“I’ve started it,” I say evasively.
The truth is these kinds of books scare me. They make me feel inadequate for not being the self-possessed, fiercely independent woman I know I should be, or at least should aspire to be.
“Laura, it’s going to change your whole outlook,” Vanya says. “It talks about this idea of being roar, like raw—R-A-W—but spelled the tiger way, it’s about following your instincts rather than the narrow path society has presented us with.”
“Do you think it’s possible to be a romantic and also a feminist?” I ask, my eyes drawn back toward the foaming waves.
“Of course it is.”
“Because sometimes I feel conflicted; like I want to stand up to the patriarchy and everything, but I’d also quite like to be in love and have a boyfriend.”
“Look,” Vanya says with a sigh, “Michelle Obama is queen of modern feminism, but she’s still a wife and mother and she still has great hair. It’s about having the right to choose—you can choose to put on a pinny and be a fifties housewife if you want, you can choose to travel to Peru and join a commune or enlist in the space program and be the first woman on Mars. You can live how you like; but the point is we should have the chance to choose, not get railroaded into a role society dictates for us.”
She is right. Vanya surprises me sometimes. She is this dichotomy of Tinder and hangovers and looking for love in all the wrong places, but she is also self-possessed and self-aware and radiates this inner strength I sometimes fear I have lost. I feel surer of myself when I am around her, and that is a valuable attribute for a friend to have.
“Like, this search for Hot Suitcase Guy,” I say. “Do you think even believing in fate or destiny feels dated now somehow? Like, it’s a little nineties Meg Ryan, rather than twenty-first-century ‘take control of your own destiny.’？” I screw up my face, unsure what my point is, my mind fizzing with unformulated philosophies.
“If you want to be nineties Meg Ryan, I am so here for that,” says Vanya firmly. “People have believed in fate for longer than they’ve believed the world is round—it will never go out of fashion.”
The conversation with Vanya reassures me; I’m not crazy, I’m just a romantic. Once we’ve said good-bye, I look up Maude Le Maistre on my phone while muttering under my breath, “If I want to be Meg Ryan, I can be Meg sodding Ryan.” I find an address and a phone number. YES! Screw you and your “data protection,” Keith, I found her anyway, ha!
I try her number and it clicks straight to an answering machine. She has one of those messages older people use, where they just give their phone number rather than their name. I leave my details, explaining about her son’s bag. The trail finally feels as though it’s getting warmer.
It’s her birthday tomorrow, he has a gift for her in his suitcase—surely, he has to notice he has the wrong bag before then? What if he lost his phone, or he’s been in an accident? What if he’s in the hospital now, with my suitcase, and he’s lost all power of speech, but he’s desperately trying to communicate with the doctors about needing to get the case back to its rightful owner? Maybe I should call the hospital, just in case.
As my mind darts down unlikely alleys, I open Google Maps to see where Maude lives in relation to where I am. Then I see a street name I recognize from yearly Christmas cards: Rue du Val Bach. Only a few minutes’ walk from where I’m standing—Mad Aunt Monica’s house.
4 December 1995
Annie,
I am sorry it has come to this, but with all that’s happened, I think it best we cease communicating. Losing my son and my mother this year has been upsetting enough, without the added distress you have contributed to our lives. Clearly, you and I are never going to see eye to eye on what is right, and what belongs to whom. I don’t want to be reminded of it every time you get in touch, so it would be better if you are not.
You will not receive another penny from our family. Anything else pertaining to Alexander’s estate, please contact my lawyer, details enclosed.
Love and best wishes to your daughter,
Sue Le Quesne
Chapter 11
If I’m going to get a firsthand account of Mum and Dad’s story from anyone, it will be from great-aunt Monica. There are only a few houses on the road, so her place is easy to find. As soon as I see the front garden, I know it must be hers. Ceramic ornaments litter the lawn and patio. They are all hedgehog figurines carrying out various hobbies—a ballerina hedgehog, a hedgehog in waders with a fishing rod, and two ceramic hedgehogs on a miniature tandem bicycle. Now I come to think about it, most of the Christmas cards I’ve received were hedgehog-themed: hedgehogs in Christmas hats or poking out of stockings, hedgehogs on ice skates or encased in snow to make spiky snowballs.