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contour of her cheekbones, the line of her jaw, the swell of her lips, the retroussé nose, every plane and curve . . .
    ‘I’m thinking that I shall remember this day – this last, perfect, halcyon day – for as long as I live,’ he said.
    16 Aug. 1919
    The sands of Raguenez,
    Pont-Aven
,
    Finistère.
    We’ve had the most gorgeous day out here all day, bathing and running about in bathing dresses on deserted sands. This is the beautifullest stretch of coast, sands and lovely brown cliffs, and not overrun with trippers.
    We are as fit as fiddles, and Scotch! – he’s so brimming over with energy and good health that he can’t leave me in peace for 2 seconds. He spends his time killing imaginary flies on me, and it’s an awful job to keep him in order – quite hopeless.
    We are getting faces the colour of nothing on earth. We are about to have a picnic now consisting of biscuits and jam, blackberry jam that we have made ourselves. We gathered the blackberries, sneaked the sugar from restaurants etc, and made it on the little stove in the tea basket – tray bon – this is the second lot we have made, so we’re feeling very proud of ourselves.
    Cheerio, dears. By jove! What a holiday we are having!
    The aroma of coffee drifted under the door of the bedroom on the third floor of the hotel. Was that what had woken her? Or had it been the tinny sound of the church bell striking the hour? Or the squabbling of sparrows under the eaves? Or the plangent French accents floating up from the narrow street below? Or had it been the wind that was gusting fiercely in from the north through the open window and setting the curtains billowing?
    She turned to take Scotch in her arms, but he was gone.
    There came a knock at the door.
    ‘Madame?’
    ‘Come in, Suzette.’ Reaching for her wrapper, Jessie shrugged it on.
    It wasn’t Suzette. It was Madame Simonet.
    ‘Have you given your little girl the morning off?’ asked Jessie, idly knotting her sash.
    ‘No, Madame. I wanted to wake you myself. I have something to tell you.’
    Jessie looked up. The woman’s expression was anguished. She was twisting one of the strings of her apron and could barely bring herself to meet Jessie’s eyes.
    Jessie was instantly alert. ‘You have bad news, Madame? What is it?’
    ‘My – my husband was up early this morning, before cockcrow. He went to the milking parlour to fetch fresh cans for breakfast, and on the way there he saw Scotch get up on to a drover’s cart.’
    Jessie gave her a look of enquiry, then shrugged, trying to conceal her surprise. ‘Maybe he wanted to make haste to paint today,’ she hazarded, ‘to catch the dawn light before we pack up.’
    ‘He had his painting satchel with him, that is true. But he also had – other luggage.’
    ‘What other luggage?’
    ‘A suitcase. And a holdall. He left money to cover the bill. I’m sorry Madame, to have to bring you such news.’ Madame Simonet bowed her head, then backed out of the room clumsily.
    Feeling like a woman sculpted from ice, Jessie moved to the wardrobe and opened the door. All Scotch’s clothes were gone, and all his effects. The only item that remained was a kerchief that had fallen to the floor, one that he habitually wore around his neck. She picked it up and pressed it to her face. He was gone. Of course he was. And she knew where.
    Scotch had left her for the Italian girl.

CHAPTER FOUR
BABA
LONDON 1939
    THE BIG SHOT from the Pru pulled some strings, and Baba was put on the payroll at Denham Studios. Her job description – second assistant script girl on
The Thief of Bagdad
– turned out to be something of a misnomer, because (a) she was really just expected to run errands, and (b) there actually was
no
script.
The Thief of Bagdad
just sort of happened – with bits of it being made up as it went along.
    Sometimes it seemed impossible that the movie would ever get finished, so gargantuan was the scale of the project. Baba got used to overhearing