The train rattled through the stations, most of her fellow passengers with their heads in books. Jasmine carried her trusty battered satchel across her shoulder, with sketch-pads, pencils and charcoal inside, ready to start her classical drawings. The meeting with Bernard Courbet last night had unsettled her – and Marielle’s revelations had shocked her to the core. Feeling lonely, she scrabbled in her satchel and took out the letter from Howard. The words that had annoyed her yesterday were oddly comforting now. She would give anything for him to be here with her right now. He wouldn’t let Bernard Courbet lay a finger on her or allow his wife to bully her. She imagined Howard punching him on the nose – and putting the hoity-toity Madame Courbet in her place. But Howard wasn’t here.
Jasmin
