‘Maybe he won’t mind about the car,’ said Grace. ‘How are things between you now?’
Deira laughed mirthlessly. ‘Pretty rubbish,’ she answered. ‘Though that’s mostly my fault. I cracked up, you see, when he told me about Afton. I kept going into his office at work and arguing with him. I followed him back to the apartment he’s sharing with her and demanded to be let in. I caused a scene in a café – he was having a breakfast meeting and I dumped his fry-up all over him.’
‘You go, girl,’ murmured Grace.
‘He wanted to get a restraining order against me,’ Deira said. ‘In all honesty, I couldn’t blame him. The HR manager at work persuaded him against it. Then she called me in, and although she was sympathetic to my situation, she suggested I take some leave. That’s the other thing, isn’t it? He cheats on me but he’s given a pass. I’m the one who has to disappear for a while. Not that HR weren’t right in some respects,’ she acknowledged. ‘It was toxic being in the same building as him. So it was a good idea for me to get away. And as the holiday was already booked . . .’
‘Like mine,’ said Grace.
‘Gosh, yes.’ Deira nodded. ‘I didn’t think – we’re in a similar sort of boat, aren’t we? Except that you’re entitled to be driving your car and I’m basically a character from Grand Theft Auto.’
‘Did you just rock up to his place and drive it away?’ asked Grace. ‘Did you have a key?’
Deira told her about sneaking into the apartment complex and taking the car. ‘And yes, I had a key because I lost mine ages ago and had to get a new one. Then I found mine again and kept it as a spare. I was going to send him a text and let him know what I’d done before he got home. I knew he’d go ballistic, but there would be nothing he could do about it. Now . . . well, I’ve basically destroyed it.’
‘Perhaps the dealership can repair it.’ Grace tried to sound positive.
‘The paintwork is burned, the seats are charred and the interior is soaked. Even if it does dry out, it’ll probably be mouldy. The roof needs to be replaced too – there’s a massive hole in it. It’s a disaster, Grace, and it’s my fault. Gavin will go mental.’
‘Tell him to eff off,’ said Grace. ‘He treated you disgracefully. Let him whistle for his car.’
Deira gave her a watery smile. ‘I bet that’s what you’d say in my position all right. You’re so . . . so grown up. So together. Whereas I’m an idiot.’
‘I’m not at all grown up,’ said Grace, although she was pleased that Deira thought so. ‘I’m someone trying to do her best.’
‘God, yes. You’ve had a much worse trauma than me.’ Deira was aghast at having pushed Grace’s situation to the back of her mind. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You listened to me offloading about Ken last night. It’s only fair I should return the favour.’
‘What are we like?’ Deira blew her nose again. ‘Well, what I really mean is – you’re great. What happened with your husband was simply awful. A total tragedy. But you’re . . . well, I’m not going to say coping, because I don’t know you or anything and I’m sure it’s still really difficult. But at least you’re not a snivelling mess like me.’
‘You’re not a mess,’ said Grace. ‘You’ve gone through a shitty time. You deserve your break. And you should have it, despite the car.’
‘I’m probably going to be stuck here for ages trying to work things out,’ said Deira. ‘So much for my French holiday idyll.’
‘Why stay here?’ asked Grace. ‘There’s nothing more you can do. The insurance companies can sort it out between themselves. The dealership will either fix the car or not. What’s the point in you hanging around while they decide?’
‘What else can I do?’ asked Deira. ‘I’ve no car and no way of getting around.’
‘But I have a car,’ said Grace. ‘And I have an itinerary. I also have more clues to be deciphered. We’ve already seen that two heads are better than one. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘On all your stops? Through France and Spain?’ Deira looked at her in astonishment.
‘Why not?’ said Grace. ‘To tell you the truth, you’d be doing me a favour. My elder daughter thinks I’m off my rocker doing this trip on my own. If I tell her I have company, she might stop worrying about me and asking me to share my location with her so she can check up on me without me even realising it.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘We still haven’t worked out the full La Rochelle clue,’ said Grace. ‘Besides, I’d love your company.’
‘Really?’
‘Why not?’ repeated Grace.
Why not indeed, thought Deira. Why not do something even madder than her original plan and travel with a woman she hardly knew, following a treasure hunt set by a dead man? Because it’s crazy, that’s why, she told herself. Bonkers. But then you’re crazy and bonkers too, aren’t you?
‘OK.’ She smiled at Grace. ‘I will.’
‘Excellent,’ said Grace. ‘I think the best thing for you to do is contact your insurance company, tell them what you’re doing and how to keep in touch, and then put it all out of your head.’
‘I still have to tell Gavin,’ Deira reminded her.
‘He doesn’t need to know yet,’ said Grace.
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘So, let’s organise ourselves, do what we need to do, book you a room in La Rochelle, then head there and solve the clue.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Deira suddenly felt motivated. ‘I’ll get my stuff.’
She gathered up the tear-sodden napkins and threw them into the waste bin, then went back to her room to pack.
Chapter 17
La Rochelle, France: 46.1603°N 1.1511°W
Deira and Grace set off for La Rochelle at four o’clock. Deira was feeling more optimistic about the possible outcome for the car, having spoken again to her insurance company. Everyone seemed to want to resolve things quickly, and even though she knew from personal experience of the industry that a company’s idea of a quick resolution wasn’t always the same as a customer’s, at least she’d been able to have reasonably intelligent conversations about her situation. Her conversation with Gavin, of course, whenever it might happen, wouldn’t be intelligent. He would be incandescent with rage, and she couldn’t blame him. But there were only so many things she could worry about at any one time, she told Grace as she put her bag into the boot of the Lexus, so she was going to try to forget about it for a couple of days.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Grace. ‘Let’s just concentrate on having a good time.’
Now, despite everything, Deira felt herself adjust to the idea of enjoying herself. Enjoyment hadn’t been the original idea behind her trip, but she was going to try. She resolutely refused to think about Gavin and the fact that his new partner was living the life she herself had given up for him. And she vowed not to look at every man she saw and wonder if he could be a potential father to a child she was never going to have.
The countryside on the two-hour drive from Nantes to La Rochelle was flatter and drier than the rolling hills and valleys of Brittany. The fields on either side of the road were carefully cultivated, and many had tall irrigation systems ready to water the growing crops when they needed it. Grace kept to a steady 100 kph, untroubled at being overtaken by ancient Peugeot and Citroën vans that seemed to be held together by string.
‘It’s always the same,’ she told Deira after they’d been passed by another disreputable wreck. ‘They see a foreign-registered car and their sense of pride means they have to overtake it, even if it’s killing their own vehicle.’
‘Gavin would’ve got into a pissing contest with them,’ Deira remarked. ‘He can’t bear being behind anyone on the road. He certainly wouldn’t have let a practically prehistoric van pass him.’
‘I do understand that,’ conceded Grace. ‘Ken used to do all the driving for us, and he insisted that the journey was part of the holiday so there was no point in screeching along like
a bat out of hell.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Fionn, on the other hand, liked going fast. One year he brought a Meatloaf playlist and started off with “Bat Out of Hell” simply to annoy his dad. He succeeded.’
‘Do you miss him?’ asked Deira.
‘Ken? Or Fionn?’
‘I meant Ken.’ Deira was sure Grace had deliberately misinterpreted the question.
‘You’re always going to miss someone you’ve shared most of your life with,’ Grace replied. ‘But he’s gone. He made a choice to go sooner than he had to. Like you with your Gavin, I’m angry and upset. But I still have to accept what he did.’
Deira noticed Grace’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and dropped the subject. Then her phone pinged with a message from Tillie.
Hey, her friend had written, hope all is going well on your trip. Was thinking of you when I saw the 88 bus. That’s double good luck! Tx
Tillie claimed that in some cultures the number 8 was considered to be lucky, and that she considered it to be lucky too. Given her fortune to date, Deira couldn’t help thinking that the universe was simply mocking her.
‘Everything OK?’ asked Grace when Deira slid the phone back into her bag.
‘Hope so.’
‘I should have asked if you had a problem getting a room at the hotel.’ She glanced at her. ‘La Rochelle was always busy when we were there, and it’s coming into the tourist season.’
‘I booked a remise in the grounds. That’s all they had available.’
‘What’s a remise?’ asked Grace.
‘A shed,’ replied Deira, who’d clicked to translate.
‘They’re putting you in a shed!’ Grace sounded horrified. ‘How can they possibly get away with that?’
‘I presume it’s an upmarket shed, suitable for guests.’ Deira grinned.
‘I ask you to join me and you’re forced to stay in a shed.’ Grace chuckled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely,’ said Deira.
‘If you want to listen to music while we’re on the road, feel free,’ Grace said after they’d travelled in silence for a bit. ‘I’m getting used to listening to playlists in the car. When the children were small, it was always nursery rhymes or kids’ songs. Ken preferred listening to audio books, which I like myself, to be fair, but not all the time.’
‘What sort of music do you like?
‘I’m easy,’ Grace told her. ‘I need to update my tastes, because I have a lot of old stuff on my phone. But I usually listen to female vocalists. Adele. Mariah Carey, that sort of stuff.’
‘I have a mix you’ll like,’ said Deira. She paired her phone with the Lexus, and J.Lo’s rich voice, full of pain and heartbreak, filled the car.
‘Maybe not the most cheerful under the circumstances,’ remarked Grace as Adele followed up with even more heartache. ‘But like my mother used to say, they’ve got great lungs on them, those girls.’
Deira laughed.
‘We’re closer to the centre this time,’ Grace said as they approached La Rochelle a while later. ‘It’s not such a big place, and even though there can be lots of traffic it’s nothing like Paris.’
She followed the road through the flat landscape to the outskirts of the town, remembering the last time she’d been here with Ken and the children. She could hear them now, squabbling in the back seat of the car, and Ken telling them that if they weren’t quiet, he’d stop and leave them on the side of the road. He might have done, thought Grace; he’d been a great believer in following words with actions. If he threatened to do something, he nearly always carried it through, which meant that the children knew they could only go so far with him. She, on the other hand, had been a hopeless disciplinarian. She put it down to having to be strict in the aircraft cabin and not wanting to be the same at home.
She was still thinking of Ken as she drew up to the hotel. Unlike some of the newer, but somewhat soulless, hotels with sea views, the Fleur d’Île was a large old house with whitewashed walls, a red-tiled roof and sky-blue shutters at the windows.
‘This is lovely,’ said Deira as they got out of the car. ‘Even prettier than it looked on the website.’
‘Let’s hope the shed is equally lovely,’ said Grace.
Deira felt sure it would be. The interior of the hotel was charming, casually decorated with a pastel blue and white seaside vibe. The walls were hung with art deco posters of beaches and railways, as well as old movie posters for films starring French actresses.
It was when she was handed the key to her hut and saw that instead of a number it had the name ‘Brigitte Bardot’ on the fob that she looked at Grace in excitement.
‘She must have stayed here,’ she said. ‘That’s definitely the answer to the professor’s question.’
She turned immediately to the receptionist, a rather stern older man with a deeply furrowed brow and an enormous white moustache.
‘I know nothing of Bardot and the hotel,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have named things for her. And for Madame Deneuve, and Madame Binoche. But they have not stayed here. Unfortunately.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Grace. ‘Because we thought Miss Bardot did.’
‘I do not know why you would think such a thing.’ The receptionist’s moustache quivered above his lip. ‘I am sorry if you got the wrong idea.’
‘He has to be mistaken,’ said Deira after they’d thanked him and Grace was accompanying her across the garden to the remise. ‘It’s too coincidental otherwise.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Grace. ‘Maybe someone else in the hotel knows about it.’
Deira opened the door to the remise and stepped inside. It was decorated in a monochrome sixties style with white chairs and black rugs, while the walls were hung with black and white photographs of the iconic actress.
‘She was stunning, wasn’t she?’ said Grace.
‘A total babe,’ agreed Deira.
‘I’ll leave you in peace to embrace your inner sex symbol. Will we meet up in an hour or so to talk about the clues?’
‘Perfect.’
Grace nodded and walked back to the hotel alone.
Grace’s own room was furnished in the style of an old country house, with dark wooden floors, luxurious furnishings and heavy drapes. She was surprised that Ken had chosen somewhere like this for her to stay. Over the years they’d travelled together, his choices had always been cheap and cheerful. He wasn’t someone who needed creature comforts or even noticed his surroundings very much.
She opened the window and leaned out. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, looking out over the trees that surrounded the hotel to the vast expanse of ocean. Calm today, and azure blue, it lifted her spirits. It would have been nice to have stayed in this place with Ken, she thought. To have treated themselves, for once in their lives. She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed hard.
She was not going to cry.
She was never going to cry.
He didn’t deserve her tears.
He’d probably spotted this place on one of his walks, she thought, as she turned away from the window and unpacked her cosmetics. He’d always enjoyed walking on his own, and on holidays invariably headed out before breakfast for an hour or so. So it was entirely possible he’d seen the hotel and wandered in to have a look. Yet he’d never said a word to her.
She’d gone on at him often enough about treating themselves when they went away for him to have known that this was the sort of hotel she would have liked to stay in. He’d ignored her when he was alive. But now, when it was all too late, she realised that he’d listened after all.
It was still gloriously warm when she walked into the garden to meet Deira, who told her she’d done some research on the Café de la Paix, which was a twenty-minute stroll from the hotel.
‘Do you want to check it out now?’ asked Grace. ‘I guess we could get something to eat there too.’
Deira nodded, and the two women left the grounds, following the quiet street with its intermi
ttent views of the sparkling sea. There were plenty of other people, tourists and locals alike, also out taking the evening air, and it was hard, Deira thought, as a couple of young women passed them in shorts and strappy tops, not to feel a little bit summery and carefree too. After a few minutes, the street widened into a pedestrianised zone, bordered by sandstone-coloured buildings. At street level they were mostly occupied by small artisan shops and cafés with chalkboard notices encouraging visitors inside with promises of souvenirs or delicate pastries.
Then they emerged into the cobbled area of the old port itself, where coloured lights were strung up around the busy stalls. There were more pavement cafés here, as well as bigger, busier restaurants vying for business.
‘Ken always said it was the most picturesque French place he’d ever been,’ said Grace when Deira remarked on how picture-postcard it looked. ‘He loved it here.’
‘I can see why,’ said Deira as she consulted Google Maps. ‘OK, Grace, the café we’re looking for is further along, away from the port.’
They passed through a wide archway set with a large clock and continued walking until the street widened out into a plaza with a brightly coloured merry-go-round in the centre, where children, watched by their parents, squealed in excitement as they went round and round on painted unicorns. Almost directly opposite was the Café de la Paix.
‘Here we are,’ said Deira. ‘Simenon’s favourite watering hole.’
Grace looked at the building. As a family, they’d never come to this part of La Rochelle, which meant this was another place Ken had explored on his own. Until now, it had never bothered her that she hadn’t been included in his daily walks or his academic pursuits. But there was something unsettling about the thought of him finding places that had ended up as clues in the treasure hunt he’d subsequently set for her. He couldn’t have been thinking about treasure hunts all those years ago, she knew, but he’d remembered these places in far more detail than she ever could. Perhaps it was because he was interested in their history – or at least in the history of the writers who’d lived in them or visited them – that his memory was so sharp. He’d never shared that interest with her. He’d kept her in a different compartment of his life.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 15