Loving Amélie (16 page)

“Yes, her father is my older
brother.”

Pierre Bénoit had strong,
white-capped front teeth that put Chris in mind of a handsome horse; although
the lower set was etched with brown nicotine stains. Cigar smoke trailed from
his large nostrils like smoke from the barrels of a gun.

“Amélie’s father asked me to
meet with you: he is very busy in Paris – we understood we might catch up
with you there recently – but you were called away.”

“First and foremost, I am
concerned about
her,
”
said Chris. “You must know she won’t let me see her; and I am left in sole
charge of our child. The few indications I have received tell me things aren’t
OK.”

Bénoit nodded, his eyes
levelled beyond Chris’s shoulder, as though he were listening, but not altogether
interested in what he had to say.

“She won’t see me,” Chris went
on. “Sending some
bloke
to take the baby back...”

“You have met my son,
Jean-Luc?” the Frenchman interjected.

“Oh. Great.”

“He was playing the messenger.
He and Amé grew up together and I think he thought he was performing some act
of chivalry.” Bénoit flicked ash from his cigar in a gesture that dismissed
both the ash and his son from his regard. “We tried to deter her from sending
him; but you know how hot-headed she can be.”

“So who’s we? Is Amélie living
with you now?”

“No, she is living at home, in
Paddington, with her mother Adrienne. Have you met Adrienne?”

“No,” said Chris, a little
bitterly. “I met no one from her family while we were together. I wonder now
whether I should have taken that as a sign.”

“I don’t think so,” said the
Frenchman, leaning back in his chair. It seemed he had ordered food for them,
which began to arrive on the forearms of very straight-backed waiters. “I took
the liberty of
 
...”

“Whatever,” said Chris. “I can’t
say I’m particularly hungry.”

“I know the manager here well,”
said Bénoit, looking sheepish about his actions. “We will get the best today;
and you should eat well.”

He smiled at his guest and
Chris felt at ease, in spite of himself. Amélie’s uncle was a charming
adversary – probably ruthless – but the sort of man both men and
women would aspire to be close to, one way or another. He looked at the plate
of mussels in front of Chris, and then ran his gaze over him in an avuncular
fashion, as though he were genuinely concerned for his well-being. Albeit only
slightly.

“So Adrienne has come from
Paris to take care of Amé?” said Chris. “Well, that’s some comfort, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Bénoit. He set
about devouring his own mussels like a man who hadn’t seen food for some time,
his nose just inches from his plate; then sat back again with his napkin to his
lips. His one word had been suggestive of disapproval. “My own wife, Mr
Skinner, is a barrister, like myself, who has raised three children. She is a clever
woman who made good use of the help that was available to her.” At this point
he drew his tongue over his capped teeth. “She employed a good nanny; she chose
good schools.” He turned up his palms. “Life does not have to end when a woman
becomes a mother.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” said
Chris. “Are we talking about Amélie or her mother?”

“Amélie is free to make the
choices of any modern woman,” said her uncle, by way of a reply. “She is
choosing self-indulgence, I fear. But she was always like that: I am sure you
know what I mean.”

“Not entirely,” said Chris. He
couldn’t be quite as enthusiastic about his
hors-d’oeuvres
as his companion; but chewed
some bread soaked in the garlicky juices. “Whatever happened between her and
me, I don’t think she made the choice to get pregnant.” He added: “I am sure
your wife has been happy in her choice of husband.”

Bénoit uttered a small
explosion of laughter: “That is very clever of you,” he said. “And your loyalty
does you credit. But we both know she is...” he weighed his choice of words, “
headstrong
.”

“So, we are back where we
started,” Chris continued. “Your niece – the mother of my child –
is headstrong, hot-headed. Why does she want me to meet with you, so desperately?
To have you remind me of these things that I already know. To make me hate
her?”

“Your notions are so romantic,
you could be French,” said Pierre Bénoit; and lit another cigar before his main
course arrived. His tone was now conciliatory. “I am merely here on my
brother’s behalf. To give you money.”

Chris hesitated, and then took
a gulp of wine. It was a crisp, energetic Chardonnay. A perfect choice:

“I wish I had done that
sooner,” he said. “So I could have spat it out. Or choked on it. Is Amé’s father
somehow proposing to buy me off?”

“I won’t laugh at you, Chris,”
said the Frenchman. He had removed his jacket and crossed his arms across his
slender cashmere chest. “But I should advise you to watch less bad television.
My brother simply wants to do right by you. He is very angry,
understandably
,
with his younger daughter. His wife is forced to abandon him to take care of
her in London, where, it seems, the girl is incapable of taking care of her own
child. It is no solution.
 
Adrienne
is as much the fool as Amélie.”

Two
filets mignon
arrived in front of the
men, who assessed them with mixed motivations.

“And where does he place me in
all this?”

Bénoit took up his steak
cutlery like he was bearing arms, and gestured to Chris to do the same:

“Much as we French hate to see
an Englishman as the hero of the piece, it seems that’s what you are,” he said,
with a slanted smile. He carved a slice from his meat and savoured it in
silence. Then: “It is a considerable sum. I think you will be pleased.”

“Surely he would do better to
invest it for his granddaughter’s future,” said Chris, trying to make sense of
what was unfolding. “And why is he doing this through you? If you will forgive
my saying.”

“Claude is a proud man,” said
his brother, who had finished his steak without sampling the accompanying
vegetables or fondant potatoes. “He would be ashamed if he were sitting where I
am now. And he is busy, in Paris. He trusts me to oversee this matter: I simply
have to make you one payment which we anticipate, as gentlemen, that you will
invest wisely yourself. For his granddaughter’s future.”

“And he trusts me to do that?”

“It seems Amélie does.”

“And yet I have not been
convinced of an overwhelming regard for his daughter’s opinion, Pierre!”

Bénoit took forkfuls of the
remaining food, and then said:

“That is between him and her. I
am just the messenger. Like my son, only infinitely more competent.”

“So, Jean-Luc is not her lover,
then?” asked Chris, eyeing him directly over their repast.

“Good grief, no.” Bénoit dropped
a green bean into his mouth. “I think he would prefer to be yours. If you catch
my meaning.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m not
relieved,” said Chris, putting a hand through his hair.

“I wish I could share your
sentiment,” said Bénoit, without humour. He surveyed the table. “I have no
appetite for dessert today. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course. What happens now?”

“We will talk again,” said the
Frenchman, and offered Chris his business card that featured all his contact
numbers. “I understand I can have every faith in you.”

“I wish your niece did,” said
Chris.

Pierre Bénoit donned his jacket
and took Chris’s hand in a powerful grip:

“
She
may be beyond faith,” he said,
firmly, before they parted.

Chris did not find any kite
fliers on Hampstead Heath; but there were smatterings of picnic parties
enjoying the late September sunshine. He stood where he imagined he had stood
once before, watching her gambolling about with Japanese strangers; and
contemplated his fate.

He was, perhaps, on the brink of
what anyone would construe as a life-changing event – even more
life-changing (if that were possible) than the arrival of a baby on his
doorstep. That is, if these French lawyers were true to their words: and he had
no real reason to doubt them. He was about to be in receipt of a large sum of
money – he noticed that Bénoit had inked it on the back of his business
card, thinking, perhaps that this was less vulgar than mentioning it over
mussels and Macon-Villages. There were six figures.

He rambled across the heath,
not sure he was ready to go home and face Sara just yet. His mind was crowded
with the new notions of Amélie’s dutiful mother and possibly boorish father:
and Amélie caught somewhere in the middle in reckless isolation. She was no
longer a petulant child who could be taken by the arm from the ice cream
parlour or cajoled into business school rather than being allowed to pursue a
career in art. She was a young woman – a mother - who was yet still at
the mercy of other people’s expectations of her. He turned down an avenue of
lime trees that fluttered like bright green bunting above his head and he felt
suddenly blessed to be the son of his own parents, whose nurture and neglect in
equal and opposite,
 
haphazard
doses had at least given him the freedom to make his own choices. Guileless as
they so often seemed, particularly when set beside Linda’s parents who were, in
contrast, refined and purposeful, they had done him and Peter the simplest of
services: they had loved them and left them alone.

He felt the sharp edges of
Pierre Bénoit’s business card in his pocket and he clenched it until it had
discharged all its pain and buckled, spent, in the palm of his hand. There was
something he still feared, despite the good news that Amé was being taken care
of and that she wasn’t,
please God
, sleeping with another man.

She was complicit in this
financial transaction for her own reasons: but he yearned to know what they
were. Was she the one who was being ‘bought off’ by her father, who had decided
his disappointing offspring’s fate for her, when she might be in most need of
his encouragement? Or would her father’s money serve to clear her conscience,
so that Chris would be obliged to relinquish his hold over her, and she would
turn her back once and for all on him and his beloved baby girl?

Neither prospect seemed to
bring him the peace of mind he craved: the wind rushed in his ears as he swung
around the gnarled trunk of a lime tree and threw up his expensive lunch.

Chapter Sixteen

“Don’t be mad at me,” said
Sara’s voice, as he pulled his key from the lock.

It was one of the few occasions
when he really didn’t want his best friend’s company.

There was an empty wine bottle
turned upside down in the pedal bin.

“I didn’t touch a drop, I
swear, until she was fast asleep. Please don’t think I’m one of those ghastly
awful babysitters that you can’t trust. It’s just that I’ve had the most
abysmal day…”

Chris was tempted to go down
the ‘what if there had been an emergency?’ route, but seeing the state of her
tear-stained face, he thought better of it. She had streaks of black mascara
under her eyes that gave her the look of a Pierrot. He vaguely remembered
something about a row with Rick from earlier on, and then there had been his
lunch with Amélie’s uncle which had erased everything else from his memory of
the day.

Before he pursued anything with
his errant friend, he peered in to where the baby was sleeping peacefully in
her crib: her arms up around her ears; her covers smooth and serene like an
iced birthday cake.

“She’s been OK?” he ventured.
“It’s just you…that’s not?”

“Too right I’m fucking not,”
she replied and began to weep some more. “I am so
through
with that man, Chris. I swear to
God, we’re finished.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Chris,
wending his way past her to the kettle. “You’re going to have to start from the
beginning. What’s he done exactly?”

“It’s more what he’s
not
done,”
Sara wailed.

“Oh God, this sounds worryingly
familiar...”

“Can you just
not
make this
about you!” she barked at him.

She was the worse for drink; he
was typically distracted by his own concerns. He decided to keep calm and make
tea.

“Look at me,” she went on,
mollified by his generous response. “I’m forty three years of age and I’ve got
nothing to show for it. All those years of hard work, and of commitment to a
man who is
never
going to leave his wife.”

Several responses presented
themselves inside his head: all of which he ignored, until he had sat down on
the sofa with their drinks.

She threw a cushion at him:

“Have you got
nothing
to
say to me?” she snapped. “After all I’ve been through with
you
?”

“Firstly, you’ve got a gutful
of wine, and I haven’t,” he replied. “I, at least, paid you the courtesy of
getting pissed
with
you before I started whingeing. And secondly, what’s Rick actually done,
apart from witnessing you turning forty three?”