Flagey in Winter

I

Sunday

First Thing

The sixth of January was always going to be a head-under-the-duvet sort of day. For a start (which most people wished it hadn't), it was freezing in Brussels, with a bitter north-westerly driving a mixture of sleet and spiky snow against any window foolish enough to open curtains to it. Christmas and good cheer had long since dissipated (except for the ex-pat Russians, for whom it was Christmas Eve), and among the Scots, Hogmanay hangovers had just about made their final retreat. The only good thing about it was that it was a Sunday.

Catrina's head was as firmly under the duvet as it was possible to get without suffocating. She would have liked the cover to have been supplemented by the comforting contours of her Belgian barman, Patrice, but it wasn't. He had left to start the coffee machines at Café Franck at the corner of the Flagey arts building before the light crept up. Instead Catrina had to make do with the limited support of her sturdy English hot-water bottles, now warming her with less power than she would have liked.

Cradling the flannel and rubber against her chest, she wondered whether it was worth emerging from the dark and risking the chill long enough to boil a kettle. The advantage was that she could come back to bed with a refreshed bottle and a mug of tea. The disadvantage was that she might shiver to death in the process. A glance at the Big Ben alarm clock by the bedside light told her it was nine-thirty. No need to rush, then.

Catrina transferred the warmer of the two water bottles to her feet. It didn't help much. Something was going to have to give because, in this state somewhere between colder in bed and frozen out of it, she couldn't even daydream straight. From somewhere deep in her psyche Catrina's Derbyshire Peak District ancestors were telling her in disgusted voices not to be so soft. She was bloody lucky to have a sheet, let alone a duvet - and if her feet were cold she should put three pairs of socks on. Catrina groaned and, not for the first time in her twenty-three years, told the ancestors to piss off.

They took umbrage, but they had a minor victory too. Catrina grimaced and swung her feet out of bed and straight into her furry Pussy-Cat slippers, grabbed a jumper from the floor, flicked the switch on the electric heater and stumbled to the tiny kitchen. Once the kettle was filled and heating she ran back to bed. Maybe the ancestors were right about the socks. She wished she'd had the sense to bring the thick woollen hill-walking ones from home back with her to Brussels after the Christmas holiday. It was true they'd never fit in any of her town work shoes, but just now they'd be toe savers.

An hour and a half later the room had warmed sufficiently for Catrina to have progressed through the tea, snooze and shower stages to actually being dressed: leggings, jeans, T-shirt, two jumpers, two pairs of socks, at least, and scarf. Outside the weather remained discouraging - if not quite a reason for total inaction.

The trouble was that, although she was ready for the day, the day did not seem to be really ready for her. Apart from a need to tidy and clean the flat (top, middle and bottom of the list for every weekend, but rarely achieved) there was not a lot to do. She could loiter in Café Franck while Patrice worked, but that seemed a little unimaginative. She could phone around and see if anyone was wanting a visit, but that was hardly likely. Most of her Brussels friends were in couples. There was her Finnish colleague at the European Parliament, Mariana, but she was so intense she was more than likely to prefer spending her Sundays reading Schopenhauer behind closed curtains than pootling around with Catrina.

'If in doubt, procrastinate', thought Catrina, and made herself more tea - backed up this time with toast and Marmite, a breakfast she dared not have in Patrice's presence without bringing down a stream of anti-British culinary derision on her head.

Feeling suitably rebellious she had an extra slice. Guilt soon set in as she put the offending jar of salted brewer's waste back, all the way back, into the cupboard above the sink. And with guilt came the need for expiation. She looked at the weekend's mess of grimy plates and sediment-encrusted mugs and sighed. Cleaning the kitchen had better be the morning's activity. It was as dreary as the weather, and just as inevitable.

She had just finished the plates, knives, spoons and assorted implements, and was refilling the sink with mugs when she heard the chirrup of her mobile phone from somewhere near the bed.

Where, though? She looked first in desperation at her soapy hands, then round the kitchen for a towel, gave up, wiped herself half dry on her jeans and launched into the phone-search operation.

It was not in her bag, and there was no sign of it in the bed, caught in the duvet or the pillows, but it rang still from an impenetrable hiding place. Catrina grew frantic and swore.

The ringing stopped. Now, though, she was just cross. Phones cannot be ghosts. She searched her clothes and clothes drawers, even though the ring had come from the bed. She searched the bed again, lifted the pillows and the mattress. Nothing. She peered underneath. Nothing there except her trainers, still wet from the previous night melted snow. She pulled them out to dry on top of the radiator, and as she upended them, out tumbled the mobile, landing with a thud on to the rug - not the feared crash on to the hard wooden floor.

Its owner swore again and looked at the missed call number. Not one she recognised, but at least not international. She dialled, and after two rings it was answered.

'Hi Catrina.'

'Hi. um, sorry, who have I rung?'

'Mariana. Didn't you recognise my voice?'

'Stupid of me, I know, but I'm afraid not,' said Catrina.

'Are you doing anything? I mean now?'

'Well, not really. Washing up.'

'Up?' Mariana asked.

'The mugs and things.'

'Nothing important, then.'

'It is if you live here.'

'Of course.' Mariana paused. She always found talking to Catrina difficult. She never knew whether the Englishwoman was trying to be funny or not. 'Perhaps we could meet when you have finished.'

If Mariana had been in the room she would have seen Catrina shrug. 'OK. Any particular reason? I mean, we'll probably see each other in Parliament tomorrow. Did you have a good New Year, by the way?'

'Yes - you see, that's why I wanted to meet. I had a great New Year, and I think I have a new boyfriend.'

'And?' Catrina was still baffled as to why Mariana thought this necessitated a meeting. It wasn't as if they even liked each other very much.

'He's English. I don't perhaps understand him so well sometimes. I thought if you could meet him you could tell - am I being foolish?'

'I probably could,' admitted Catrina, 'but would it make a difference? After all, he's going to be your boyfriend, not mine.'

'Please?'

It was a very un-Finnish request, Catrina realised. 'If you really want me to, sure. When?'

'Could you come over to Flagey? Perhaps after twelve-thirty?'

'All right. Patrice is working there anyway, so he can give his opinion too.'

'Will that help?'

Catrina wasn't sure, but the opinion was likely to be given whether or not it helped. She rang off and went back to the sink. Now the day had purpose. She would even have to hurry.

Her telephone rang again. It was Mercedes, her Spanish best friend, with exactly the same request.

First with the News

There was a smile of anticipation and an element of relief as Guus van de Looy ('Fidel' to everybody except his cable TV audience) settled into his usual place by the radiator and window in Café Franck.

He lined up his coffee and his small dark beer and refolded the Sunday newspaper into his preferred format - halved lengthwise and then folded across in a way directly opposite to that intended by its publisher. Fidel was alone and settled in his routine and, had he bothered to realise the fact, was happy. At the very least he felt untroubled. Elise, his younger girlfriend, was spending the first couple of weeks of the new year skiing in the Dolomites with her brother.

Skiing was not Fidel's idea of fun. Although...