Day One

By Laureline Roy

At forty-seven, Caroline is hit by fate.

Final blow: the loss of her husband and her children's departure, leaving her alone in an empty house with two dogs for only company... 

A stroke of madness: her sister pushes her to leave France for a job as a housekeeper in a luxury hotel... 

A stroke of luck: the delay of her flight and the unexpected boarding on a private plane to Saint-Hélier... 

A crush: her new home, the island of Jersey... 

What if all that was missing from her rebirth was love at first sight for the enigmatic and seductive Matthew?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071599365

Book preview

Content Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction. While some of the locations are real, the situations and characters described are solely the authors' imagination. Therefore, any resemblance with existing or former people and facts is purely coincidental.

This book contains some scenes that may offend the sensibilities of the young and the uninformed. It is therefore not suitable for minors. The author decline any responsibility in the case where this story would be read by an inappropriate public.

Have a good reading!

Du tourbillon de la vie s'échappe une mélodie

Un matin comme tous les autres,

Un nouveau pari,

Rechercher un peu de magie

Dans cette inertie morose.

Clopin, clopan, sous la pluie,

Jouer le rôle de sa vie

Puis un soir le rideau tombe...

Étienne Daho (Au premier jour)

From the whirlwind of life escapes a melody

A morning like any other,

A new bet,

Look for some magic

In this morose inertia.

Clopin, clopan, in the rain,

Playing the role of your life

Then one evening the curtain falls...

Étienne Daho (Day one)

These few words inspired me...

Laureline Roy

– 1 –

I open my eyes and immediately regret my fate. The sun is not yet filtering through the curtains and the alarm clock on my nightstand barely shows six o'clock in the morning. I'm screwed.

Damn, it can't be! Is an hour or two of respite too much to ask? Why am I waking up so early?

Too bad! I know very well why, but I cover my face, like every morning. Antoine always got up at this time to go to work. Despite the six months that have gone by since he left me, I still haven't been able to break this now unnecessary habit.

I angrily roll over, ignoring the alarm clock, to see his side of the bed. His place is obviously empty or at least he is not there, but my two little ones are. Maya and Style lifted their heads as they felt me move. Since the tragedy, they have insidiously invaded all my space. Over the months, they have claimed the place that my husband occupied during our twenty-seven years together. In my bed, of course, but on the sofa as well, where I remain absorbed in front of the television, in many of my thoughts too, to fill the void of absence.

Hi, kids! I'm glad that you are here. What would I do without you?

I smile at them, stupidly, unable to resist this pair of amber marbles which smoulder me with love. Besides, although they are just dogs, I do not have to take my bad temper on them. My brave companions wag their tails, licking my cheeks, signalling that it is time to get up for another melodramatically boring day. Yep, just like every morning I am also prone to self-pity.

Come on, Carol, move on. They will not leave you alone, and you know that well enough.

Ten past six already; I begin my daily ritual brimming with hypocrisy and exasperated sighs. I am up at dawn cursing a husband who has irreparably abandoned me, dogs who refuse to sleep late in a house that is too big and quite silent. All that sterile wailing bundled up in some old misshapen tracksuit that replaced my nightgowns, but keeps me much warmer.

In a rush of tenderness, Maya flips over the frame placed on Antoine's nightstand, a photo taken in Venice five years earlier. I pick it up, wincing.

This stuff shouldn't even be here anymore!

That getaway was to re-bond as a couple, away from the daily routine and children, to give us a break and rekindle the flame. And that was indeed the case at the time. We had strolled along the canals, holding hands. We talked and laughed at little things like we hadn't in months. Unfortunately, upon our return, it was clear that the embers were definitely burning out. The passion of our young years had slowly turned into reciprocal tenderness, in loving roommates. Antoine had become over time into husband whom I respected out of habit, but who no longer made me cringe. A disenchantment that I hid behind my role as a model housewife. While he travelled incessantly on business, I stayed much too often alone taking care of the two children, by myself, night after night, in our double bed, our big bedroom, our big house. Antoine had not been with me, with us, his family, for a long time.

I left the hypocritical memory in its original place without batting an eyelid. This image of our smiling faces on the Bridge of Sighs is nothing more than a masquerade intended to reassure our loved ones, our children mainly. Yet again this morning, and hauntingly in recent times, a human presence, though fleeting like that of a distant husband, would seem like a blessing to me.

Just as motivated as when I woke up, I force myself to go down the stairs, to play my role as a housewife as usual, if only to ensure the well-being of my dogs by feeding them. Maya the Labrador Retriever devours her kibble as if her life depended on it. Style, the Spanish greyhound, is moderate and fussy, like a delicate princess. I automatically make myself a giant mug of black coffee, open the garden door for the girls to pee out, flop onto the living room sofa and zip up my sweatshirt. The coffee, too hot, burns my throat. I curse it, placing it on the coffee table and grabbing my mobile. It finished charging overnight and I will be able to read, if any, the SMS and other emails that I may have missed yesterday when the battery ran out. Finally, like anticipated Christmas presents, I find three unread messages; I open them in a surge of positive energy, too happy to have, for once, a distraction from my morning bad mood.

The first, from Morgane, my pretty twenty-five-year-old blonde freshly settled in Paris with her sweetheart, tells me that her new job as a travel agent is so cool.

Thanks, Tati Anne for the contact!

The second comes directly from Australia. My twenty-year-old baby, Raphaël, is taking a sabbatical year to travel around the world to find his way and recharge his batteries after the tragedy . He informs me that he has not yet been devoured by a crocodile, but that mosquitoes are legion.

If he thinks that a note of humour can make me forget that he has not given me any life sign for ten days, he's wrong, my unworthy son!

He plans to wander around Sydney for a while before continuing on to Melbourne or returning to France. I imagine that his wallet will decide.

The third message was sent by my brilliant, and no less infuriating younger sister Anne, director of human resources for a tour operator, which explains a large part of my daughter's so cool job. As usual, she is quite terse.

I'll call you at eight o'clock tonight. We need to talk.

Damn sis. Not a word too many. An iron fist in a velvet glove! Where did your sisterly love go?

I hasten to respond to my two loves.

Hi, sweetie. I was sure this job was for you! Remember to thank your aunt. I love you, my kitten. Go for it and hang on! This one is the right one. Kisses.

I always have to outdo positivism with Morgane. My daughter just got her third job in six months, a far cry from the standard model of stability. But my big girl is finally independent and may even discover a calling. Hallelujah!

Hello, my little man. Please keep your old mother posted of your whereabouts more than once a fortnight. Have you received my transfer? I guess so, otherwise you would have written me much earlier. Take good care of yourself, my darling, and watch out for kangaroos! Kisses.

He, on the other hand, is the king of I-don't care. You never leave your mother without news! This not quite autonomous traveller, however, should know this.

I put the phone down, reassured about the fate of my children, but with that sense of unfinished business in the bottom of my heart that is so familiar to me. I would have liked to write them so much more... Reason nevertheless always wins over my instinct as an overprotective mother. I don't want them to worry about me. It has been four months now since they left the nest again. More than a month since the funeral to support me, take care of me, cuddle me. Showing them my loneliness or my lack of enthusiasm would be the perfect excuse for them to return. It is certainly not the future that I wish them, so I shut up, I cover it up. While dreaming of their chimerical return, I fall back for a moment in my old ways, I imagine a divinely perfect life, all three reunited... as before. Quickly, however, I recover, preventing my mind from wandering to a utopian world harmful to my mental health. I must move on before I fall into a fatal catatonia. With a determined step, and my pair of granny's slippers on, I climb the stairs again.

Morgane's room catches my gaze, bathed in the bright sunlight that finally rises towards the horizon. Impeccably tidy, just like the whole house since my recent passion for cleaning arose, my eldest has left all her childhood memories there. I run my fingertips along the trophy-filled shelves, pausing at the photos on the wall. Morgane riding most of the obstacle courses with Gitano, pampering him in the stable, sitting on the straw, her kikinou nibbling on her neck. She again, galloping on Forever, my modified thoroughbred, smiling from ear to ear on her little four-horseshoes Ferrari, as she liked to call him. The daughters of the family carry horses in their blood. I had bought Forever on impulse, right after we moved into the house, an old farmhouse on the village outskirts. A large plot next to the main building and an adjoining barn that could serve as a shelter. The place was perfect to fulfil my dream as a little girl. Later on, for Morgane's 10th birthday, her father and I gave her Gitano, her pony.

Things have changed a lot since then. I still own the large house, but the surroundings are deserted. My old Forever had left me three years earlier. Gitano had gone too, but to Virginie, a friend from the village. She and her daughter Emma looked after the horses during our absences. When Morgane left to Paris, she offered her pony to a delighted Emma.

This house is cursed. Everyone leaves it one day or another... except me. I am the last guardian of the Temple, always faithful to the post...

Once my inspection tour of photographs and dust was over, I reluctantly close the bedroom door and realize... that a good hour has gone by. Although I am in no hurry, I reproach myself for having again been carried away by an excess of sentimentality.

Come on, bum! The scrubbing, dressing, cleaning operation is on again, because that's right, boredom makes me manic. Filling the fridge, even if cooking for one person is not exciting. Fitting dogs, even if it is not said, it rhymes. And, lastly, pecking in front of the TV... Planning my delirious day is complete, brilliant!

I go into my now single-parent room, open the closet to mindlessly pull out my favourite outfit, black leggings and a chunky knit sweater that reaches mid-thigh, then I go to the bathroom next door. Lights dazzle me and the mirror attacks me. I squint to get a better look.

Damn, you're still here! You haven't changed... Pity.

I definitely don't like the woman in front of me. But rather than avoiding her as often happens, today I observe her and face her. And nothing, hence, better than a verbal self-flagellation session with a therapeutic-lapidary purpose!

"Hello, my old Caro! Oh yes, with forty-seven years it is undeniable that you are My Old Woman... actually, My Fat Old Woman, if I am to believe this horror vision. But no, look at you, it's pathetic. Seven kilos in six months! You veil your face thinking that this slight overweight is discreetly distributed over your five-foot-five. You are absolutely wrong. You have more hips and went up two pant sizes! And that hair! They haven't seen the hairdresser for months. Your legs haven't seen the razor since Methuselah either, Miss Yeti, and I realize you've chosen a super glam outfit again... You pig!"

I naïvely thought that by asserting myself my four truths out loud, a hint of rebellion would rise out of my apathy, but damn it, not a flinch. I only face a body that I royally deny and a mind plunged into emptiness two-thirds of the day.

OK, let's get back to square one! I'm ugly, pathetic, useless and... I don't care!

On the strength of this observation, which does nothing to boost my morale, I take my shower in a mindless zombie mode, dress myself and do my hair in a hurry, carefully avoiding the mirror of shame and decide, by closing the house door, to conceal this unproductive monologue from my memory once and for all.

So the day is going strangely well considering all the unpleasant details that I force myself not to see and all the feelings I choose not to have. I stealthily browse the supermarket shelves, buy individual ready-made meals. The small village spirit is not all good, and meeting an acquaintance would force me to engage in a conventional conversation tinged with an attention that, at best, would be indifferent me and, at worst, would really get on my nerves.

Back home, I put on my old rubber boots for a walk with the dogs through the muddy countryside. At the beginning of April, a torrential and sudden downpour awaits me, so I return home soaked, my drained and shapeless hair stuck to my face. But again, I could not care less, there is no longer a living soul to notice it. The few friends who have remained faithful to me no longer pass by as a gust of wind or call to invite me to the village café which I almost systematically refuse. My chronic lack of enthusiasm ended up putting them off, and I understand them, I get desperate with myself.

Gone is the sociable and cheerful woman I was six months ago. I then had the simple life of a wife supported by a conciliatory husband, a network of good, idle but dynamic friends, adorable children to raise. It is difficult, under such circumstances, to imagine that a foggy evening, a deer and running off the road could put a life so much in perspective. Antoine left for a better world; I keep reminding myself that Antoine went to a better world. It is shamefully abject and selfish to have such a thought, but Great for you! Because I stayed in this world, and it is nowhere near as wonderful as everyone tries to tell me over and over again.

Anyway, after a wet walk, after cleaning just for doing it, since nothing is dirty, and a telephone which did not ring once all day, -what a surprise!- I get busy my late afternoon to open the mail. I leave on the living room table a monstrous pile of adds among which, however, hides a murderous letter: my bank account statement. I don't want to open it; I already know what's in it. I am in the orange zone, very close. The funeral payment, house expenses, taxes and repeated financial support to my children have slowly eaten up my last savings account. I reread the balance twice, albeit unequivocally. It's worse than I thought, at the beginning of the month I'll be flirting with the overdraft.

Shipwreck in sight!

Weary, I put the bank statement in its envelope and throw everything on the table. I calmly grab my evening comforts, that is, the remote control and the package of chips that should be serving for dinner, but the mobile ringing stops me in my tracks. Shit! Anne's photo appears on the screen, much earlier than expected. Psychologically, I am not ready, but I answer the call with a good nonsense. Either way, she's going to insist.

You're early. Didn't we say eight o'clock? What a bummer!

My venom just spat out, and I already regret it. Looking like a foul-mouthed bitch with the attack as the only line of defense is far from calming me. But, in my defense, my sister calls me these days only to reproach me for my relaxed attitude, and I suspect that this conversation will be no different than the previous days.

Hi, Caro. I'm also glad to hear you. I'm still at work, that's why I called you earlier. Shaking up your busy schedule?

That's it, here we go again, she is scathing. Feeling weariness dawning, I sigh in exasperation, hoping to unceremoniously convey my deep disdain to her.

No, it's fine. Just a pack of potato chips for a date. It will get over it!

Maybe a touch of humor will save my day, but I doubt it!

OK, I see... So, nothing has changed?

Yes, my bank account statement.

Do you want my opinion? No? Well, you have no choice. Leave your countryside, your little view of the snow-capped mountains. It's as idyllic as you wish, but it's not the only thing in life! Better yet, sell that lost cabin and find something smaller in town... Hey, wake up a bit... Are you still here?

Yes, I haven't hung up on you yet. For the countryside, you may be right. I thought about it, just imagine. Financially, that would be the most reasonable thing to do. Despite what you think, I still have some neurons working, and you know that I usually have my feet on the ground.

Except that at this moment, you are seriously stuck! Find something near me, for example, and find new things to do. Let loose your great countryside!

What I need above all is a job, anything to replenish my wallet.

What's stopping you?

Take a hint, gorgeous! I have never worked in my life and I only have an unusable English license as a Curriculum Vitae. Other than waitress or cashier, I see no other option. And yet, at my age, I have every chance of being turned down, even for this kind of positions. All I can do is run a house, cook, babysit, and manage the family budget. Uplifting, right?

...

Hey, are you listening to me?

Yes, yes, I did hear you, I was thinking. I wouldn't want to step too far, but... I'll call you back.

I cannot believe it; this bitch is daring!

Anne just hung up on me, with no warning, nothing, while I was giving her crucial information. So, it does not matter to learn that eventually, even against myself, I might get rid of the house, look for a job, in short, that I am potentially ready to move my butt? It may be that the lady is a fine psychologist in her company, but she does not do humanitarian work with those close to her! Terrified by so much flippancy, I try to contact her again, without success. I inevitably come across her damn voice mail. There's no use trying to call her landline at her home, Anne said she was still at work. Knowing her, she may not return home until 11:00 p.m. or midnight. This is what her marriage and joint custody of her child earned her. Career: one. Family: zero.

That's not cool at all, sis! Never there when you need to!

While I am brooding over my disappointment, I fall back, as expected, to my chips and an American detective series that requires no effort of concentration.

At around 11:00 p.m., my mobile rings again.

Wow, you, again. Have you seen what time it is?

Hi again, sister. Sorry about earlier, but I had divine enlightenment and had to check it out ASAP. Look, I just have one question for you before explaining my idea to you in detail. Are you listening?

Anne does not offer me the time to answer and she immediately follows in a melodramatic tone that does not suggest anything good.

Would you be willing to give me two months of your life? Come on, answer. Don't think about it and tell me if, starting tomorrow, you would be willing to leave everything for me.

My pathologically defeatist brain locks itself at once into Catastrophe mode.

What is this question? Damn, she's sick, she needs my support. Cancer maybe. Oh no, no, no, she would not ask me for such a commitment, in such a tone, if it wasn't super serious.

Of course, I would leave everything for you, that's obvious. What is it? Are you sick? Come on, explain yourself, shit!

I yelled so loud the dogs fled from the couch at the storm warning. My heart was pounding, my sweaty hands clenched on the phone, but the voice that speaks back to me is strangely cheerful.

Great! That's what I wanted to hear. You promise, right? Are you willing?

Yes, I promise. Now throw in the bad news.

Huh? No, I just found you a job, no one died! On the contrary, this is very good news.

Wow, my old lady, you go beyond the bounds of decorum, even between sisters!

I imagined the worst, a devastating illness, I have been in apnea and on the verge of syncope for five minutes, and Anne quietly offers me a job! Enraged, I yell all the more.

What? I'm scared to death and, at this totally inappropriate hour you are talking to me about a job? Couldn't you wait until tomorrow morning?

No, I definitely couldn't wait. I am really sorry for your little adrenaline rush, my apologies! I'll share the idea with you and I want you to think about it very seriously, all night long if you have to. I expect an answer tomorrow morning. And don't forget that you promised and that a few seconds ago you were willing to give everything up for me. That being said, do I have your attention?

Yes, that's how she is. My heart slowly returns to a normal rhythm. I settled back on the sofa, and above all, Anne took that tone that I know her so well from "Mrs. I'll handle it" which makes me hope that her project is perhaps not so far-fetched.

Go on, I'm listening. Tell me about your heaven-sent job in the capital. But don't get carried away too quickly. I won't say yes without a good argument.

Well, I'm sorry, but it's not in Paris. It's in... Jersey.

I choke on, open my mouth for yet another outraged howl, but Anne gives me no time to interrupt.

You know my friend Jocelyne... Actually, no you don't know her. We were colleagues for ten years and very good friends too. We stopped seeing each other, but we stayed in touch. And in fact, I heard from her just yesterday. For three years, she has been the manager of a luxury hotel in Jersey. She told me that she was in trouble because one of her housekeepers broke her leg, which resulted in plaster, convalescence, rehabilitation, imagine the picture. In other words, she's having trouble and needs someone as soon as possible; a trustworthy person to cover her employee's two-month absence. And that's when you're going to find me awesome... I thought of you!

Her tirade was very well prepared, with great skill she seeks for me to swallow a pill bigger than a grapefruit. Anne takes a breath, and I take the opportunity to intervene by barking into the microphone.

But that's not right! I have no idea what the job of a housekeeper is like, much less in a luxury hotel and in an English-speaking country. You really are out of your mind, you know?

Hey, don't panic! I talked about it with her for over an hour. She knows your case, Antoine's death, your depression, the lost hole in which you live, money worries. In short, she knows everything. And I was able to convince her to give you a chance as a room service assistant. You are organized, careful, not to say maniac. You have always been hyper sociable. This position could be perfect for you. But most of all, you would start over in a totally different and particularly exhilarating place. Isn't that exciting?

"First of all, I'm not a hopeless case, as you might have led your old friend to believe. It is humiliating and degrading. And as for English, what do I do, do I take crash courses Be-Bilingual-In-Three-Days?"

What's more! You already speak English. You may not practice every day anymore, but you know some. You really look at it very reluctantly!

I admit, caught off guard, this first hurried argument does not hold up. Pragmatic, I try a second approach, this time irrefutable.

Fine, you've got a point. But what about the dogs? I cannot abandon them. And the house? Where am I going to live? Have you already thought about the cost of getting there?

For housing, it is already planned. You have a studio on the property. You will also have food and cleaning services. You'll wear a nice uniform, isn't that cool? As for the dogs, I asked her. I knew you would get away with that argument. Well, that's also solved. There is no quarantine, and Jocelyne agrees that you bring them. I add to that a rather attractive salary and a small bonus: I'll take care of the plane tickets. So, what do you think of my brilliant idea?

Damn, she has the answer to everything, that bitch! What do I think? That I'm trapped with her two-shot idea and that I no longer find any valid objection except that of being scared to death.

Faced with the emergency, my mind at a standstill finally engages the first. I must identify, in this devilishly orchestrated plan, the loophole that would allow me to buy time or reject it without seeming overly timid.

Actually, I don't know... This proposal is very sudden and totally insane. Leave me think about it overnight. Huh, please, Anne, a night of patience?

Without much glory, I play it plaintively. Under normal circumstances, this tactic works great on Anne, just me and her son, and in dire situations. And tonight is a desperate situation, at least from my perspective. Magnanimous, she finally granted me my night of reflection, but not without first taking out d from me the solemn promise to give my answer the next day before 10:00 a.m.

~

Four o'clock in the morning.

With my chin resting limply in the palm of my hand, I stare at my notepad with black reproachful eyes. I've just spent five tedious hours listing the pros and cons of this insane project. Exhausted, the brain on the verge of neuronal explosion, the balance sheet is there, black and white under my eyes: there is no negative argument that is not solvable.

Okay, I see. This junk list wants me dead. So, what do I do now? Do I jump or not? Damn, this idea is freaking me out. But if I stay here, what will I become? What does it come down to, my life, today?

Faced with the obvious, I have to make up my mind: Anne was right, I bury myself in my countryside. This trip is perhaps the only opportunity to give a kick to the hermit life that I currently lead. I read again the scribbles at the bottom of my sheet, a rough draft of the essentials of the hasty departure according to my philosophy. As an orderly woman that I have learned to be, I know that my passport is still valid and the girls' vaccines are up to date. The rest are just details and require a bit of organization, but I master to perfection on that.

To be on the safe side, I prepare a deferred confirmation SMS at 8:00 a.m. for Anne. I took a decision, probably much too quickly, but it's no longer negotiable. I accept, and my decision makes me dizzy. With the bad faith characteristic in me, I blame it on fatigue and not on panic. Lying on the couch, I close my eyes, forbidding myself to surreptitiously reach for my phone in a last burst of lucidity in the face of the monumental stupidity that I am about to commit. Against all expectations, my head went blank in less than a minute.

~

Tuesday, 7:57 a.m.

I wake up before the alarm goes off. Despite the meager four hours of sleep, I am in great shape, serene about my decision. The doubts of the day before have now given way to an uncontrollable urge to move forward. I grab my mobile, and send the message validates before my eyes. If I had wanted to back off, it was too late... So much the better.

OK, confirm my arrival to your friend.

Anne responds within a minute, obviously already on a war footing.

Message sent to whom it may concern. Plane tickets being validated for Friday, but to be reconfirmed. Good choice. I love you.

Brief, but effective exchange, as always between us.

The obliged immutable ritual, I go into the kitchen to prepare myself the first of a long series of coffees, give the girls their croquettes, open the garden door and take the opportunity to officially announce our next departure. Distressing! My dogs are the first to learn about our trip, as if they could understand anything about it. I have nothing to lose in telling my green plants as well and to definitely be labeled as neurotic. I can't stand still, I'm impatient with this early morning which is already dragging on too long. It's 8:15 a.m., a bit early for my friends, but I'm still sending a group text to my five most important contacts.

Great news : I'm leaving to Jersey in three days; got a job. Need help emptying the house before putting it up for sale. Who can spend the day tomorrow with me?

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, I received the answer from each one, all more surprised and intrigued than the last, but all of them ready for a Moving marathon day. The questions, I'm sure, will be for tomorrow.

Throughout the morning, I frantically chained the phone calls and the kilometers by car, I contacted Mr. Vermont, the real estate agent of the village, because yes, I still live in a very large village and there is an agency, I continue with an impromptu visit to Jacques, my vet, to check the girls' passports. In doing so, he carried out the mandatory deworming treatment to enter Jersey and I urgently ordered two transport crates approved for air transportation. Finally, back home and after having carefully weighed each word of each sentence, I send the emails to my children, explaining my project to them, highlighting the benefits of a change of scenery and a return to a professional activity. Pretexting the whirlwind of preparations, and especially to avoid any question that would shake my already failing optimism, I ask them not to call me immediately and promise to give them news as soon as I settle on the island.

Maïté and her good communicative humor arrive early in the afternoon. The exuberant young woman, a hairdresser-beautician home service, responded to my plea and went at short notice to pamper me. Today, I really need her positive vibes and her good hands for my shamefully neglected body. Maïté also confirms to me with a falsely disapproving pout and a great burst of laughter that indeed, the land has been lying fallow for far too long. After three hours of going between the gentle bliss of massages with essential oils and the devastating pain of waxing, Maïté asserts that I have been transformed. I have a doubt, but cannot hide from the reflection in the mirror, that, for the first time in months, I find myself almost drinkable. This short boyish cut, to give hair volume and enhance my pretty face, I tell myself as a well-learned lesson, and the crash course in beauty care work wonders for my self-esteem.

Tonight, I neither need nor want to dwell on the TV program. I thoroughly enjoy my microwave-warmed dinner, glance at the evening paper, then put it down focus on the next day's tasks. A *small paper listing later, I go up to bed with my dog guard. It is barely 10:00 p.m., but the fatigue of my short night the night before throws me in a few minutes in the arms of Morpheus.

~

Waking up at dawn, I dread the day that awaits me. My friends are on the war footing at 9:00 a.m. sharp, excited, bombarding me with questions, twisting and turning like a swarm of worker bees. The house is meticulously inspected, no trinkets are forgotten. Without qualms, they pack up, and slowly I wither away, overwhelmed by their enthusiasm and liveliness. They are activated without hesitation, I second them without thinking and with not much result. In front of my growing apathy, they give me a moment of respite to clear my room. Since Antoine's disappearance, I had never had the courage to sort out his belongings. Today, packing our intimate memories in boxes is a necessity that I have to take care of on my own. I dutifully store the clothes in old suitcases, trying not to dwell on every sweater, jacket, or shirt he wore that I'm folding for the last time. Then I put aside the few outfits that I consider suitable for my trip. Closets are empty, the clothes are packed and, in the end, I only take a paltry little suitcase. A shopping session is essential, at least to invest in the basics. The rest will be bought on site, when I have a more accurate idea of Anglo-Saxon clothing standards.

At 5:00 p.m. the house is ready, sanitized, empty of all memories. There is no trace of Antoine, the children, or me. Our time here lies in ordinary cardboard boxes confined in the dusty barn. Friends leave as they arrived, in a whirlwind of hugs and promises of quick, detailed news.

Mr. Vermont goes as planned, at 6:00 p.m. takes dozens of photos, makes me sign the sales contract and politely wishes me Good luck for the future. Right now, I hate him. He knows nothing of my future, much less whether it will be good. He can't imagine how much my protective shell cracks when I initial these papers. My house no longer belongs to me. I leave it behind me like all those