pointilliste blur that was now her everyday vision. Up in one of the guest rooms, Colette began unpacking Aurélie’s hold-all. “But I’m only staying one night!” “These things need hanging, I tell you!” Just then, Hervé appeared in the doorway, a glass of whisky in his hand. “Where are you taking me tonight then, mon oncle?” “What makes you think we are going out? Colette is a perfectly good cook.” “I know that, and I also know that you can’t wait for an excuse to give her a night off.” He laughed. “You know me well. All right. We’re going to the Métropolitain.” “Mon Dieu! Should I wear something black?” “Comme tu veux.” That meant yes. Just then, Colette piped in: “You can leave us to it now, Monsieur. I’ll sort things out here.” And she began to assemble an outfit for Aurélie. “There’s plenty of time for you to take a nap, you know,” she whispered. “Go on. I’ll finish this, then I’ll come and run you a bath in an hour or so. I’ll leave tonight’s clothes on the ottoman.” Aurélie kissed Colette on the cheek, lay down on the big old bed and nodded off to the homely clunk-and-squeak of coat hanger on brass rail. Two hours later, Colette came up to run the bath, then returned to help her finish dressing: a gentle tug here; a bit of smoothing there. Aurélie ran her hands over the little black dress. “It’s the first time I’ve worn this in years. Should I take something else?” “You won’t need much in this weather. Here…” Colette took a lightweight shawl and wrapped it round Aurélie’s bare shoulders. Together they walked down the wide stairs to meet Hervé, waiting in the
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