What became of us

hut, in bright yellow gloss with ice-cream company logos stuck onto it and half a stable door, was filled with shelves for her collection of bags.
    Annie had handbags in every shape and colour. There were hard plastic 1950s bags, and soft leather drawstrings, there were briefcases and vanity cases, suitbags and, on the floor, a complete set of Louis Vuitton cases including a small shipping trunk. There was almost the entire range of the Gucci Jackie bag which everyone had been photographed with that season. She had one in yellow and black, one in white and black, and one which was black and the same fabric as the dress she was going to wear. Her only regret was that she had stopped herself buying the black on black on the basis that she had at least ten plain black handbags already.
    On the upper shelves of the cupboard there were several dozen of the free make-up bags that department stores give away with two purchases, all complete with miniature sets of face cream, doll’s size lipstick and mascara and tiny bottles of cologne. The yellow hut was taller than she was and several feet deep, but when she opened the door, bags tumbled out of it.
    With the right bag, Annie felt she could face the world. She’d once read that your handbag was a symbol of your vagina, which had worried her for a while, especially since she preferred a bag with a zip, but even with her scant knowledge of popular psychology she knew that her collection (fetish, Maurice had called it) was more to do with her childhood, which had mostly been spent living out of bags.
    One of her earliest memories was her mother picking up their tatty old grey cardboard suitcase with a bright, determined smile, and saying,
    ‘Have bag, will travel, hey, Annie?’

Chapter 11

    All the garments Manon owned were black. She chose the sleeveless black jersey dress Rodolfo had bought her many years before in a tiny boutique in Milan. The price label had contained so many zeros, Manon had not even attempted to work out what the cost might be. She had never really got the hang of lire. It was the dress she had worn when she left him, the only remnant of his wealth that she retained. She hung a soft black cardigan around her shoulders and went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror. With her hair loose the overall impression was dowdy, but when she gathered the hair back into a severe ponytail she became elegant but sombre, like a strict ballet teacher, she thought.
    Manon began to rifle through her belongings for some sort of appropriate adornment, knowing that she would find nothing but still hoping to surprise herself. Her mother’s string of pearls was too formal and the ruby earrings Frank had given her were flashy and would invite comment. There were a couple of scarves, but they made her look like an Italian countess and she did not want that. Then she remembered the Lulu Guinness bag Frank had bought her on Valentine’s Day. A tiny black silk flowerbasket with red silk roses on the lid.
    When every shop window had been filled with red roses and red helium hearts, she had thought the bag a cliche, but now, still in its tissue paper, it was like a piece of art. Carefully, she took it from its box and held it in her right hand slightly awkwardly, like a woman from the 15th arrondissement holding the jewel-encrusted lead of a pet poodle. She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, amused by the way the bag changed her posture, turning her outline into a drawing from a Fifties fashion magazine. Back in the bedroom she opened the bag to throw in her keys. Nestling inside was a roll of banknotes tied with narrow red ribbon. She stared at it, not understanding. Then the frisson of excitement brought about by owning something so beautiful froze to numbness. She flung the bag across the room as if it were contagious and she wanted to be as far from it as possible. It sailed towards the open window, a disappearing fluttering of scarlet and black, like a bird of augury. Then it caught the window frame and dropped unceremoniously to the floor.
    She went to pick it up and count the money. There were twenty fifty-pound notes. A thousand pounds. Her brain replayed the last few times she had been with Frank and saw how those notes, which he assumed she had mutely accepted, changed the entire complexion of their relationship. As she tried to recall each detail and every word they had exchanged, she found the irony too fascinating to be painful. A