The Traveller’s Daughter. Michelle Vernal

mind up. Sitting in Baintree & Co.’s that afternoon she’d disconnected her call to Yasmin and rang the number Christian Beauvau had provided before she got cold feet. A woman called Simone Cazal had answered. Introducing herself as his P.A., she’d told Kitty that Monsieur Beauvau would be very pleased to hear she was coming. If she left matters in her hands, she would organize everything. She’d ended the call by telling her she would phone back within the hour to give Kitty her flight details and to discuss payment.

      Payment? She hadn’t even thought about that. As Kitty hung up, she caught Texting Queen’s, who had finally put her phone down, curious gaze and the butterflies set in. Was she doing the right thing? What if she was opening a can of worms she had no business opening?

      There had been no more time to dwell on it though because with a blast of cold air Mr Baintree himself opened the door. He stood in front of her in his greatcoat that, in Kitty’s opinion, was a bit over the top given they were in April. She tried not to focus on his hair and concentrated instead on what he was saying, but her eyes had kept straying upwards. It was like a grey bird’s nest she concluded. It even had a little hollow in the middle for the eggs. She managed to drag her eyes away from his hair as he informed her in his plummy tones that the finances would soon be on hand and that her solicitors would take care of his company’s commission. Clapping his hands together, he added that all that was left for her to do to complete the sale was to give him the house keys.

      She thanked him for a job well done and handed over the keys without ceremony, not feeling much of anything because she couldn’t say that she was sad to see the house go. The thought of her impending trip to France was filling her mind, and there wasn’t room for practical thoughts like the fact that she was now in a position financially to make her café a reality. She’d shelve all thoughts of running her own business until she was able to give them her full attention. She quashed the little voice that taunted, excuses, excuses at her. Shaking the hand Mr Baintree was proffering, she said goodbye to him and the Texting Queen, who was now industriously shifting papers around on her desk.

      Kitty shivered as she left the warmth of the office, the temperature had dropped another degree in the time she had been sitting in the toasty reception area. She made her way the short distance to Wigan’s town square, her wheelie case banging over the cobbles behind her. At least it had stopped drizzling, she thought, gazing at the late afternoon sky with its patches of blue trying to break through the omnipresent grey.

      She’d told that Simone woman that she’d fly from Manchester in the morning, so she needed to find a place to stay for the night. She’d try her luck down past the train station at the bottom of the hill. It made sense to find somewhere near the station because she would be in for an early start to get to the airport in the morning.

      The road she set off down was filling up with bag-laden Saturday shoppers rushing to catch their train home. She picked up her pace so as not to feel left out, keeping a tight hold of her case, and that was when she saw him, well actually she felt him before she saw him. She just knew with a sudden sick lurch of her stomach that he was there and looking up she saw she was right. He was walking against the crowd in her direction a bit like Moses parting the red sea. “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered under her breath, oblivious to the pursed-lipped look a woman herding her teenage daughter who was toting a Dorothy Perkins bag shot her as they strode past. She thought about ducking into the Post Office but knew it was too late; he’d seen her. A split-second later he was standing in front of her with that smile of his that always made her knees go to jelly.

      “I don’t believe it. Kitty, wow! Is it you?”

      “Hello, Damien.” She paused knowing she should keep walking, but a lifetime of having good manners instilled in her prevented her from doing so. The throngs of people either side of them seemed to vanish as Damien lunged forward, his lips grazing her cheek and leaving her feeling like she’d just been branded.

      “Whoa I can’t believe this, it’s so good to see you. What are you doing here? I’ve just had lunch with Sam and thought I’d race up to the WH Smith before they close. The latest Lee Child is out.”

      She’d forgotten his younger brother lived in Wigan, but she remembered how much of a Lee Child fan he was. Unbidden, a memory of them both on a wet Saturday afternoon curled up at opposite ends of the couch lost in their books sprang to mind. What had she been reading? She couldn’t remember now and what did it matter? Gosh, he looked good she thought, wishing he had acquired a beer belly, gone bald and been afflicted by a case of adult acne in the last six months. If anything though he looked better than ever. He was dressed for the weekend, and she’d always liked him best when he was casually rumpled. His brown hair was shorter these days, and it suited him. She unconsciously raised a hand to her hair hoping the damp air hadn’t caused the irreparable fringe curl.

      “Hey,” he said reaching out and touching her arm. “I was sorry to hear about Rosa. I mean I knew she was sick and everything, but it was very quick in the end wasn’t it?”

      She nodded, not meeting his eye and not trusting herself to reply. So he did know then, she had checked the post for a sympathy card from him every day after the hospice had rung to say her mother was gone, but one never came. In the end, she had given him the benefit of the doubt thinking that perhaps he hadn’t heard the news or didn’t know where to find her.

      “I heard through one of the old gang, and I was going to send a card but, well to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d want to receive one from me.” He shrugged. “You look well, I mean despite what’s happened, er you know losing your mum and everything, you still look wonderful. I have to say London obviously suits you.”

      Speak Kitty, speak, she willed herself. “Uh yes, it does thank you. I’ve settled in.”

      “I heard you had a stall at one of the big markets down there selling your cupcakes. I guess it’s a step in the right direction towards owning your café. Good for you.”

      Kitty frowned, he seemed to have heard a lot. “Yes it is thanks, and well, now I’ve got some money behind me thanks to mum there’s no reason I can’t make it a reality.” Too much information, Kitty my girl, don’t tell the bastard anything. She mentally kicked herself before deciding to turn the tables. “How’s everything with you and er–” She realized she didn’t know the name of the girl he had spent three months bonking behind her back. No doubt it had come up in the explosive row they’d had when she had caught him out. It was thanks to a stonker of a headache and the strangest feeling that something was amiss that she had left work early one afternoon. She’d come home and stumbled on them post-coital lying in their bed and had turned and walked straight back out of the flat. Wandering around the Manchester streets, she’d been in complete shock at the collapse of her world as she knew it. It was growing dark when the numbness gave way to anger, and common sense told her it wasn’t a good idea to be walking around unfamiliar streets on her own, so she’d gone home. Damien had been sitting at the dining room table waiting for her, and all hell had let loose. It was hard to believe they were now standing opposite one another on the Wigan pavement exchanging banal pleasantries. She doubted since they were being nice to one another that he’d appreciate her asking how ‘The Bitch’ was as she’d come to think of her either.

      “Leanne, her name was Leanne.”

      She watched him run his fingers through his hair.

      “She was a mistake, Kitty. There’s not a day gone by since you left that I haven’t regretted what I did to you, to us. It just sounds so trite to say I am sorry, but truly I don’t know what else to say because I am.”

      He rested his hand on her arm once more, as though frightened she would walk away. Fat chance of that though; her legs were rooted to the spot.

      “We broke up a few weeks after you left. I wanted to call you so badly, but after the way I’d treated you I didn’t think you would want to hear from me ever again.”

      He looked at her as though expecting her to contradict him. When she didn’t, she could tell by the little boy lost look on his face that he was as thrown by her presence as she was by his.

      “I