A POSTCARD FROM PARIS
Alex Brown

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2021

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008421984

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008421991

Version: 2021-04-01

Praise for Alex Brown

‘A warm and witty novel’

Hello

‘Adorable, comical and magical, this is a festive delight’

Closer

‘We love it!’

Now

‘Defies the chick lit cliché’

Heat

‘A lovely book to curl up and unwind with, as sweet and charming as homemade apple pie’

Milly Johnson

‘Warm, wonderful characters – a really lovely read’

Sarah Morgan

‘Poignant and moving, the cleverly entwined stories kept me turning the pages’

Trisha Ashley

‘Charming, witty, heartwarming and full of absorbing characters’

Carmel Harrington

‘Very lovely’

Jill Mansell

‘An intriguing and heart-warming story you will love’

Katie Fforde

‘Warm, emotional … a gorgeous read’

Cathy Bramley

‘Warm and cosy’

Lucy Diamond

‘Deliciously delightful from start to finish, sprinkled with magic and full of heart’

Miranda Dickinson

‘A warm, witty, loveable read with plenty of sparkle and charm’

Rowan Coleman

‘A sparkling debut … funny, romantic and utterly charming. Devour in one sitting like a delicious, indulgent cupcake then go back and start again’

Sasha Wagstaff

‘From the moment I read the first page of Alex’s book, I knew I was being allowed to see something special’

Chrissie Manby

‘I love Alex’s books, so warm and even make me want to live in the country’

Sarra Manning, editor of Red Magazine

‘A lovely, warm-hearted and compassionate tale’

LoveReading

‘This was genuinely one of the most special books I’ve read this year’

Bookish Escapes

Dedication

For Caroline, Tracey, and Rachel for continuously lifting me and being the best friends I could have. I’m truly grateful to have found you xxx

Epigraph

‘Friendships between women, as any woman will tell you, are built of a thousand small kindnesses … swapped back and forth and over again’

Michelle Obama

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Alex Brown

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Dear Reader …

Acknowledgements

Read on for two of Alex’s favourite French recipes

Read on for an extract of A Postcard from Italy

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Alex Brown

About the Publisher

1

Tindledale, in rural England, 1916

Beatrice Crawford craved adventure. Yearning to escape the confines of her provincial young ladyhood and find her purpose, to be a positive influence in the world. A woman of substance, just like Lady Dorothy Fields, the inimitable, flame-haired woman who had ignited the dimly lit village hall earlier this evening with a very rousing speech. Beatrice had listened intently as Lady Dorothy had talked about her nursing work with the Voluntary Aid Detachment, or VAD, carrying out her patriotic duty to look after the brave soldiers fighting in fields far away for King and Country in the Great War.

After buttoning up her cotton nightie, Beatrice sat at her dressing table and brushed out her ebony curls then, securing them away from her face with a tortoiseshell clip, she pressed cold cream over her cheeks and neck, sweeping down and across her collar bones. Going over in her mind the events of such an extraordinary evening, she recalled with wonder the atmosphere in the village hall. It had been quite thrilling. An audience of young women just like her, suffragettes too, with little tricolour brooches pinned to their lapels, sat shoulder-to-shoulder, all united in their desire to do so much more for the war effort than endure a stifling life made up of endless tedious occupations such as light domestic work or embroidering samplers in silent drawing rooms. Her younger companion, Queenie, the housekeeper’s niece, who was already doing her bit by working in an ammunitions factory in the nearby town of Market Briar, had almost missed out on hearing Lady Dorothy’s speech. Queenie had arrived late and in a fluster, discreetly brushing a sheen of fine raindrops from her wool beret and gloves, whispering a grateful, ‘Thank you, Trixie,’ before sliding onto the chair that Beatrice had saved for her at the end of the row. Exchanging a clandestine glance, Beatrice had pressed her friend’s hand in reply, both of them knowing and secretly delighting in their small act of defiance. For Beatrice’s stepmother, Iris, had forbidden Queenie from using ‘Trixie’ as a suitable pet name for her stepdaughter, citing it ‘undignified, and quite common!’ But Beatrice liked being Trixie: it made her feel more alive, jolly and without constraint, and so the two friends had continued with it whenever Iris was out of earshot.

Beatrice and Queenie had forged an unlikely friendship five years ago when Iris had insisted that the then 13-year-old Beatrice ‘must be perfectly fluent in at least two languages if she were to be a refined debutante and catch a suitable husband.’ Eight-year-old Queenie, known to be a quick-witted and fast-learning young girl, with a tumble of auburn curls and sparkling, impish green eyes, was brought in from the village each day to be taught French and High German, in order that Beatrice might practise her own conversational skills. As for Beatrice’s rudimentary French and German writing skills, they had been deemed beyond hope and were to be forgotten about forthwith. Even though Beatrice’s stepmother was French, she was far too engaged in a hectic social life – which frequently took her to glamorous parties in London, Paris, Monte Carlo and beyond – to idle away her time on academia, especially when, according to Iris, Beatrice hadn’t ‘shown enough flair in her younger years’. Iris had also declared that revision was a tedious waste of time, and that Beatrice should show humility and recompense for her shortcomings by learning alongside an uneducated and much younger village girl, who would most likely pick it all up in half the time that it had taken Beatrice. ‘So that ought to keep you on your toes!’

So, together with her French and German conversational skills, thanks to her insistent stepmother and Swiss governess, Miss Paulette, there were now only ten lectures and ten lessons in first aid and nursing standing between Beatrice and her ambition to help the soldiers fighting on the front line in France. Not that it was imperative to have language skills, but Beatrice thought it might give her a little something extra to offer, and Lady Dorothy had explained that it wasn’t only English-speaking soldiers who required nursing. There were Frenchmen too. Some German soldiers, prisoners of war, as well. Of course, she would need practical first-aid training. A hospital in London perhaps, that’s what Lady Dorothy had recommended, to get a foot in the door and to show her mettle. And they really were rather keen to recruit volunteers.

Drawing her knees up to her chest and placing her slippered feet on the edge of the velvet cushioned chair, Beatrice wrapped her arms around her legs and hugged the feeling of possibility into her, for she could see a way forward now. It was as if a light had been switched on deep within her, sparking a frisson of hope that she felt barely able to contain. Not that the bleak battlefields of France were a cause for elation. Certainly not. No, it was very much more than that. She had to do something. The newspapers were full of lists. The names of soldiers killed in the trenches. Pages and pages of men, some only mere boys. Thousands on the very first day of the war in 1914 and it had been relentless ever since. Fathers. Sons. Cousins. Uncles. Nephews. Her own dear brother, Edward, having enlisted at the start of the war, had mercifully been missing from the lists so far. But for how much longer? Beatrice carried a perpetual sense of foreboding that seemed impossible to shake off. Although, for the first time in her life, she felt that she also had an opportunity, a sense of purpose.

Of course, Father would protest, preferring she marry Clement Forsyth, the odious son of his banker in London, but how could she when her heart was with another? A secret love. Because Bobby worked in the stables, mucking out and tending to the horses, and so would never be suitable husband material as far as Father was concerned. Beatrice’s heart had almost broken in two when Bobby had gone away to fight for his country, and not a moment went by when she didn’t think of him, wrapping an imaginary shield of safety around his beautiful body so he would return to her arms once more. The only comfort being that Bobby and Edward were together in the same PALS battalion. Queenie’s older brother, Stanley, too, along with many of the other men from the village, with their camaraderie to keep their spirits up until they could return home. Beatrice treasured the photograph of Bobby that she kept hidden inside her diary, alongside the pages where she had written about her endless love for him.

Instead there was Clement, who had pursued Beatrice from first seeing her at 17 years old in the exquisite gown of white satin with lace trim that Iris had shipped over from Paris especially for the Queen Charlotte’s Ball, the pinnacle event of the debutante season. He had been relentless from then on, constantly calling on Beatrice at home and always appearing by her side at society events – Royal Ascot, Henley Regatta, King George’s coronation gala, not to mention all the other balls at various grand estates and castles that she had been wheeled out to by her overbearing stepmother. And woe betide if another ‘debs’ delight’ so much as glanced in Beatrice’s direction, for Clement had become insufferable in warning them off with one of his supercilious glares and a territorial hand on her arm. Fortunately, all talk of marriage had been suspended for now since conscription had started on 2 March and Clement had reluctantly taken a commission in the army. And Beatrice’s stepmother would protest even more to her going to France, branding her desire to volunteer as a nonsensical notion that should be stopped at once, of that Beatrice was certain.

‘It’s not becoming for a young lady of your standing to take up such menial work. Mopping floors and changing soiled bed linen. Whatever next! Your poor father, having to shoulder such embarrassment from his own flesh and blood is quite unforgivable. And if you refuse to give up such whimsical ideas and continue to rebuff a perfectly suitable marriage proposition, then I fear you will become too old and contrary for any respectable gentleman to consider taking as a wife. You will spend the rest of your days as a spinster!’ is what Iris had spluttered in outrage over supper one evening when Beatrice had first mooted the possibility, some months ago, of her helping out at the Red Cross auxiliary hospital set up in the Stanway Rectory on the outskirts of the village. Beatrice remembered the evening vividly, because later, in the privacy of her bedroom suite, she had written down her stepmother’s hurtful words in the diary which she kept locked in a burr-walnut wood writing slope that had belonged to her darling mother, and now to her. Spinster! Beatrice had even underlined the word several times and had then spent a great deal of time pondering on whether being a spinster might not be the curse that Iris perceived it to be. Especially if she couldn’t be with Bobby and the alternative was to be the reluctant wife of Clement Forsyth.

Beatrice was only 18 years old and a young lady should be 23 to be accepted for an overseas voluntary nursing post, Lady Dorothy had explained. But with her nineteenth birthday next month, Beatrice was determined to find a way around the rule and would increase her age if required to do so. She wasn’t usually one for lying but if that is what it took, then so be it. And the other women in the hall had spoken about this after the meeting with such nonchalance, declaring it impolite to ask a lady her age. It was a minor detail to be disregarded for the greater good of the country. So there really was no time to waste. Beatrice was resolute. With her whole life ahead of her, which was far too precious to fritter away in a suitable but nonetheless loveless marriage, she wondered about romance. And love. True love, like the love she had with Bobby and the love that her mother had shared with her father before her life had been cruelly cut short.

Beatrice had only been 4 years old when it had happened, Edward 7 and away at boarding school. Their mother had died giving birth to another daughter who hadn’t survived either, and from then on Beatrice had felt terribly alone, with long hours spent gazing from her bedroom window, hoping to find a fragment of comfort in the view, out and across the undulating, sun-drenched fields and faraway into the distance, past the wooden water mill that powered through the river, over and over, its melodic rhythm like balm to her grieving young soul. Beatrice had seen a rainbow one time and wondered if over the glistening arc of the petroleum-coloured streaks was where heaven lay, and if she might go there to be reunited with her beautiful mother.

She missed her dreadfully. Baking and sketching together, Beatrice had adored sharing these activities with her mother, along with perfume making and flower pressing, where they would wander through the fields to pick wild flowers and mix them into a scented potion, keeping the brightest blooms to slot into the press for drying and applying to scrapbooks. Beatrice still had the scrapbooks but couldn’t bear to look through them after her mother had died.

As time had ticked on and Beatrice’s memory of her mother, radiant and enthused with the sweet scent of rose perfume, always with a smile and a kiss for her adoring husband, had faded, Beatrice had grown up and managed to forge a slice of happiness for herself. Immersing herself in her diary-writing and reading books, Little Women being her favourite. Beatrice had drawn strength from the vibrant and strident March sisters, developing a passion for gaiety and curiosity about the joie de vivre that Miss Paulette had spoken of in those French lessons she’d had as a child.

Where was all of that now? Beatrice knew there was a shortage of suitable men, thanks to this dreadful war; not that she wanted another man when her true love was Bobby, but she also knew her own mind and that she would most likely go mad if she didn’t take this opportunity to escape. If she were to remain a spinster for the rest of her life then so be it, but at least she would be in charge of steering her own destiny. There really was no other option, for surely she would suffocate into oblivion if she were to end up leading a very insignificant life as the demure wife of a bombastic banker. Besides, there were only so many samplers one could possibly endure embroidering day after day, with just piano recitals and letter writing to break the monotony. She needed more. Much more. And she had very much more to give in return.

Yes, the decision was made. Beatrice was going to join the VAD. She would volunteer at the rectory hospital first, progress on to a London hospital while completing her training, and then she would broaden her horizons further and travel to France where she would make beds, change dressings and bathe injured soldiers. And she would feel honoured to do so. She would wear a blue uniform with a pristine white apron and linen cap secured with a safety pin at the nape of her neck and feel extremely efficient, knowing that her work there was worthwhile and of the utmost importance. She nodded her head as if to underline the biggest decision she had ever made in her life.

Lady Dorothy had captured Beatrice’s imagination with photographs of herself in her own uniform. In one photograph, Lady Dorothy was even wearing khaki trousers tucked inside long leather boots, just like a man. In another, she was driving a motor ambulance and giving the photographer a rousing wave from the open window. And in that moment, Beatrice knew that she would very much like to have this experience too. She could already drive, having driven Father’s motor car in the grounds around the house. Sidney, the gamekeeper, had shown her the ropes, and she had mastered the steering wheel and brake in no time at all. So, it was settled, Beatrice was to become a woman of substance and make a positive difference at last … just as soon as she had Father and Iris onboard with her marvellous escape plan.

2

London, England, 2019

Annie Lovell momentarily closed her eyes and resisted a sigh as she listened to her daughter, 22-year-old Phoebe, lecture her on FaceTime.

‘Oh Mum, why didn’t you wait? I would have helped you pack the boxes and put them up into the loft. You only had to ask … It’s really no trouble at all.’

Silence followed.

‘Mum! Are you listening?’ Phoebe barked, startling Annie and almost making her spill the generous measure of rosé from the wine glass in her hand. ‘Are you OK? You seem distracted. Did you bump your head in the fall?’

‘No, darling. Honestly, I’m fine,’ Annie said, now wishing she hadn’t mentioned falling off the loft ladder.

‘And why are you drinking? At this time of the day! It’s only six p.m. You know, it’s really not a good idea to chug down loads of alcohol every evening. I listened to a podcast during my run this morning and learnt all about the perils of midweek drinking. How middle-aged people, women predominantly, are putting away a whole bottle a night, easily. And then not even realizing when alcohol becomes an issue for them—’

‘Sweetheart! Alcohol is not an issue for me,’ Annie jumped in as Phoebe gave herself a smidgen of a second to draw breath, ‘plus, I am not middle-aged. I’ve only just had my forty-ninth birthday. People live to a hundred these days, easily, so I have a good year or so to go before I’m technically middle-aged and you need to worry about me. Not that you ever will need to – worry, that is,’ she added gently, pushing a chunk of blonde hair behind an ear and surreptitiously taking another quick sip of the wine off camera. She then placed the glass on the coffee table beside her and carefully angled the laptop away from the wine box that her best friend, Beth, had sent to her.

‘For restorative purposes, darling. Put your feet up and take a load off that poor foot of yours,’ Beth had instructed when Annie had called her to say thank you for the luxury care package consisting of the wine box, a gloriously scented candle, a box of Annie’s favourite chocolate truffles, a stack of glossy home interiors magazines and a Netflix gift card, all wrapped up in pink tissue paper inside a little wicker hamper with leather straps.

Beth had always been kind and thoughtful, and always supportive, especially during the tough times. And there had been a few. From when Annie’s ex-husband, Mark, had left back when the children were very young and her heart had broken. Shattered beyond repair. It had been an extremely difficult time for Annie after she had put aside her own career and travel aspirations to marry Mark when they discovered she was pregnant with Phoebe only a year after leaving university. After the wedding, Annie had focused on looking after their young family and home, whereas Mark had carried on pretty much as he always had, building his career and going out with his mates and away for golfing weekends. But he had always come home, and had been loving and attentive when he was there. Until one day when he didn’t come home! Then, ignoring her calls and messages for a further two days, until Annie, in desperation, had started calling the local hospitals and eventually his parents, Mark had eventually showed himself to be the coward he was by sending her an email explaining that he wasn’t actually ready to settle down and so was moving in with a younger woman he had met at work. It took him a week to actually talk face to face with Annie and explain that Carly didn’t have children and loved travelling and going to festivals. A free spirit. Much like Annie had been before she met Mark. And this had made him realize that he wasn’t actually cut out for family life after all.

It had been Beth who had got Annie through the harrowing years that followed. A single mum with shattered dreams that had sapped all her confidence. Various lukewarm relationships had followed. Then there had been that time when Annie had found an ominous lump in her left breast, which, after the biopsy, had turned out to be nothing to worry about at all, but she would have crumbled for sure if she hadn’t had Beth to wrap her into one of her trademark big bear hugs. And Annie had always been there for Beth too, when her wonderful, kind-hearted dad had died, through to accompanying her to the various gigs and auditions she had done over the years to forge her singing career. Which was why it was such a wrench now that Beth had left for Australia.

Annie knew she mustn’t begrudge her best friend the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of a twelve-month residency singing soprano at the Sydney Opera House – it had been Beth’s dream since childhood – but Annie was already missing her so much. Talking and texting on the phone just wasn’t the same. With the time difference, there never seemed to be enough hours to gossip and practically laugh themselves into a hernia at a shared joke or a hilarious memory from their joint history. Just like they always had done, almost every day for near on forty years or so. And the last time Beth had tried to FaceTime Annie, the connection had been so slow and terrible that she had disconnected the call after just a few seconds, leaving Annie feeling extremely deflated. Apart from elderly Joanie, who lived next door, Beth was Annie’s only close friend, and Phoebe’s godmother too.

Having met at primary school, Beth was more like a sister. They had done everything together – sleepovers when schoolgirls, then gigs and parties as teenagers – before sharing a tiny flat in Edinburgh during their university years, and so Annie had never really thought about socializing in other ways, with the people at work, for example. Not that after-work drinks or office parties were her kind of thing, to be honest. Then after the split with Mark, Annie had become very insular, staying at home and only socializing with Beth. But Beth had been gone for three months now and Annie was feeling very lonely. She had found herself retreating back into the familiar cosy cocoon of comfort – sewing, embroidery, knitting, making things for her home – just as she had when Mark had abandoned her. It felt safe. And Annie knew where she was at when she stayed at home. Putting herself out there, socializing, dating, and all that entailed, was fraught with the possibility of getting hurt again.

‘I’m not worried, Mum … well, of course I am worried, but I’m also very concerned,’ Phoebe said, bringing Annie’s thoughts back to the FaceTime call and the screen on her laptop. ‘What were you thinking of, climbing up a ladder with a big pile of stuff in your arms?’ she added, her forehead creasing.

‘I was storing my decorating supplies – wallpaper books and paint colour charts, that kind of thing,’ Annie started, knowing she was a hoarder when it came to her interior design paraphernalia. She also knew that Phoebe cared, worried about her, overly so, but she had also always been clingy and a bit controlling too, and her need for control had intensified in recent years. It had started a year or so after Mark left and his promised weekly visits turned into fortnightly and then monthly, until sometimes he didn’t turn up at all. Phoebe would be waiting by the window, looking out for her daddy, who cancelled at the last minute, often because Carly wasn’t well, or needed him for some obscure reason or another, and Mark had taken the path of least resistance and done what she wanted. And this had created an insecurity in Phoebe. Losing a parent, effectively, would do that to a child, because although Mark hadn’t died, he hadn’t much bothered trying to be a part of Phoebe’s life either. And then not long after, or so it seemed, he was married again with two new children. Twins! And Mark’s visits to Phoebe fizzled out altogether, even though Annie had tried so hard to persuade him to be more involved, begged him too, on a couple of occasions, even though she knew she shouldn’t have to. It was heartbreaking though, seeing her child feeling so abandoned like that. Annie had felt quite helpless at times, especially as she had been trying to cope with her own feelings of loss for the life she thought she was going to have with Mark, the love of her life, or so she had thought when she was married to him.

‘Ah, I might have known it would be something to do with your hobby.’ Phoebe sighed and shook her head, as if she were a frustrated mother talking to her accident-prone child. ‘You do know that you could have fallen down the stairs when the ladder toppled over. You could have actually broken your neck! In fact, it’s a bloody miracle that you didn’t kill yourself, or worse still, end up paralysed with only the power of your blinking eyelids to communicate.’ Annie had to stifle a smile, not because it was funny to think of being paralysed, but because Phoebe genuinely looked absolutely flabbergasted, as she often did in situations like this, which in turn somehow always managed to make her perpetual exasperation seem comical. ‘Imagine that! I couldn’t think of anything more awful than being caged up inside your own lifeless body. And another thing, falling down the stairs is one of the most common accidents within the home. Statistics show tha—’

‘Well there you go, darling,’ Annie leapt in again, keen to end the lecture. ‘Lots of people must climb up ladders in their hallways every day. It’s really not that uncommon,’ she pointed out. Annie loved her daughter with all her heart, but Phoebe really could be very pedantic and dramatic at times. And Annie already felt foolish for falling off the ladder, having misjudged the distance from the loft-hatch opening to where the light switch was on the wall inside the roof. So when she had overextended her arm to flick the light on, she had inadvertently pushed her left leg outwards, wobbled before dropping the wallpaper books and paint colour charts and grasping the ladder in an attempt to save herself, but the ladder had toppled over and taken her with it. The fall had happened so quickly and Annie had felt fine after it happened, pulling herself upright and pottering downstairs to have a restorative cup of tea with a couple of chunks of chocolate. It was only when she woke up the following morning with a swollen, painful foot that she took herself off to the minor injury clinic for an X-ray and discovered that one of the small metatarsal bones had fractured, and so she had been instructed to elevate her leg and use cold packs to reduce the swelling. It really wasn’t a massive deal, and certainly not the catastrophe that Phoebe was making it out to be.

And in any case, Annie was very pleased that she had been up in the loft as she’d had a little sort-out of the boxes stored up there and had come across one of her old childhood scrapbooks crammed full of colourful postcards from around the globe. So when she had finished comforting herself with the chocolate chunks, she had enjoyed a marvellous half-hour going through her old postcard collection and looking at all the exotic locations that family and friends had visited and, knowing that she collected postcards, had sent one to her especially. It had been Annie’s ambition to travel, but she hadn’t been able to afford to as a single parent when the children were young.

Annie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the log burner, seeing that it was almost time for the interior design challenge programme she loved; it was her favourite TV show. And it was the semi-final this week which she had been looking forward to, so she really didn’t want to miss it.

‘Did you call for anything in particular, darling? Or just for a chat?’ Annie asked as a preliminary to wrapping up the call as quickly and as politely as she could.

‘Yes, I did, Mum, I called to ask you something very important. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, since you had that nasty chest infection last winter that went on for weeks, do you remember?’

‘Um, yes, vaguely,’ Annie replied slowly, wondering where this was going.

‘And, well …’ Phoebe paused and flicked her eyes away, as if searching for the right words. ‘… I’ve spoken to Johnny about it too.’

‘Oh, how is he?’ Annie asked, always keen for snippets of information about her youngest child. Johnny, two years younger than Phoebe, had just started his third year at university, and the last time she’d had a proper conversation with him was when he turned up at Christmas, three months ago. Aside from the odd text message on her birthday or Mother’s Day, contact from Johnny was extremely rare indeed. That was OK, though, and Annie didn’t begrudge him his independence, even if she did miss him dreadfully, but she would never cajole or guilt-trip him into coming home to see her. Especially when he was most likely having the time of his life with his new friends as he travelled to obscure locations to dig up the ground as part of his geology degree course.

‘Um, he’s good. Busy doing whatever it is he does, most likely sitting up all night playing Fortnite, eating yesterday’s pizza and being fascinated by a pile of rocks with all the other nerds,’ Phoebe said, uninterestedly. ‘Anyway, he agrees that you must come and live with me!’

‘Live with you! Whatever for?’ Annie sat upright.

‘So that I can look after you, of course. Just until your broken foot is better. And then I thought we could find you a bungalow nearby. Somewhere close so I can pop in a few times a day to check on you. It makes perfect sense, Mum. With Aunty Beth gone and you being all on your own now. And I know you love all that amateur interior design stuff that you do, but you’re not getting any younger so you really shouldn’t be up ladders changing your wallpaper and trying out different paint effects any more, and you don’t need a three-bedroom house either. You could sell it and buy a little bungalow, or a garden flat … you know, somewhere without any steps. Or a loft hatch for you to fall from! Think of your future. Property up here is way cheaper than down there, so you would have a nice big lump sum left over to save as a nest egg for the future. For your retireme—’

‘Retirement!’ Annie laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s a long way off. Nearly two decades away. And I have a job. Here, in London. It would take hours to commute every day from where you live, in Yorkshire.’

‘Yes, I know, but it’s only a boring office job. And you hate it. You’ve always said so. Mum, you’re a workaholic. And it’s not healthy. So it’s about time you did something else. Besides, lots of people retire at fifty these days so you’re practically there. Think of all the interest that nest egg could earn for you. Plus, who wants to work in an office their whole life?’

‘But it’s my job! And I’ve worked hard for it,’ Annie said, recalling the late nights of studying she had done when Phoebe and Johnny were little, in order to gain the necessary qualifications to work as a bookkeeper in the accounts department of a big firm of solicitors in London. It wasn’t her intended career; that had been interior design and she had studied hard for it at university to gain an honours degree. But she had found it impossible to forge a sustainable career in interior design straight from university, with a young family to care for and Mark often away on his various trips, so she’d eventually given up on trying to set up her own interior design company. Fast forward a few years to when she found herself a single parent with two school-age children, she took a series of part-time jobs that fitted in around school hours and then studied at night when they were asleep. Mark had never contributed enough financially, and so when Annie had managed to eventually find her first full-time role in the law firm in the City of London, life had become a whole lot easier without the worry of debt for the three of them. Even if she had been completely exhausted for much of that decade.

‘I know you’ve worked hard, Mum. You always have,’ Phoebe said, seeming to soften, ‘so then even more reason to slow down a bit. You don’t need to be a workaholic these days. It’s not like you’ve got a mortgage any more, thanks to Granddad leaving you that money to pay it off—’

‘Darling, please, I don’t want to retire at fifty. Yes, my job is boring at times … and it’s not that I wouldn’t love for us to be a bit closer to each other, but …’ Annie let her voice trail off as she tried to get her head around what Phoebe was really saying. That she was past it, with no real life of her own, and so should retreat gracefully to become a husk of the woman that she once was! Or so it seemed in that moment.

‘Well, just think about it for now,’ Phoebe persisted. ‘That’s the beauty of having a basic life, you can just pack it all in without too much trouble. It’s not as if you have loads going on down there anyway, especially now that Aunty Beth has gone away. And you haven’t got a boyfriend or any pets or whatever to worry about.’

A long, ominous silence followed.

Did her daughter really think that she was incapable of looking after herself? That her life was basic? Practically over with. And ‘pop in to check on you’! Annie felt affronted. Embarrassed even. ‘Popping in to check’ was what friends and family did for properly old people. People in their eighties or nineties with mobility issues or in the early stages of dementia. People like Joanie next door with her halo of white curls and collection of hand-knitted cardies. Not that Joanie had dementia, far from it, she was vibrant and whip-smart and Annie loved spending time with her playing rummy and putting the world to rights. But since slipping on some ice and fracturing her hip last Christmas, Joanie did struggle to get upstairs these days and so was mostly living downstairs now, having converted her dining room in to a bedroom. Whereas, Annie was a perfectly healthy 49-year-old, albeit with a surgical boot on her left foot, but she wouldn’t need to wear it for much longer in any case. She had an appointment at the fracture clinic in a week or so and then there would be no stopping her. She already had her eye on a gorgeous pair of new wedge sandals to treat herself with once the ugly boot was no longer needed.

‘You could give up your job!’ Phoebe kept on. ‘Or how about you help me out at the gym? You know, only if you really wanted to keep busy that is. I could do with a part-time receptionist to cover the phones when I’m teaching classes or with my personal training clients. But it’s not vital. You could join some clubs, the WI, or there’s bound to be a committee of some sort at the parish council, that sort of thing, just to keep your hand in. You could even sign up for a course at the local college, they’re sure to have something to interest you. Upholstery or curtain-making, for example. It would get you out socializing and meeting new friends. And then when you do retire you’ll have a ready-made friendship group. Staying active, that’s the key to a successful old age. As soon as you give in and sit around all day doing nothing but watch the telly, that’s when the dementia sets in.’ It seemed Phoebe had the next twenty years or so all planned out for Annie. ‘Why don’t I drive down and pick you up?’

‘Phoebe,’ Annie started, coughing discreetly and reaching for the remote control to pause the start of the interior design programme. She suddenly felt slightly disconcerted as she had been watching rather a lot of TV recently; the Netflix gift card had been a genius idea from Beth. And her focus hadn’t been as sharp as it usually was; the intricate knitting project she was attempting had been a struggle and she had even given up on the file that she had been working on from home today. But, hang on! She inhaled and let out a long breath to clear her head. She wasn’t old. Yes, she was tired and jaded and missing her best friend, plus she hadn’t had any time off work in ages. They had been extra busy over the last few months; it was the same every year, with all the divorce cases coming in after the Christmas break, and so she hadn’t managed to book a holiday. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been away, and if she was really honest with herself then, it was probably true … she had become a workaholic.

‘Phoebe, it’s lovely of you to offer to look after me, but really there’s no need. And besides, you’re busy with the gym. Plus I’ll be off to Paris soon—’

‘Paris!’ Phoebe’s face froze on the laptop screen. ‘What on earth do you mean? Mum, you can’t go to Paris,’ she puffed, incredulous.

‘Of course I can. I’m looking forward to it actually,’ Annie told her, remembering the bubble of excitement mingled with anticipation when Joanie had asked if she’d ‘be a dear and go and take a look for me? I don’t like flying, and sitting on a train that goes under the sea really isn’t for me. Not with my hip. I dread to think what would happen if the train broke down in the middle of the tunnel. I’d never make it out of there if we had to be evacuated on foot. And if you don’t mind me saying so, dear, you could do with a break. You’ve been looking very pasty these past few weeks.’ Joanie had never been one to mince her words.

Annie had been round at Joanie’s house a few Saturdays ago, sharing a morning coffee and a slice of her homemade Victoria sponge, when the postman had knocked on the door with a letter that had needed signing for. After reading through all the details, Joanie had called the firm of solicitors in London where the letter had come from and discovered that she had inherited an apartment in Paris! The will also included a boarded-up dilapidated old shop, or boutique as they said in France, directly underneath the apartment. But whatever the state of it was, it was now Joanie’s. To do with whatever she pleased.

Reading between the lines, Annie had taken this to potentially mean that Joanie could have inherited a serious financial burden that the executor wanted to offload. But after verifying her identity and signing a pile of paperwork, Joanie found she was now the legal owner of a one-bedroom apartment in an eighteenth-century stone building located on a cobblestoned private pedestrian street off the Place de la Bastille, accessed through a grand archway, and she wanted her neighbour and good friend, Annie, to go and check it all out for her. Joanie had offered to pay for travel and a hotel, but Annie knew she needed to step out of her comfort zone and try to put the spark back into her life and so was more than happy to fund her own trip. She would make a holiday of it, and so had booked herself into an Airbnb place with an English-speaking host called Marguerite. From there, she could visit the apartment and report back to Joanie with her findings and recommendations before doing all the wonderful Parisian sights.

‘Looking forward to it! What do you mean, Mum?’ Phoebe reiterated, leaning closer to the camera so that Annie could see the frown lines on her daughter’s alarmed face. ‘And why do you look all glowy and perky all of a sudden?’ Silence followed. ‘Ah, hang on! Don’t tell me you’re going to Paris with a man! Is that it? Mum, have you met a man? Why didn’t you say?’ Phoebe’s eyes lit up momentarily, before she added, ‘Oh, please say you didn’t meet him online. You do know those dating sites are riddled with con artists. Catfishing and all sorts goes on. They are only after your money, you know. If you’re feeling lonely, then why don’t you let me set you up with a proper profile, a nice picture and all that. I could help you find the perfect partner. Or better still, if you move up here then I could introduce you to some of the men who come to my gym. Geoff! Yes, Geoff is very nice. He’s divorced, fifty-something so a bit older than you. But still in pretty good shape and he’s not bad looking for an older bloke. And he likes cooking, fishing and doing crosswords. How exciting! Mum, you could have a wonderful romance and a partner to hook up with and do fun things like … go to the cinema, or to a nice restaurant, afternoon tea at the garden centre—’

‘Phoebe! Stop it! Please. Darling, there is no man. I’m not looking to meet a man. Well, not unless the right one came along …’ And certainly not one like Geoff, Annie thought to herself. Sitting around doing crosswords wasn’t her thing. Fishing definitely wasn’t. Plus afternoon tea at a garden centre was something she was looking forward to doing when she actually retired, in about twenty years’ time. Mind you, the cooking might come in handy as Annie wasn’t a keen cook, preferring to pierce a cellophane lid and wait for the ping of the microwave, or to try out a lovely café or restaurant whenever she could. ‘I’m going to Paris on my own.’

‘Then I’ll come with you. If you really want to see Paris. But you can’t go on your own …’ Annie thought Phoebe looked genuinely concerned now.

‘I’ll be fine. Please try not to worry, sweetheart. I’m only going for a fortnight and I can call you while I’m there,’ Annie assured her, trying to sound light about it, even though inside she was starting to wonder if two whole weeks away from home, her comfort zone, was a good idea after all.

‘A fortnight! But what if something happens to you?’

‘I’m sure it won’t. And I’ll send you a postcard. A postcard from Paris, you’d like that. Do you remember when you were little—’

‘No, Mum. That was years ago. I don’t collect postcards any more. And nobody sends postcards these days.’ Annie was sure Phoebe actually looked aghast at the idea, and suddenly she felt foolish, behind the times. Maybe she had become too insular, past it, on account of her ‘basic life’! ‘Even Aunty Beth knows that – did you know she emailed me a gorgeous film of her doing all the sights in Australia, so I could see them too. How cool is that?’

‘Wow!’ Annie said, impressed and delighted for Phoebe, but then cross with herself for feeling a little put out that Beth hadn’t sent her a film too. ‘Very cool,’ she confirmed, ‘I’d love to see the sights of Australia …’

‘Oh, um … sure, I’ll send it on,’ Phoebe said nonchalantly, clearly not realizing that Annie felt left out. She inhaled and let out a long breath. It was ridiculous to feel jealous; she wasn’t 12 years old and in a school playground any more, yet still … she missed her best friend so much.

‘So why are you going to Paris then?’

‘To check out Joanie’s new apartment and then have a look around Paris. I’ve always wanted to travel and so now is my chance.’ Annie explained about Joanie’s inheritance, trying to sound much more confident than she felt about travelling on her own, while Phoebe stared very solemnly at the screen, taking it all in.

‘Well, it sounds very clandestine to me,’ Phoebe said, eventually. ‘And why doesn’t Joanie go there herself?’

‘You know she’s getting on and her mobility isn’t what it used to be. Besides, she has no intention of living in the apartment in Paris – she has other plans.’

‘Then doesn’t she have a relative who could go?’ Phoebe squinted, as if interrogating Annie. ‘It seems weird that she wants a neighbour to go for her.’

‘No. There’s nobody else. She doesn’t have any children or relatives and her friends are all elderly too. Anyway, I’m happy to go for her; she trusts me and we are friends after all. And have been for a very long time. I want to help her out. Isn’t that what friends do for each other?’

‘Hmm, she’s always put upon you. Do you remember when she had that fall and you ended up at her house practically every night doing everything for her.’

‘And I was happy to do that too,’ Annie said, thinking how mean her daughter could be sometimes. Joanie had been a godsend back in the day when Phoebe and Johnny had been young, often babysitting at short notice and never accepting payment, always happy to step in when Annie had a rare evening out or had to work late. So it was the least Annie could do now to go and take a look at an apartment in Paris. It was hardly a hardship; in fact it was exciting and she felt delighted to have the opportunity. She loved nosing around properties and had spent many a happy Sunday afternoon, cosy by the log burner, searching through Rightmove looking for her dream ‘doer upper’.

‘But what about the person who left her the apartment? Beatrice Archambeau, did you say?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Annie nodded.

‘Who even is she? Surely she must have had some family, and by the sounds of it Joanie knows nothing at all about the woman. What if it’s some kind of elaborate hoax to make Joanie pay to refurbish a Parisian apartment which they then steal from her?’

‘It’s not a hoax, Phoebe,’ Annie said, firmly. ‘The solicitor here in London has been very thorough and I’m to collect the keys and paperwork to the apartment from a Monsieur Aumont, an avocat – that’s the French word for solicitor. He’s the executor in Paris dealing with Beatrice’s will. I’m making lunch for Joanie next week so we can discuss it all before I go to Paris, so I guess I’ll find out more about the apartment and how Joanie has come to inherit it then. And no doubt the avocat will tell us more about Beatrice Archambeau when I get there.’

‘Hmm,’ Phoebe pondered, then, ‘ah, but what about your foot? I’m not sure you can fly with a fracture.’ And Annie was sure she spotted a fleeting flicker of triumph on her daughter’s face, and if she was perfectly honest with herself, it irked her. Why couldn’t Phoebe be happy for her? Yes, she understood Phoebe’s insecurities with having a distant dad, and Annie felt that she had done everything she could to ease them for her – organizing and paying for courses of expensive therapy sessions over the years and giving her as much love and attention as she possibly could to make up for her missing father. As children, Phoebe had always had the biggest chunk of Annie’s time over Johnny, with her numerous cheerleading lessons and tournaments. Phoebe had become fascinated with cheerleading at a young age, after watching a reality TV show about a squad of impossibly athletic girls and boys in an American high school. From then on, the three of them had spent practically every weekend travelling around the country so Phoebe could compete and add another trophy to her impressive collection that was now housed in a display cabinet in the reception area of her gym. But Phoebe was an adult now, and with a boyfriend who adored her, a successful business of her own, a lovely home and busy social life. So she really did need to try to be happy, instead of always looking for a reason not to be, or so it seemed to Annie.

‘Then I’ll take the train.’ Annie sneaked a quick sip of the wine, feeling ridiculous at the subterfuge, but she didn’t want to antagonize her daughter even further.

‘Mum, what’s got into you? Next you’ll be telling me you’re going on that train, the Orient Express, like you’re Miss Marple in one of those Agatha Christie films or something.’

‘Oh, what a good idea. I might just do that!’ Annie couldn’t resist, perking up even more at the prospect of travelling in style as she embarked on an adventure. Yes, she was nervous about going to Paris on her own – she had never travelled solo; in fact, she hadn’t really done much at all on her own. Her life had revolved around the children, and then when they had left home, it had been her safe bubble indoors or at work, especially since Beth had left. But what better way to escape her ‘boring job’ and ‘basic life’ as Phoebe said, than by spending a fortnight in the most romantic city in the world?

The city of light. Paris. Where she would check out the apartment for Joanie and then spend the rest of the time visiting all the iconic sights – the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées and Notre-Dame. Followed by plenty of shopping. Sephora! She couldn’t wait to visit the popular cosmetics emporium, and they had three stores in Paris. How exiting! And meander along pretty cobbled boulevards where she would choose a chic café by the river Seine to sit and watch the people of Paris go by as she sipped sweet chocolat chaud and ate a deliciously buttery, flaky croissant. Oui. Très bon, she mused to herself in schoolgirl French. And if she pushed aside her reservations about travelling on her own, then she found that she was actually looking forward to venturing out of her comfort zone to put the sparkle back into her ‘basic life’ in one of les plus belles villes in the world …

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