She grabbed her white stick and swish-tapped her way upstairs. Lying face-up on the bed, she found herself sleepless, despite the drink, her anger now dissipated into sadness. She’d had a few bad experiences in Paris: men, the controlling kind, trying to take advantage of her disability; some so turned on by it, they could hardly stop themselves; and one, a friend - holding out for drunken borderline consent – had tried to rape her. That’s why she rarely dressed up. Now tonight, her own uncle had made a pass at her. She fell asleep at dawn.
It was a short hop to Landivisiau, not much more than an hour, even on the slow train. Hervé had driven her himself and seen her to the carriage, the two of them wrapped in silence all the way. Just as they were about to board, she froze: “Merde alors! I didn’t phone Didier…” “It’s OK. I called him to say you were safe while you were sleeping yesterday evening. I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry… You must do it soon though.”
She thanked him, promised she would and waved a leaden arm in the approximate direction of his back, as he slowly walked the platform, weighed down by the burden of contrition. Inside the carriage, alone, Aurélie fought back the tears again. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a good idea after all. She just wanted to hear Didier’s voice now. As the train pulled away, she took her new silk notebook from her bag and turned to her list of twin-towns and cities. She looked up the places along her journey. Paris, Rennes, Brest. She knew the English twins of those. Easy: London, Exeter, Plymouth. But Landivisiau, Langueux, Dinard? She could never remember the little places… Bideford… Wadebridge… Newquay…
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