The Traveller’s Daughter. Michelle Vernal
“Sorry about that I’m in a pub, and it’s very noisy.” She peered into the smeared mirror at her flushed face and dishevelled hair and shook her head. God, she looked a mess.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Kitty, it is Simone Cazal, Monsieur Beauvau’s assistant calling you.”
“Hello, Miss Cazal.”
“It is Simone, please.”
“Er okay, then Simone.” Kitty turned away from her reflection and leaned against the sink. She listened as the woman told her that her tickets for a ten a.m. flight would be waiting for her to collect at the Lufthansa desk at Manchester Airport in the morning. She would be there to meet her upon her arrival in Marseille. Her return flight would be booked at the end of the photo shoot. If Kitty was happy to sign the contract upon her arrival and provide her bank account details the sum of five thousand euros would be deposited into her account. It would be a one-off, full and final payment for her participation in the photo shoot.
Kitty just about dropped her phone “Er pardon me, Simone, did you just say five thousand euros?”
“Yes, this amount is not up for negotiation – you are happy with it, oui?”
“Oui, yes thanks.”
Simone said goodbye, reiterating that she would meet Kitty at Marseille Airport in the morning. Kitty barely heard, she was reeling. All that money, just for posing for a picture! She wondered what this Christian Beauvau chap was being paid by Tres Belle if he could afford to pay her that amount. It was dawning on her ever so slowly that this print her mother had featured in all those years ago was indeed a big deal. She turned back to the mirror and smoothed her hair wishing she’d bought her handbag in with her so she could have at least run a comb through it and put a bit of lippy on. She sighed deeply, what an afternoon this was turning out to be. She needed another drink.
Making her way out of the bathroom, she saw that Damien, as though having read her mind, had purchased another glass of wine and a fresh beer sat in front of him. She sat down and took a big swig of her glass. “Oh, I needed that.”
Damien looked at her concerned. “Kitty, listen I was thinking, are you sure this photo thing is all legit? You know you read about this kind of thing in the papers, young women being lured overseas. You might get there and find yourself part of some French slavery ring.”
“I don’t know what papers you read, but it’s a very elaborate con if it isn’t legit, look.” She pulled the photo up on her phone, and Damien took it from her staring at the picture for a moment. “Gosh! Wow, that’s Rosa? Seeing her young like that’s so weird. She’s just like you if you were in the same outfit with a different hairstyle. I wonder if the bloke’s nephew looks anything like him.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about him.”
“It’s a bit of a creepy idea if you ask me. Do you know anything about the backstory around the photograph?”
“No, and that’s why I have to go. Simone, that’s the photographer’s assistant, just told me they are paying me a one-off fee of five thousand euros for agreeing to pose for the new photograph.”
Damien spluttered into his beer. “How much?”
She repeated herself and Damien morphed before her very eyes into the business mode that befitted his job in the Share Market. “You should get your solicitor to look over any paperwork you are going to sign, you know. I mean, if they are prepared to fly you over to France and pay you that much it is obviously a pretty lucrative job for this Christian Beauvau fellow. There could be a lot more in it for you in the way of royalties. I’d be interested to know if your mother has received hers over the years too. Do you know how much they are paying the bloke’s nephew?”
Kitty felt her back stiffen; there was no way she was giving a penny more to her mum’s solicitors. “No! Stop. Damien, the money will be nice, but that is not what this is about. You know my mother never talked about where she came from, and this is my chance to find out about a side of her that I never knew.”
Damien knew how Rosa’s refusal to talk about her past had eaten away at her. “You’re right. Sorry, it’s the stockbroker in me, I can’t help myself.”
“It’s okay.” She relaxed and sat back in her chair drinking her wine a little too quickly.
“Watch it; you’ll get tipsy.” He smiled. “So where are you staying tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I was going to find a B&B.”
“You can stay at mine; I can drop you at the airport in the morning.”
Kitty’s eyes widened.
“I’ll behave myself I promise, but I can’t leave you to wander around Wigan looking for a Bed and Breakfast. It will be getting dark soon out there. Besides, you’d have to get up at a ridiculous time to get your flight.”
Kitty knew it wouldn’t be dark for at least another hour. There was nothing to stop him offering to drive her around Manchester looking for a B&B if he was worried about the distance from the airport. For some reason, though, she couldn’t summon either the strength or the willpower to contradict him.
God is good but never dance in a small boat – Irish Proverb
Kitty lay on her side in Damien’s bed with the sheets pulled up under her chin staring at the window. The sheets felt crisp and cool against her bare skin, Egyptian cotton, she guessed, because Damien had always been partial to the finer things in life. It had caused a few arguments between them during their time together with her having a thriftier nature. Opposites were supposed to attract, though, and she had reined him in and he had loosened her up so that they met somewhere in the middle. Egyptian cotton sheets hadn’t featured in that middle ground though because she had won that particular battle. The sheets they’d once shared together had come from Tesco.
There was a gap where the blinds didn’t quite meet the sill. She could tell by the greyish light seeping in under them and the faint shushing sound of cars far below that it was early morning. It must be some time just after five a.m. she guessed before shifting her hip slightly. It was going numb thanks to Damien’s hideously uncomfortable futon. Another post break-up purchase he had said, although he hadn’t worded it quite like that, to help with his back. He’d been in a minor car accident before she’d met him and had suffered from back pain for as long as Kitty had known him. It was beyond her, though, how sleeping on what equated to an oversized rectangular rock could benefit your back but when she’d questioned him on this Damien was adamant it was working wonders on his.
His leg strayed over to her side of the bed; he had obviously gotten used to starfishing, she thought, as he let rip with an ungentlemanly snort. She’d forgotten he always snored when he’d had a few drinks and they’d both had more than a few before they’d wound up skipping the light fandango on the Futon. She hadn’t been complaining it was uncomfortable then, though, she thought ruefully. The sex had been good because they already knew each other’s bodies intimately, so there were none of those embarrassing fumbling, clumsy moments. They were like a well-oiled machine in that respect. As Damien erupted once more, she felt her foot twitch under the sheets. Six months ago she’d have given him a swift kick to startle him into rolling over. Now that he was technically a one-night stand she didn’t feel it appropriate to put the boot in, so to speak. Besides she knew she’d never get back to sleep now, snoring or no snoring.
God, she was hungry too she thought, wrapping her arms around her tummy in an attempt to stave off the pangs. Again, she realized that if this had been six months ago, she’d have been in their old apartment, and were she lying wide awake like this she’d have gotten up. She pictured herself tiptoeing into the kitchen the way she’d done hundreds of time when she’d woken up peckish to stuff her face with whatever leftovers she could find