He turns to face me, his hands cupping my cheeks in his palms and drawing me to him. His kiss is soft – like he’s already pulling away and there’s a veil slipping between us. We already said goodbye, already said everything, because we both knew this is how it would feel. And even though I want to hold him here, keep his lips on mine, I let him go.
He has to go.
I have to go.
With one smooth motion, he slides something into my hand and steps away from me – his eyes still on mine – and then he turns and opens the car door, dropping onto the seat along with his bags. The door closes and all I can see in the tinted glass of the window is my own reflection, standing in front of the Hopwood, my hand raised in goodbye.
I look down at the piece of paper pressed into my palm; unfold it once, twice, and open it out…and there it is.
My map.
The map I drew, standing by the road, the very first time we met.
He kept it.
He kept it.
A hair ribbon, a letter, a map.
A way out of the maze.
I watch the car creep forward; watch it turn, watch the rear lights disappear into the shadows of the drive until it’s gone. Until he’s gone. And when he is, I watch the daylight move across the lawn, watch the lines of the terrace and the gardens form in sharp shadows. I watch until the sun finally edges around the trees and bathes the whole of the front of the hotel in warm golden light – and I stand there, letting it wash over me, soaking in it, until someone whistles from behind me and calls my name.
When I turn around, Philippe is standing by the corner of the building, right by the staff entrance, wearing his checked chef’s trousers and white jacket with the neck hanging open.
“You want some breakfast? I need a guinea pig for this brioche I’ve been working on!”
He doesn’t. Philippe can make brioche with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back because that’s his job – but he’s trying to make sure that even when I move out of the sunlight, it stays with me.
“Sure,” I say. And with one last look at the emptiness of the drive, I head for the staff entrance, shutting the ache that ripples out from my heart behind a door and turning the last key I have left.
With Hal gone, the world shifts back to how it was – or at least almost how it was. Because even though I’m back on the cleaning shifts with Mira, something is different.
Me.
I’m different.
Or perhaps I’m the same; the same as I was before. Before The Incident. Before…everything.
After that morning, when he steered me down the steps and into the noise and life of the kitchens, Philippe and I started to talk a lot more. I mean, that wasn’t exactly hard, given how much we didn’t talk before, but any time I’m on my break and he’s around, we actually sit together. He tells me about his family, about growing up in the corner of Brittany in France where he’s from, and about how he really wants to ask Libby from the kitchens out but is convinced she’ll say no. Other times, he’s mostly asking me to test whatever new recipe he’s come up with. I don’t know why we weren’t friends sooner – especially when one day, he tells me how he was diagnosed as bipolar II four years ago.
Mira gets her place on the fashion course, and suddenly she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. The funny thing is, I’m actually glad – even though it means she’s one step closer to leaving. Because even though it took some time, I understand now – that’s where she’s supposed to be, and like Charlie said, there’s leaving and there’s leaving, and she’s only leaving. She’ll still be there, because she’s Mira. And she’s my friend.
As we’re getting our stuff from our lockers one afternoon, she whacks my arm with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Ouch! What was that for?” I rub my elbow.
“Page fifteen. In the adverts.”
I skim the page – it’s mostly ads for part-time jobs, things like leafleting, casual work…except for the one at the very bottom.
“Isn’t that the dress shop?”
“It’s a sign.”
“It’s not a sign. It’s an advert.”
“For a job. Yes. You could do that.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You could – and when you’re not working, you could go back to studying.”
My mouth drops open. I actually feel it, like I’m in a cartoon.
Mira rolls her eyes. “We all saw you while he was here.” Like always, she’s careful not to call him by name. I’m grateful, because however much I want to be okay without him here, however much I want to be doing this for me, there hasn’t been a single day since he left that I haven’t thought about him. Every time I knock on the door of room fifteen, part of me hopes he’ll answer. I’ve picked up my phone so many times, almost calling him or messaging him…and it’s only at the last second, as I’ve gone to type his name into the contact box, that I’ve stopped myself.
But then he hasn’t called me either. Of course he hasn’t.
It’s better that way, right?
Yes. And no. I don’t know.
“And what am I supposed to study, wise one?” I ask her, half-laughing as we push through the door into the service corridor.
“History. Obviously.” She slides her sunglasses down over her eyes, stepping out of the staff door and onto the drive into the late September sun.
“Oh, obviously.”
I try to brush it off, but the thought itches inside my brain the whole walk home, like something trying to put down roots. I could, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know anything about it…or like I don’t have something I want to find.
Someone.
Because ever since Hal left, I’ve been looking for Iris. I’ve combed through every single case in the attics – even the ones we checked already – looking for the tiniest clue. I started to look for her online…but even trying to register on some of the sites that might help nearly gave me a panic attack. When I emailed the British Library, I could practically hear them laughing at me over the internet. I even went back to Fallowmill. Nothing. So I stood in the grotto while Charlie and Felix walked around the gardens, and I tried to hear her voice, just like I’d heard Albie’s in his letters…Still nothing.
I kick the front door of the cottage shut behind me and drop my bag in the corner of the front room. Flattening the newspaper on the makeshift table made of Felix’s stacked catalogues, I draw a big red ring around the advert for the vintage shop. I mean, I did like it there. And maybe Mira’s right – maybe it is a sign after all.
“Flora?” Charlie’s voice sounds wrong. Too far away.
“Yeah – where are you?” I shout back.
“Up in the attic. Hang on…” There’s some distant thumping far above my head, and then the clatter of feet on a ladder before he appears at the top of the stairs, brushing dust from his hair.
“Why the hell are you up in the attic?”
Even the word “attic” makes something under my skin shimmer. It makes me think of him.
“I need to clear some kit out of the sheds. Thought I might stick it up here for the winter.” He rubs at his hair again, and a little grey cloud floats down the stairs. “How was your shift?”