IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

Days 1, 2 & 3

Una has ten days to change the past.

The cobbles are uneven beneath her feet, pressing onto the soles of her shoes which are old, tired, rubbery slapping against the stones. She's not in a particular hurry, and she wanders slowly down each street. It looked different online. In person, there's a certain charm.

She walks past a brook, shielded on either side by steep green banks and wizened trees. Una wants to take off her shoes and socks, wants to paddle like a child with her trousers rolled up to her knees. It's pleasant enough to be wearing a t-shirt, and a grey sun splices the clouds, warming her bare arms. Una stops for a moment, wondering if he used to come here when he was younger, if he used to trek through the shallow waters with his little friends.

She turns her back on the water and stares up at the sun, relishing the throb of pain behind her eyes before she shuts them tightly. What is she doing here?

It was stupid to believe she could find him just from the name of a town, from a faintly-remembered photo of a house from years ago. She should be mature by now, she should think differently, act differently. But Una is still the same as she was, behaving like a reckless teenager. What if he's different? What if he has changed and she's the same?

Una carries on, up the incline, passing a lady with a small dog. Neither of them are particularly friendly. She supposes the suitcase and backpack are a giveaway that she's not supposed to be here.

Picking up the small case so it makes less noise, she carries her luggage the rest of the way, hoping for a spot of tarmac somewhere so she can travel inconspicuously. This particular area of the village seems to harbour an aversion to tarmac.

Her accommodation for this trip is not the prettiest. A plain, ugly building, it sits unceremoniously between another row of ugly buildings and an Intermarché, a two minute walk in the opposite direction. The woman at the front desk smiles when Una attempts to check into her room in broken French, and she replies in perfect English. So much for the online course Una took before coming here, although she can't complain. At least she can now say 'the beans are on the plate' and 'the boys make leather'.

On her first evening there, Una picks up a bag of pasta and a jar of puréed tomato, plus a tin of anchovies. At the till, she produces a fifty euro note for her seven euro purchase. The cashier looks less than impressed.

Going back to her room, Una lets the hot tap run, boils some water in the kettle, and shakes in half the bag of pasta. After ten minutes, she empties the pasta into a mug. Adds in tomato purée, a couple of anchovies, and sits quietly in a chair by the window, looking past the ugly row of houses to the lake beyond, eating her pathetic dinner with a teaspoon. It's not what she was imagining, all those years ago.

After dinner, she rinses out her mug and spoon under the tap, then changes into her pyjamas, shuts the curtains, and unpacks.

She doesn't have many clothes with her, just the essentials and one nice dress, in case. Una doesn't let herself think too much about what that case might be. Reaching into the front pocket of the small suitcase, she pulls out a flimsy piece of paper, folded onto itself.

It's an old drawing, scruffily realised. The composition is spoiled by a tear down the centre, repaired with sellotape on the other side. She opens it up.

How much will have changed?

She opens the jolty wooden drawer of the bedside table and places the drawing inside, along with a photo that she found behind his desk, months after he left. Along with a tangle of earphones she found in one of her jackets. She'll return them to him, once she finds him.