Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

back, purring. Thanks to him, she felt less alone. Sleep still eluded her. She put on her glasses and looked at the ceiling.

“Mrs. Dalloway, show me my emails, please.”

“Right away, Clarissa. Do you wish to turn off night mode?”

“No, Mrs. Dalloway. I haven’t been able to sleep yet. And don’t give me the time, please.”

“Of course. Here’s a list of your new incoming email.”

Clarissa glanced though the list on the ceiling. Among the new emails was one from her dad and one from Mia White, the student she had not yet responded to.

“Show me my father’s email, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Straight away, Clarissa.”

My darling C…,

I was so happy to chat with you the other day. You look so lovely your flat looks wonderful I must say even to my blind old eyes. What a view and such light. Perfectly understand you don’t want to talk about François. You know how I feel about him. Never liked him. Never. But if you do want to talk I’m here. Remember your old dad can still help. You know I always preferred Toby. I don’t want to go back to such a painful subject but I still feel sad you and Toby divorced. I know the death of the child was too awful too hideous. My heart still bleeds my darling even if it was all those years ago. There’s never a day that goes by without me thinking about the child. Darling I have good news. I’ve been talking to Arthur and I think I’ve made him understand how unfair Serena’s will was. He listened you know. He didn’t hang up or anything. He listened. He’s going to convince his monstrous daughters to give something over to Jordan. Jewels I think. No idea if they’re worth anything. He says he will do it. Don’t mention it if ever he calls. I’m going to fight this all the way my darling. I’m so angry at the old goat. How selfish she was. Do write to me soon. Love from your old dad.

Her father had always moved her, with his unfailing affection, his warmth. She missed him. Should she tell him about François? No, he would be outraged, dismayed. He was too old to hear what she had to say. He would never get over it.

“Do you wish to answer your father now, Clarissa?”

“No, later. Please show me Mia White’s email.”

“Here it is.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dalloway.”

Dear Clarissa Katsef,

I thought I’d give this one more chance. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I wrote to you not long ago. I’ve been in Paris for a couple of weeks now for my new term. I’m staying in an attic room near the rue du Bac. Every time I pass in front of number 108 (which is several times a day), I think of Romain Gary and of you. My mum comes from Nantes, so I’m not too familiar with Paris, really. It’s lovely to be here, though. It’s so very different from the UEA campus! I hear you gave a lecture at my university once. But that was before I got here.

I guess parts of Paris have changed drastically since the attack. I wonder what you make of the new neighborhood? And I presume you’ve heard about the Tower hologram? Do you think it’s a good idea?

If ever you have time to meet me, I would be delighted. I’m sure you’re very busy and you don’t have a moment to yourself. I don’t know that many people here yet. I’ve yet to make friends. I’m sometimes a bit shy, the type to stay at home with a good book! I wonder if you are writing a new novel? It’s been a while since you published one. I know you wrote several TV shows in the past years, and I’ve seen most of them. But a novel, in my view, has so much more resonance than a TV show.

I’ve been writing some stuff of my own since I’ve been here. Not that I’d ever bother you with that. You probably get so many people asking you to look at their work.

Thank you for reading this,

Sincerely,

Mia White

Clarissa pictured a dumpy, lonely, nail-biting teenager. Should she meet her? She was barely older than Andy! She asked Mrs. Dalloway to search the name Mia White. Several social media profiles popped up. She asked Mrs. Dalloway to narrow them down to profiles that were less than twenty years old, connected to the University of East Anglia. There was one profile that matched perfectly. That person liked Virginia Woolf, Romain Gary, Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Françoise Sagan, Philip Roth, Donna Tartt, and Clarissa Katsef. Well, well. Her last posts were all of Paris. The Luxembourg Gardens, Sacré-Coeur, the Louvre, and a newly resurrected Notre-Dame, long-sufferingly restored after the tragic fire.

“Show me her face, please, Mrs. Dalloway.”

Mia White was stunning. She had long chestnut hair, bright blue eyes, a charming smile, lovely teeth. But her appealing physique wasn’t all; a wholesome sweetness stemmed from her, making her all the more endearing. There she was on a beach, with a group of friends, wearing a bikini. Her body glowed with healthy perfection. Another photo showed her curled up on a sofa with a book and a mug, wearing oversize reading glasses. Clarissa found herself fascinated by the number of images that fitted together like a puzzle. Mia and, presumably, her parents in a restaurant, gathered around a birthday cake. Mia as a child, dressed in a fairy costume. Mia in a bookstore. Mia and a boyfriend named David in New York. Mia and another boyfriend (nameless) in Barcelona. Mia making a face with a girlfriend in a nightclub. Mia without makeup. Just as pretty. Mia with a lot of makeup. A cover girl. Clarissa couldn’t help feeling flattered that this lively, striking young girl wanted to meet her. Perhaps she’d make a good friend for Andy? Andy was always complaining about her friends; they were either too fickle or too superficial. But maybe a