Was she by the fireplace? Was she reading? Dreaming? If so, about what? Was she thinking about –
He would not finish the question. He had been wrestling with ghosts for over six months, he had just made his way through a mountain of pommes frites to make up for lost time and the lost notches in his belt, and he didn’t want to lose sight of his jackpot.
He was no longer tired. He circled a few projects that seemed interesting, and was on to a mission of the utmost importance – to find a badger in New York; he didn’t know her name but was almost certain that if he wrote ‘Mademoiselle Kate at Les Vesperies’ the postman would find her and deliver her healing balm.
He called Claire, told her about Alexis, made her laugh. He had so much to tell her . . .
‘I have a very important hearing tomorrow morning, I absolutely must go over everything,’ she apologized; ‘can we have lunch soon?’
Just as she was about to hang up, he said her name.
‘Yes?’
‘Why are men such . . . cowards?’
‘Um . . . Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve just run into a lot of blokes like that lately.’
‘Why?’ she sighed. ‘Because they don’t give birth, I suppose . . . I’m sorry, that’s a real cliché of an answer, but you caught me a bit unawares with your question, and I haven’t had time to prepare my defence just yet . . . But . . . Are you asking because of me?’
‘Because of all of you.’
‘Have you had a bang on the head or something?’
‘Yes. Hang on, let me show you . . .’
Claire, puzzled, put her phone down on her pile of hassles. It vibrated again. There on the tiny screen came her brother’s colourfully striped face, and she burst out laughing one last time before returning to her water purification plants.
Alexis in his flip-flops and apron standing over his gas barbecue . . . How good to hear it. And her brother, his voice so cheerful this evening . . .
So he’d found her, his Anouk, mused Claire mistakenly, with a slightly melancholy smile.
*
Melancholy? The word was not strong enough. When Kate returned home that morning she knew that his car would be gone, and yet . . . she could not help but look for it.
She hung about the house all day. Went back without him to the places she’d shown him – the barns, the henhouse, the stables, the vegetable garden, the hill, the stream, the arbour, the bench where they’d had breakfast among the sage bushes, and . . . everything felt deserted.
She told the children more than once that she felt tired.
That she had never been this tired . . .
She cooked up a storm just to stay in the kitchen where they’d spent part of the night with Ellen.
For the first time in years the prospect of the summer holidays was making her very anxious. Two months here, alone with the children . . . Oh God.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Yacine.
‘I feel old.’
Sitting on the floor, leaning up against her ovens with Big Dog’s head in her lap.
‘But you’re not old! Your twenty-sixth birthday is years away!’
‘You’re right,’ she laughed, ‘light years away, in fact!’
She kept up appearances until the swallows had departed, but was already in bed by the time Charles ran into Mathilde in the corridor:
‘Wow!’ she exclaimed, startled, ‘what was that door made of?’ She stood on tiptoe: ‘Right . . . now where do I aim to give you a kiss?’
He followed her and flopped down on her bed while she started packing and told him about her weekend.
‘What sort of music would you like to listen to?’
‘Something cool . . .’
‘Not jazz, though?’ she went, horrified.
She had her back to him, counting her socks, when he asked, ‘Why did you stop the horse-riding?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I just spent two marvellous days among children and horses, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you . . .’
‘Really?’ she smiled.
‘All the time. Every minute I was wondering why I hadn’t brought you with me.’
‘I don’t know . . . I stopped because it was far away . . .
Because . . .’
‘Because what?’
‘Because you were always afraid . . .’
‘Of the horses?’
‘Not just the horses. Afraid that I’d fall off, or that I’d lose, or hurt myself . . . or that I’d be too cold or too hot . . . or that there would be a traffic jam . . . or that Mum would be waiting for us . . . or that I wouldn’t have time to finish my homework . . . That . . . I got the feeling I was ruining your weekends.’
‘Oh?’ he murmured.
‘No, that wasn’t the only reason . . .’
‘What else was it?’
‘I don’t know . . . Right, I think you’d better let me have my bed, now.’
He closed the door behind him and felt as if he had been banished from paradise.
The rest of the flat was intimidating.
Go on, he urged himself, what’s all this play-acting! This is your home! You’ve been living here for years! This is your furniture, these are your books and clothes and mortgage payments . . . Come on, Chaaahles . . .
This last with her lovely English accent.
Come on home.
He wandered round the living room, made a coffee, wiped the countertop, leafed through magazines without even reading the pictures, looked up at his bookshelf, decided it was far too orderly, looked for a CD, but forgot which one, washed his cup, dried it, put it away, wiped the countertop again, pulled over a stool, rubbed his side, decided to polish his shoes, went into the hallway, squatted down, winced, opened a cabinet and polished every single pair of shoes.
He pushed aside the cushions, lit a lamp, placed his briefcase on the coffee table, looked for his glasses, pulled out his files, read the images without even registering the texts, started again from the beginning, flopped back against the sofa and listened to all the sounds from outside. Sat up straight, tried again, pushed his glasses down his nose and rubbed his eyes, closed the file, and placed his hands on it.
All he could see was her face.
If only he were tired.
He brushed his teeth, quietly opened the door of the conjugal bedroom, could just make out Laurence’s back in the darkness, placed his clothes on his designated armchair, held his breath, and lifted up his side of the bedclothes.
He recalled his last performance. Could smell her perfume, feel her warmth. His heart was all a jumble. He wanted to love.
He curled against her, stretched out his hand and slid it between her thighs. As always, he reeled with the softness of her skin; he lifted her arm and licked her armpit while he waited for her to turn to him, to open to him altogether. He let his kisses follow the curve of her hips; he held her elbow so that she would not move and . . .
‘What’s that smell?’ she asked.
He did not understand her question, tugged the duvet over him and . . .
‘Charles? What is that smell?’ she asked again, shoving the feathers aside.
He sighed. Moved away. Answered that he didn’t know.
‘It’s your jacket, is that it? Is that your jacket that smells of wood-smoke?’
‘Could be . . .’
‘Could you move it off the armchair, please? It’s distracting me.’
He left the bed. Picked up his clothes.
Threw them in the bath.
If I don’t go back now, I’ll never go back.
He returned to the bed and stretched out with his back to her.
‘Well?’ said her nails, drawing long figure eights on his shoulder.
Well nothing. He had proved to her that he could still get it up. As for the rest, she could go fuck herself.
The figure eights changed into little zeroes and gradually disappeared.
O
nce again, she fell asleep first.
Easy.
She’d been dragged round the Ritz by hysterical Korean women.
As for Charles, he was counting sheep.
And cows, and hens, and cats, and dogs. And children.
And beauty marks.
And the miles . . .
He got up at dawn, left a note under Mathilde’s door. ‘Eleven o’clock downstairs. Don’t forget your ID card.’ And three little crosses, because that’s the way they sent kisses where she was going.
He opened the door onto the street.
Took a deep breath.
4
‘WE HAVE NEARLY an hour, don’t you want to eat something?’
She said nothing.
This was not his usual Mathilde.
‘Hey,’ he went, grabbing her by the neck, ‘are you stressed out or what?’
‘I am a bit . . .’ she whispered against his chest, ‘I don’t even know where I’m going.’
‘But you showed me the photos, they look very kind, those McThingammies . . .’
‘A month is a long time, all the same.’
‘No it’s not . . . It will fly by. And Scotland is such a beautiful place . . . You’re going to love it. Come on, let’s go and get some lunch.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Something to drink, then. Follow me.’
They wove their way through suitcases and baggage carts and found a spot at the very rear of a grungy greasy spoon. Only in Paris were the airports this dirty, he mused. Was it the thirty-five-hour working week, or the renowned offhand Frenchy attitude, or the knowledge that one was only a grumpy taxi ride away from the loveliest city on earth? Whatever the reason, he was always dismayed.
She was nibbling on the end of her straw, looking anxiously all around her, checking the time on her mobile, and she hadn’t even put her headphones on.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve never missed a flight in my life . . .’
‘Really! You’re coming with me?’ she quipped, pretending to mis-comprendre.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘no. But I’ll text you every evening.’
‘You promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Not in English, though?’
She was making a huge effort to seem offhand.
As was Charles.
It was the first time she was going so far away, and for so long.
The prospect of her absence distressed him terribly. One month in that flat, the two of them, and without this child . . . Oh God.
He took her backpack and went with her as far as the X-ray machines.
Because she was walking very slowly, he was sure she was looking in the shop windows. He offered to get her some newspapers.
She didn’t want any.
‘Some chewing gum, then?’
‘Charles . . .’ She stood still.
He had already lived this scene. He’d often gone with her when she left for holiday camp, and he knew how this plucky little lass could lose it altogether, the closer they got to the actual rallying point.
He took her hand, felt flattered to be her support, and began mentally preparing a few firm but reassuring phrases for her to slip into her rear pocket.
‘Yes?’
‘Mum told me you two are going to split up.’
He stumbled slightly. He’d just got an Airbus right in his temple.
‘Oh?’
A squashed little syllable that could mean, ‘Oh? So she told you?’ or ‘Oh, really? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
He lacked the strength to play the tough guy: ‘I wasn’t aware.’
‘I know. She’s waiting for you to feel better before she tells you.’
It’s an enormous model. The A380, perhaps?
He didn’t know what to say.
‘She says that you haven’t been yourself these last few months, but that as soon as you’re better you would split up.’
‘You . . . You have some odd conversations for your age,’ was all he managed to say.
They stood opposite the departures.
‘Charles?’
She’d turned round.
‘Mathilde?’
‘I’ll come and live with you.’
‘Pardon?’
‘If you really do split up, I’m warning you, I’ll come with you.’
Since she had the grace to spit out the last words like a cowgirl spitting a wad of tobacco, he answered in kind: ‘Oh! I see what you’re driving at! You’re just saying that so that I’ll go on doing your maths and physics homework!’
‘Damn. However did you guess?’ She forced a smile.
He couldn’t keep it up. He had the Airbus’s landing gear in his guts now.
‘And even if it were true, you know that it really isn’t possible . . . I’m never here . . .’
‘Exactly . . .’ she said, still lightly.
But just as he could no longer keep up, she added, ‘It’s your business, I don’t care, but I will leave with you. You ought to know that . . .’
Her flight was called.
‘We haven’t got that far yet,’ he whispered into her ear, giving her a hug.
She said nothing. She must have thought he was very naïve.
She went through the gate, turned round, and blew him a kiss.
The last of her childhood.
Her flight disappeared off the board.
Charles was still there. He hadn’t budged a millimetre, he was waiting for the emergency services. His pocket vibrated: 1 New Message.
‘JE TM.’
His thumbs slipped over the touch pad and he had to wipe his hand on his heart to help it get the message across: ‘ME 2.’
He checked his watch, turned round, bashed into hordes of people, stumbled over their bags, dropped his own off at the left luggage, ran to the taxi rank, tried to jump the queue, got told off, saw a motorcyclist with an ‘all destinations’ sign, and asked him to take him back to where the straw had just broken the proverbial camel’s back.
Never again would he take a flight feeling wobbly.
Never again.
5
A HUNDRED METRES or so from the lycée where Mathilde would be going back to school in the autumn, he pushed open the door of an estate agent’s, told them he was looking for a two-room flat as near to there as possible; they showed him photos, he added that he didn’t have time just now, chose the one with the most light, left his card, and signed a big fat cheque so that they’d take him seriously.
He’d be back in two days.
He put his helmet back on and asked his driver to take him to the other side of the Seine.
He left his briefcase with him and said he wouldn’t be long.
The famous beige carpet chez Chanel . . . As if he’d rewound the clock ten years; as if he were standing there once again in his big shoes, in the angry glare of the doorman on duty.
He had them page her. He added that it was urgent.
His mobile rang.
‘Did she miss her flight?’ asked Laurence.
‘No, but can you come down here, now?’
‘I’m in the middle of a meeting . . .’
‘Then don’t come down. I just wanted to tell you I’m feeling better.’
He could hear the cogs turning beneath the lovely black velvet snood that held back her hair.
‘But . . . I thought you had a flight to catch, too?’
‘I’m on my way. Don’t worry. I’m better, Laurence, I do feel better.’
‘Look, I’m delighted,’ she laughed, somewhat nervously.
‘So, now you can leave me.’
‘What . . . what on earth are you on about this time?’
‘Mathilde told me . . . what you’d told her in confidence.’
‘This is ridiculous . . . Stay there, I’m coming.’
‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
For the first time, in all the time he’d
known her, he thought she was wearing too much make-up.
He had nothing to add.
He’d found a flat, he had to rush, had a flight to catch.
‘Charles, just stop. It was nothing . . . women’s talk. You know how it is . . .’
‘Everything’s fine,’ he smiled, ‘everything’s fine. I’m the one who’s leaving. I’m the bastard.’
‘Right . . . if you say so.’
Right up to the end, he would have to admit she had class.
She said something else, but because of his helmet he could only nod his head without knowing what.
He tapped on the young man’s thigh to urge him to slalom between the cars.
He could not miss this flight. He had a badger to unearth.
*
A few hours later, Laurence Vernes would go to the hairdresser’s, smile at little Jessica while putting on her smock, sit down facing the mirror while another employee prepped her colour, pick up a magazine, leaf through the gossip columns, raise her head, look at herself, and burst into tears.
What will happen after this, we do not know.
She is no longer in the story.
6
CHARLES GOT STARTED on a huge file entitled P. B. Tran Tower/ Exposed Structures and picked it apart until a flight attendant asked him to store his tray.
He reread his notes, checked the name of the hotel, looked out of the window at the grid patterns of towns, and mused that he was going to sleep well. That he’d finally recovered.
He thought about a lot of other things. About the work he’d just finished, which made him pleased, work that he could do anywhere in the world. From his office, from a stranger’s two-room flat, from an aeroplane seat or from . . .
He closed his eyes and smiled.
Everything was going to be very complicated.
So much the better.
It was his job, to find solutions . . .
‘Detail of a joint between the stone modules of columns showing the insertion of the steel counterbalancing system’, said the caption on his latest sketch.
Gravity, earthquakes, cyclones, wind, snow . . . All the hassles that were part of what they called live loads and which, he had just remembered, he found very entertaining . . .
He sent a message to the Highlands and decided not to adjust his watch.
He wanted to live in the same time zone as she did.