Consolation (50 page)

He concentrated until seven, returned the rental car, and went home on foot.

He hoped he would find someone behind the door . . .

The two answerphones he had just checked one after the other were unable to answer his question.

Still somewhat stiff, he headed up the Rue des Patriarches.

He was hungry, and he dreamt he heard a church bell in the distance.

3

‘I WON’T KISS
you, I’ve just put a face pack on,’ she warned, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. ‘You’ve no idea how exhausted I am . . . I’ve spent the entire weekend with this lot of utterly hysterical Korean women . . . I think I’ll have a bath and then go to bed.’

‘You don’t want to have some dinner?’

‘No. They dragged us to the Ritz and I ate too much. And you?

How did it go?’

She hadn’t looked up. She was lounging deep in the sofa, leafing through American
Vogue
.

‘Just look at that, how vulgar.’

No. Charles didn’t feel like looking at that.

‘And Mathilde?’

‘She’s at her girlfriend’s.’

He held onto the knob and experienced a moment of . . . dejection.

It was a made-to-measure kitchen, designed by one of Laurence’s friends who was an interior architect, space designer, volume creator, lighting enhancer and holder of other such nonsensical conceptual qualifications.

Door fronts in light maple, wide vertical columns in brushed stainless steel, countertops in Dolomite stone, sliding doors, a seamless one-piece sink, state-of-the-art hobs and cutting-edge cooling devices, Miele appliances, extractor hood, espresso machine, wine cellar, convection oven and all the bells and whistles.

Oh, yes. Undoubtedly beautiful.

Clean, neat, immaculate. As lovely as a morgue.

The problem was that there was nothing to eat. An abundance of jars of cream in the refrigerator door, but not from the pastures of Normandy, renowned for their dairy cream, but rather, alas, from
La
Prairie, renowned for their face cream . . . There was some Diet Coke, some non-fat yoghurt, a few microwave dinners and some frozen pizzas.

True, Mathilde was taking off the next day . . . And it was mainly because of her that meals materialized on any sort of regular basis in this house. Laurence cooked for friends, but it would seem that his unpredictable schedules and his trips one after the other had scattered those friends far and wide . . .

Nothing left but meals on expenses these days.

And since he had recently resolved to stop sighing over small things, he grabbed the latest issue of his architects’ newsletter from his briefcase and went in to tell her he’d be going down for a bite at the local bistro.

‘Goodness . . .’ The beauty mask cracked with wrinkles. ‘What happened to you?’

He must have looked as surprised as she did because she added, ‘Were you in a fight?’

Oh . . .
That?

It was so long ago . . . In another life . . .

‘No, I . . . I ran into a door.’

‘It’s ghastly.’

‘Oh, there are worse things.’

‘No, I meant your face!’

‘Oh. Sorry . . .’

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look very odd.’

‘I’m hungry. Are you coming?’

‘No. I just told you I was exhausted.’

He leafed through his weekly bible over a rib steak and ordered another beer to wash down the
frites
with Béarnaise sauce. He was enjoying his meal, and pored over the invitations to tender, feeling almost invigorated. Whether it was his all-nighter at Alexis’s or the night at Les Vesperies, he wasn’t the least bit tired now.

He ordered a coffee and got up to buy a pack of cigarettes.

And halfway to the counter, turned back.

A sense of solidarity.

To stop smoking would be a good way not to be sure exactly what it was he was craving.

He sat back down, fiddled with a sugar lump, pressed his fingernail into the white paper wrapping and wondered what she was doing at that very second . . .

Twenty minutes to ten.

Were they still having dinner? Were they dining outdoors? Was the air as warm as yesterday? Had the girls found a decent aquarium for Monsieur Blop? Had the big kids left the saddle room the way the Blason Brothers would like to find it upon returning from exile? Had they remembered to close the gate to the meadow? Was Big Dog lying at their nanny’s enamelled feet again?

And Kate?

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.

Once 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
.