The Traveller’s Daughter. Michelle Vernal

woke up and busted her sneaking about, he’d think she was snooping around the place or something. No, she’d just have to wait for his alarm to go off. The room got lighter and her tummy rumbled louder. She couldn’t help but think as she rolled away from the window, how had it come to this? Where once she’d shared her life with the man lying flat on his back next to her, now she felt like a prisoner in his futon.

      They’d had no dinner the night before, that was the problem. She hadn’t been hungry when they left the pub, enjoying the warm slightly addled feeling from the three glasses of wine she’d ended up downing. It had been such a strange day. She didn’t feel like being sensible, and of course, had she been sober then common sense might have won out. Damien, as though sensing this, had been in far too much of a hurry to get her back to his apartment. He wasn’t going to risk suggesting they stop off for something to eat in case she changed her mind about staying.

      She’d sat with her head leaning back on the plush headrest of his new black Audi as he drove them to his apartment. It was another post break-up splurge. He’d looked like a little boy as he told her that not only was it turbocharged – whatever that meant – but the roof was retractable too. She’d refrained from remarking on how useful that would be living in Manchester because not only could you get soaked through to the skin, you also got to breathe in traffic fumes. She shook her head, trying not to listen to him telling her again how much he’d missed her since she’d left, and how sorry he was for what he’d done. It was as though he thought the more he repeated these sentiments, the more chance there was of her saying all is forgiven I’ll come back.

      The Bitch, she registered him saying, although he hadn’t used that terminology, had moved to Glasgow after they’d split. She had taken a new job there so Kitty wouldn’t have to worry about ever bumping into her were she to come back. He’d do anything to get her back he stressed as the lights of Greater Manchester twinkled in the distance. Part of Kitty wanted to believe him even as she wondered idly if his version of anything stretched to selling the ridiculous sports car she currently found herself sitting in.

      His hand had snaked over to rest on her leg. She could feel the heat of it through the denim fabric of her jeans as he steered them deftly around the achingly familiar streets of Manchester’s trendy Northern Quarter. It was where they’d lived together, enjoying the regeneration it had undergone along with all the other twenty and thirty somethings’ that had gravitated to the area. She’d stared out the window at all the restaurants they’d dined in. They passed by cafés they’d met friends for coffee in, pubs they’d drunk in and clubs they’d gone on to dance the night away in. The streets they were passing were streets they’d once strolled hand in hand down. It was all so comfortingly familiar when everything around her at the moment was so bewildering.

      Damien had opted to stay in the Northern Quarter; he told her, driving into the underground car park of an apartment complex. He could have stayed on at their flat had he got someone else in to share, but he didn’t want to do that. The memories were too painful, he said. For you and me both, she’d thought, recalling her mother having uttered the same sentiment when she sold Rose Cottage.

      Her phone had rung once as they rode the lift up to his apartment on the fifth floor, and a quick glance at the screen told her that Yasmin was wanting a word. She’d flushed guiltily knowing full well what her friend would have to say to her if she knew what she was about to do. Switching off her phone, she stuffed it as far down in the depths of her handbag as she could manage.

      His apartment, although small, was shiny and new, and Kitty had thought, with a glance around, rather impersonal. She’d stopped thinking altogether though when he’d put Adele on. It was their favourite CD, the one they’d always had sex to. She’d sunk into his open arms and raised her mouth to meet his as they began a slow, remembered dance.

      The beeping alarm brought her back to the present, signalling it was at last time to rise and shine. Damien stirred for a moment before reaching over with a practised hand to bang the snooze button and snuggling back under the bedding, but Kitty sat up gratefully. Her hand went to her hair, and she sighed, it was mussed beyond redemption. She knew too that her mascara was probably down to her chin by now, and her mouth felt dry and stale. Had Damien been someone new that she had staggered home with last night then she’d have been desperate to get into the bathroom to tidy her act up before he got a good look at her. As it was, she knew the sight of her with her hair standing on end, and the remnants of the previous day’s makeup was one he had been treated to on many occasions. He would not be fazed.

      Sensing her eyes on him, he opened his and blinked a couple of times before his mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile. He reached up and stroked her cheek.

      “Morning, gorgeous.”

      “Gorgeous is a stretch! I’m a fright.”

      He grinned. “Well the Robbie William’s ‘Let Me Entertain You’ eye makeup isn’t your best look I agree, but other than that you look pretty darn tasty to me.” He reared up to pull her back down beside him, but she broke free.

      “No way, don’t even think about it. I’ve got to get to the airport, and I need to have a shower and tidy myself up. I can’t get off the plane looking like–”

      “The wanton woman you are.”

      She leaned over and smacked him lightly before swinging her legs over the side of the bed vaguely self-conscious about being naked. She stood up and made her way quickly to the en-suite hearing a wolf whistle from the bed before he called out. “Towels are in the cupboard. Shall I join you?”

      “No! Make yourself useful and get some breakfast organized. I am starving,” she called back. Her casual banter belied the tumult of emotions vying to make themselves heard as she locked the door behind her, and leaned her head against it for a moment. She didn’t trust him not to come in, remembering full well that he was a morning man.

      A few moments later, she was standing under the jets of water enjoying the feel of the hot needles hitting her skin, sluicing away the morning-after fog. She picked up the bottle of shampoo from the ledge and peered at the label. It was a salon brand she didn’t recognize and opening the lid, she sniffed its contents. Coconut, she thought, envisaging palm trees swaying in the breeze as she squeezed a dollop into the palm of her hand and began massaging it into her scalp. Damien had always been a bit of a metro man when it came to his grooming, and she used to find it amusing that he spent more on his hair products than she did.

      Oh God, she thought, letting the water run over her head with her eyes squeezed shut so as not to get shampoo in them, what on earth was she doing here? Did she think she could go back and that they could just pick up as though The Bitch had never happened? Common sense told her that no; it would never work. The part of her that still loved Damien wanted to kick common sense right up the backside, though; forget all about this mad trip to France and unpack her bags.

      By the time she emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later with her hair towel dried and a fresh layer of warpaint on her face, she was feeling more composed. She’d dressed once more in her jeans, having packed lightly under the assumption she’d be back in London by now. As she zipped up her case, she made a mental note to wash her smalls by hand when she got to Uzés or she’d be in a bother.

      Ready to face the day, she straightened up and prepared to venture forth. Well almost ready, she thought, sniffing the air and catching a whiff of coffee mingling with frying bacon. Good, Damien had taken her literally. Walking through to the small living area, she found him stationed at the hob of the open-plan kitchen with the frying pan in hand. Her stomach did a little dance as he grinned at her, and she pinched her forearm to make sure this whole surreal scene was unfolding.

      “Good shower?”

      She glanced down at the red welt on her forearm. “Um yes, great shower thanks. Those power shower thingies are amazing. I feel human again, or I will do when you make me a cup of that coffee.” She eyed the fancy looking machine taking up half the bench space. Back when they’d lived together, it had only ever been instant on offer because they’d preferred to go out for coffee. He had certainly gone to town since she’d left. “Do you need a licence