Ria

Ria

She wandered downstairs after a fitful sleep, rubbing her eyes and yawning as she entered the kitchen, expecting to see her mother, bustling about.

To her astonishment, it was a grim-faced Camille and Beatrice who sat at the well-scrubbed, spotlessly clean kitchen table, sipping coffee. Beatrice looked as though she had been weeping and Ria rushed forward in alarm, hurrying to wrap her arms around the old woman’s shoulders. That was when she became aware of Philippe Diaz lounging in the doorway, a mug of steaming coffee in his large hands. She felt the flush rise up in her cheeks. She was in her short shorts and her T-shirt, a well-worn one and her golden hair was in an untidy braid, over a shoulder.

But he helped her out; Philippe turned to place the mug on the counter and with a nod at her and a ‘See you later, Bea,’ he strolled out into the hallway, heading to her father’s study.

She felt ridiculously bereft and tried not to look after his disappearing back. But then, she remem