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after him. Serge had stood there as the valley emerged into the light. Mist thinned out above the trees and the sound of cowbells tinkled like a thousand churches calling them to mass. His mother had wept quietly, saying simply, ‘You’ll need a suit now.’
    City life. His parents had come to their wedding like shrinking things. Cities were places they’d read about in books. They’d gone back home in the old black Citroën after one night in the hotel. Serge had been terrified that his father would embarrass him by belching at mealtimes or pissing in the street as was the habit of the men at home. He was thankful when they’d gone.
    Two years later, when Annik was pregnant, they’d gone home for a visit. Sleeping in the huge mahogany bed his parents had abandoned for single beds. Nestling into the soft mattress and bolster. Even making love, though she was over three months gone. They’d slept like children until the milk wagon woke them at six o’clock, then dozed again until they’d heard his father calling the dogs.
    The day before they were due to return he’d walked Annik up to the plateau to show her where the gentians and mountain violets grew. Two of the village dogs had followed them, a golden retriever and a black lurcher. The retriever bitch belonged to the squire’s teenage son and the lurcher to the local postman. It had amused Serge to think of the litter of mongrels they’d produce. They’d been like a comic duo, plunging into horse troughs to cool off from the heat, bounding through the fields, startling the red Salers cattle. They’d stopped at the auberge for a glass of Avèze, a bitter-sweet liqueur made from gentian roots. Annik had screwed up her face at it and the men around the bar had laughed and slapped Serge on the back. He’d felt happy for some reason. The dogs had hung about outside the bar, then followed them all the way home. That night she’d woken with a temperature and there had been blood on the sheets. They’d had to telephone for the doctor.
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Serge pushed his plate away. Funny how you could trace things back to one night. As if all sorrow went back to some point that might have been different, or avoided. Annik was watching him. The sound of their breathing was broken by the buzzer ringing on the oven. Annik smiled and rose from the chair. She was a tall woman. Half a head taller than him. Which had puzzled his father.
    â€˜It’s ready. What a surprise!’
    Serge watched her take up the oven gloves and put them on luxuriously like gorgeous fur mittens.
    â€˜Be careful!’
    She laughed gaily.
    â€˜Careful! I’ve made a thousand cakes and never burnt myself once!’
    Annik opened the oven and stood back to let the hot air gush into the kitchen. The light of the oven reddened her hair as she bent down to take out the cake and place it to cool. When she switched the oven off the kitchen fell silent.
    Serge remembered how the wasps had swarmed in the Russian vine under their window on the morning of the walk. The wall had hummed like a tremendous electrical current circling them.
    Annik stood uncertainly for a moment then shook off the oven mitts and sat back down. She took the carnation from her glass and wiped her finger inside the rim, making a faint squeak.
    â€˜Wine please!’
    Serge poured an inch of wine into her glass. He’d spent the day answering emails and processing planning applications. He was dog-tired. And his father had been right, in his way. He’d been right about a few things. Annik put her hand on his wrist, covering the face of his wristwatch. Then she touched the wine to her lips, which parted for a second and closed again, merely breathing across the surface.
    â€˜What a surprise!’
    She clapped her hands and shook back her hair.
    â€˜What a wonderful surprise!’
    â€˜But you haven’t opened your