Lucy sat in the warm darkness of her flat wrestling with two emotions, each getting stronger, each slipping out of control.
She was losing her grandmother: the foundations of grief were being hewn out of rock. But at the same time, in another part of her soul she was gaining something. The fundamentals were already in place and she hadn’t noticed them in the making. Perhaps they’d been built years and years ago. But the result was that Lucy found herself intrinsically and terrifyingly receptive to Pascal Fougeres.
The phone rang. Reluctantly she lifted the receiver.
‘It’s me, Cathy’
‘Hi…’
‘Well, do you regret missing the Turkish bath?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
‘Honestly, he’s just an acquaintance. ‘‘Where did you go?’
‘For a meal.’
‘Where?’
‘In a crypt.’
‘Sounds like my sort. How did you meet him?’
‘I’m too tired to explain,’ Lucy said, laughing for the first time that day
‘I’ll sweat it out of you. Give me a call.’
They said goodnight and Lucy put the phone down with a sigh. As with all misunderstandings, Cathy was on to something. Since meeting Pascal Lucy wasn’t quite her old self, and she didn’t fully recognise who she was becoming.