“Fluctuat nec mergitur.”
“Is that Latin?”
“Yes. It’s the motto of Paris–something like, Tossed but not sunk. The French translate it a bit more prettily–She is tossed by the waves but she does not sink.” Then he looked at me. “We’ve all been tossed by the waves, haven’t we, little ‘un? The t-trick is not to sink…”
Hello hello everyone!
He must see my worry because he squeezes my hand and smiles. ‘It’s fine – I’m a bit tired and hungry, that’s all. I haven’t got used to the commute yet. These are pretty,’ he says, looking at the daffodils.
‘One of our neighbours dropped them in.’
His smile fades, replaced by wariness. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I caught her taking photographs of the bedrooms.’ My earlier outrage stirs again.
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, I don’t think it was the Ikea furniture she was interested in. She was on a bloody ghost tour of her own making.’
‘Jesus,’ he mutters.
‘She seemed to remember you.’