Inside the front cover, Miss Ellis has written For Josie, who loves words. Best wishes on your thirteenth birthday from Dorothy Ellis. 11th June 1941.
And then it was time for my party in the courtyard. I’d invited Nina and Kenza and Felix and I did also tell him he could bring his parents. He said they sent their thanks, but they were busy. Out of his pocket, he drew two small lengths of stick and he presented one each to me and Nina. I didn’t know what they were at first, but Nina did. She blew into one end and the stick made the sound of a turtle dove’s coo. It was so realistic that the doves on the roof cooed back, which made everyone laugh. Felix explained that the baker had taught him how to make them, and he had a third one that he’d made for himself. It was another perfect present because it showed that he was thinking about Nina’s story of the brother and sisters. Also, it will always help me remember the happy times I’ve spent in the courtyard with my friends. That made me feel a little bit sad at the same time, because it reminded me that the day will come when we will leave Nina and Kenza behind and who knows if we will see Felix and his parents in America as it’s such a huge country. Also, I doubt I’ll be able to take the bike with me when we go, but then I decided that when we do I will give it to Nina so she will always remember me and that thought cheered me up again.
Kenza had made the most delicious birthday tea, with little cinnamon and almond pastries called gazelle horns, plus the promised cake with the lovely amlou filling. Papa had even managed to lay his hands on some bottles of Coca-Cola for me and Nina and Felix, and the grown-ups drank mint tea. A very good time was had by all.
So I’ve had an amazing day and now feel very tired and happy. My pearl necklace from Annette is on my nightstand next to the turtle dove whistle from Felix, and my leather slippers from Nina and Kenza are beside my bed ready for me to put on in the morning. My bike is downstairs in the hall.
Thinking about it, I’m guessing that the money from the sale of our old house in Paris must have come through, judging by the very generous gifts from my family and the bottle of champagne that Maman and Papa opened at dinner this evening, which they said was to toast both their teenage girls. Annette had a glass too and I had a few sips.
But even though I’m now 13, I have to admit I still prefer lemonade.
Goodnight.
Zoe – 2010
We’ve been invited to Claudine’s for dinner. As I put on my make-up, applying the mask that gives me the confidence to face these kinds of social situations, I smile a little, thinking that Josie would say this was going to be a Dinner Party, capital D, capital P. I’ve become so absorbed in her journal that she feels like a constant companion to me here in the house, keeping me company, a lively presence whose voice can be heard if you listen carefully enough to what lies beneath the silence. In some ways, her world seems more vivid, more real, than mine. Although she’s long gone, she remains a life force, while I am the ghost in this house, drifting through its empty rooms.
I pull the black dress over my head and zip it up, then push my feet into a pair of high-heeled court shoes. It’s the uniform I wear for any formal events to do with Tom’s work: safe, careful, suitable clothes. The dress hangs a little more loosely than it used to, but the shoes pinch more. I suppose my feet must have spread from wearing nothing but my trainers for so long. They’re far more comfortable in the heat when I walk to the library or Monsieur Habib’s shop in the Habous.
Claudine’s house isn’t far from ours, but Tom drives us there anyway in the company car that comes with his job.
Tonight, everything is a reminder of that corporate world, which is the epicentre of our expat universe here in Morocco. The door is answered by a housekeeper, who takes my wrap and then shows us upstairs to the drawing room. The layout of the house is very similar to ours, just on a grander scale and furnished with far more elegance. We step into the room, lit by the diffused glow of a chandelier, and Claudine – the perfect hostess – sweeps us into the gathering, making introductions as she goes. Her husband, Théo, who’s one of the company executives, has the greatest gravitational pull, drawing in Tom and his colleagues as they stand talking business, drinks in hand. The others are dotted in smaller groups, minor satellites in outer orbits. May calls me over to the sofa where she and Kate sit, and I join them, thankful to see their friendly faces. I tuck my feet beneath the couch and surreptitiously slip off my shoes, relieving my pinched toes for a few moments. May introduces me to Suzette, a woman with hair so stiffly lacquered it looks as if it wouldn’t shift even if the full force of the chergui was blowing. She flashes me a brief smile （if Josie were here she would point out that it didn’t quite reach her eyes, though）， and I see her glance taking in my too-loose dress and my too-tight shoes, assessing me and deciding in an instant that I don’t warrant much attention. She turns back to May and Kate, continuing a conversation about where to get the best manicure in the nouvelle ville. I curl my fingers around the stem of my glass, all too aware how ugly my own hands are with their chewed nails and patches of inflammation where the cracks in my skin have become infected.