worry, if you like we can meet each week and speak it together.”

“And then you’ll be able to say things to each other that Carolyn and I can’t understand,” Lina said, poking me in the ribs and laughing.

“I’ve invited Justine and Lina to stay for dinner, I thought we could order in if there’s not enough,” Carolyn said, trying to catch my eye as she hung their coats on the hooks by the front door.

“There’s plenty, I made a boeuf bourguignon.”

Justine clapped her hands. “Perfect!” She took a bottle from her bag. “I’ve brought some wine, will you have some, Amelie? It’s a Bordeaux, the region where I’m from.”

“I’m afraid I don’t drink,” I said. I felt horribly unsophisticated but Papa’s dependency on whisky had made me wary of alcohol.

“I’ll get you a soft drink,” Carolyn said, disappearing into the kitchen. “And check on the dinner. It smells delicious!” she called over her shoulder.

“I’ll get a corkscrew and glasses,” Lina offered.

I followed Justine into the sitting room and folded myself into an armchair, touched that Lina had thought to introduce me to Justine after I’d mentioned that I missed speaking French. I studied Justine a moment; with her long dark hair, dark eyes, and matte skin, she reminded me a little of myself.

“So, Amelie, tell me about yourself,” she said, sitting down opposite me. “I know from Lina and Carolyn that you came to London after your father died, and I know that you’re working for Carolyn. What else?”

“I’m studying,” I said. “I want to go to college, to study law.”

“And you came to London to do this? You couldn’t study at home?”

“No, once my father died, I had to leave. We only rented our house. I couldn’t stay, so I decided to come to London.”

“Couldn’t you have gone straight to college?” Lina asked, walking into the living room with four glasses and a corkscrew in her hands. She put them down on the table and came over to sit on the large corner sofa.

I blushed. “I didn’t have the money. My dad was ill…” I glanced away. For a moment I could smell our old house, the mix of tobacco and whisky. “It was hard for him.”

“For you too,” Justine said softly.

I nodded, and she reached over and squeezed my hand. “Let’s talk about something else. Your turn to ask.”

“Why did you leave France?”

“Because Britain is part of my heritage and I wanted to experience living here, for a year, at least. But then I found the job at Exclusives magazine and I enjoy it so much I can’t see myself ever going back to France.” She waved a hand in the air dramatically. “London has seduced me!”

I laughed. “And are you an accountant, like Lina?”

Justine and Lina looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“Sorry,” Justine said, smiling. “We’re not laughing at the question, it’s just that I am terrible at math. Lina and I lived together last year, and I couldn’t even work out splitting the bills! I’m the features editor, which means I get to interview famous people. Part of the fun is persuading them to actually agree to an interview.”

“It must be interesting.”

“It is, I love it.”

“It’s definitely interesting working for Ned Hawthorpe, that’s for sure,” Lina said.

We were interrupted by Carolyn coming into the room carrying plates and cutlery.

“Let me do that,” I said, jumping up. “It’s my job.”

“No, sit down. Tonight, I’m serving you.”

We moved to the table and Carolyn insisted on going back to the kitchen to get the food I’d prepared.

“Hey, Carolyn,” Justine said, when she came back. “I have suggested to Amelie that we meet once a week, she and I, to speak French. We thought every Thursday, when I finish work.”

“Would that be alright?” I asked.

“Of course!” Carolyn pushed her dark hair from her face. “That’s a great idea.”

And as Justine leaned over and hugged me, I thought that my life couldn’t be any more perfect.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


PRESENT

I open my eyes, blink rapidly a few times, still unused to there being no difference in my vision whether my eyes are open or closed. Then I hear it, the turn of the key in the lock.

A man comes in and I turn my head toward the sound. Behind him is a shift of darkness; black but not quite, more a thick gray. My eyes search for any light, but there is nothing.

From the way he moves into the room, and the smell of him—almost like grass but something else, citrus maybe—I think it’s the same man as yesterday. I hear him place a tray on the floor next to me and raise myself onto my elbows.

“Could I have a blanket, please?”

He doesn’t reply. All I hear is a scrape as he picks up the tray from my last meal.

“Please,” I say. “I’m cold.”