Similar Differences
Page 16
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She had prepared well, had a whole other identity set up with which to settle into life in Doumaine des Pins; she knew it to be a pretty little village on the Canal du Midi, having once visited there during her childhood travels with her French maternal grandmother. She had sworn to go back one day and now that day had come. Ron was totally unaware she had dual citizenship, French and British. He’d never been interested enough in her to find out about her family and now there were none left alive to question about her possible whereabouts. Christ, she thought, he doesn’t even know I speak French fluently. And with my legal change of name in France there is even less chance he will be able to follow the trail.
There would be no difficulty completing the purchase of the small house on the edge of the village. Every day she would be able to look out onto the vineyards and fields of sunflowers. I’ve always loved yellow, such a happy colour. She would learn to appreciate food as the French did, learn more about her heritage, while her daughter flourished in the warmth of a culture in which children were important, the very centre and purpose of life. From an internet cafe she notified the agents of her expected date of arrival and then deleted the email account she’d used for contact with them. When she left she dumped the pay-as-you-go phone she’d been using in a large, smelly bin in a side alley.
Whilst laying her false trails, with their scattering of clues to her presence there, she had dressed, looked and behaved as Ron would remember her. Each day she had smoothed her hair up into a tidy knot and applied careful makeup to emphasise her large grey eyes and give her rather thin lips a better shape. Her clothes were elegant, their lines chosen to make the most of her puny stature.
Now I’m pregnant I might even get a cleavage for the first time in my life, she thought as she dressed in those clothes for the last time and felt a slight tenderness in her breasts.
For a week she had settled her hotel bills and paid for sundry other items with her credit card. With that, and use of her mobile phone, any investigator worth his salt, let alone with Ron’s contacts, would easily follow her movements within the various cities, right up until her deliberate trail just stopped. It would probably take them a while, though, to figure out which city she might be in at any one time, and which city or nearby town she might have chosen to stay in long-term. They would have to check out a vast area of England before they could discount all of her apparent options.
Each time she had travelled she used the facilities in department stores to assume her disguise; she dressed as Ron’s wife when she entered the stores, but left wearing charity shop clothes, devoid of makeup and with a white, permed wig. No one notices little old ladies; the eyes just skim over the surface, details aren’t remembered. As she had been ignored for most of her life she had become a people-watcher; now she found it easy to reproduce an old woman’s walk to match her disguise. She quietly shuffled along, clutching her large, dull shopping bag, and just faded into the background.
Her last journey in disguise took her from Manchester to Euston train station. As she had plenty of time before the departure of the Dover train she decided to walk along Euston Road to St Pancras International. It was a busy, rather ugly route, but she knew there would be the delight at the end of approaching one of the greatest Victorian buildings in London. Indeed, her eyes were so firmly fixed on the magnificent Gothic red brick facade that she very nearly blew her cover. In stepping back to better see the famous hotel clock tower she felt the thud of a taxi door into her back.
“Get out of the way!” a female voice exclaimed crossly.
Daphne stumbled forward, the breath driven from her body by the force of the car door slamming into her. As she looked over her shoulder, she was suddenly grateful she was winded and unable to speak, for her voice would have given her identity away. The woman was ignoring her, her full attention on the man at the rear of the taxi, who was taking a large suitcase out of the boot; that man was none other than Ron.
“For goodness’ sake, Zara, do you really need so much for just a weekend?” he asked his companion. “This thing weighs a ton.” He dumped the suitcase on the pavement unceremoniously and turned back for his own small bag.
While his attention was still diverted, Daphne resumed her bent posture and retreated at her old lady pace.
Zara sidled up to Ron and took his arm. “Darling, you know you like me to look good when we’re out together,” she said, “and anyway, there’s loads of room in it to bring you back some nice new clothes from Paris. I know all the best places to re-equip you.”
Daphne’s sharp ears still heard their conversation, even over the traffic noise. She felt laughter bubbling inside, remembering why he needed ‘re-equipping’.
“I could do that here in London.” Ron was hardly mollified and stomped off towards the Eurostar terminal with Zara struggling in her stilettos to keep up.
“Don’t be such a grumpy-wump.” Her voice was petulant but then changed, took on a more sultry tone as she caught up with him and squeezed his arm to her side. “It’s so romantic along the Seine in the Spring; we can drink wine and really relax, forget all the nasty things she did to you.”
So you want my castoff husband, do you? Better prepare for disappointment, Zara, I know that tone of voice; you won’t be luring him off for dirty weekends for long.
Allons-y, Amélie; time for the last stage of our journey.