The Lost Swimmer

by Ann Turner

  ‘Rebecca.’ Priscilla moved to a bench and sat down heavily, indicating for me to join her. ‘Rebecca,’ she sighed, ‘you must know that Stephen loved you more than anyone in the world.’ She fixed me with startled cornflower-blue eyes. I sat at the other end of the bench, as far away as possible.

  ‘Stephen and I did have an affair. It ended just before he went overseas with you. He was the one who chose to finish it.’ Her voice was now no louder than a whisper. So, I’d been right all along, but the moment fell flat, hollow. There was no victory in having guessed the truth. I was so shocked I couldn’t yet even feel anger – only cold, grey numbness and a rising nausea.

  ‘You were sleeping with my husband while you were monstering me?’ was all I could say.

  Priscilla leaned forward and I reeled back as if from an adder. ‘I miss him dreadfully,’ she said. ‘Did he really lose all that money? If I’d only known I would have helped.’

  Fury rose in me as she played her game.

  ‘Don’t try to fool me, Priscilla. Take me to him.’

  ‘My darling, it must be a terrible shock.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  She blinked. ‘In Paris.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  Priscilla slumped back. ‘He’s not with me.’ Her blue eyes misted over again. ‘But perhaps you should come and see for yourself.’

  ‘You’ll just ring ahead and tell him to disappear. I have a better idea.’ I pulled a scrap of paper from my bag and scrawled down Ludovico’s address. ‘Bring Stephen to me. Tell him I have to see him – to talk about the children at least. Seven o’clock. Be there or you’ll regret it. You’ve been harbouring Stephen while the police think he’s dead. You’ve wasted everyone’s time and I’ll contact them if you’re not there sharp at seven.’ I knew she wouldn’t agree; I would wait for her at the station and follow her back.

  Priscilla took the paper and reached out towards me but I yanked my arm away. ‘Seven o’clock,’ I called as I strode away. ‘Or I’ll phone the police.’

  A bus was waiting in the car park, and I caught it back to Vernon. Priscilla’s confession roared through my head, and I cursed myself for not asking how long their affair had gone on. Was it weeks, months or years? I tried to work out when it might have started, but I had no idea. A bitter liquid flooded my mouth. Priscilla had seemed alarmingly to be telling the truth about Stephen not being in Paris with her, but she couldn’t be; it wasn’t possible.

  As I stood in the searing heat waiting for the train, another thought rushed into my mind: would Priscilla instead turn me into the police? If she had bribed Napolitano, I was now in a truly vulnerable position. Suddenly I realised I was stupid to have given her Ludovico’s address. I glanced around: every man and woman looked like undercover police. I paced up and down the platform, unable to keep still.

  When the train pulled into the station in a burst of boiling air I looked everywhere for Priscilla. Hordes of tourists pushed into carriages, but Priscilla was not among them. Had she rushed back to Stephen in a taxi? Why had I left Giverny when perhaps Stephen was on his way to meet her by the water lilies? I wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Thoughts jumbled one on top of each other.

  I retreated to a drink vending machine near the ticket office and clunked in coins for a bottle of water. I drank slowly, looking everywhere for Priscilla, imagining her in bed with Stephen. Now I’d heard her confession, the truth was too hard to deal with, a giant lump of betrayal that trapped my mind in a lead veil. Suddenly claustrophobic, I went back out into the explosive heat.

  I’d made such a mess of things. Was it my fault that Stephen had run into her arms? How could he have lied to me? While I was in mediation with Priscilla he was slipping between sheets with her. Why did I even want him back?

  But what if I never had the opportunity to talk to him again, to make him explain why he’d lied, why he’d done such terrible things? I tried to hang on to Priscilla’s admission that Stephen had ended the affair. He must have had a vestige of conscience before he went running back to her when his world collapsed. But perhaps Priscilla was just tricking me and he had never ended it.

  With every thought I was more desperate to speak to him.

  I chided myself to hold firm. He was in Paris in some bolthole with Priscilla, and I would make him come to me. I would make him explain.

  And then suddenly Priscilla came clipping out of the ticket office and onto the platform. She stood waiting patiently, her face flushed, her expression distracted.

  When the next train arrived I held back until she was seated and then I stepped aboard the carriage behind. As soon as we left the station I moved and stood swaying in the space between carriages, where I had a good view. She sat gazing out at the scenery, eyes bloodshot with tears. I hoped that meant she was planning to deliver Stephen, but I doubted it. Why was she crying, then? She didn’t look like a lover going back to her man.

  At Gare Saint-Lazare I hopped off the train seconds after Priscilla and followed her through busy streets, almost losing her in the crowds outside the department stores Les Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, picking her up again as she crossed Boulevard Haussmann towards Palais Garnier, the Paris opera house. I studied her body, the way she walked, the flow of her blonde hair, imagining myself as Stephen, seeing through his eyes. I tried to visualise what I looked like to him, how he had lost interest in me. Or had he? Did he need us both? The virgin and the whore.

  Priscilla turned down a small street and made her way into a plush hotel. I hovered in the foyer, as if waiting for a friend, and heard her ask for the key to room 212. A large tour group was arriving and people were milling about, and among them Priscilla was swallowed into the lift.

  I sank into a deep leather lounge and waited until the reception staff were so busy checking in their new guests that no one noticed me slip into the elevator, where I pressed the button for the second floor.

  Room 212 was at the end of a long corridor of red carpet so deep I left footprints. Anticipation rose as I walked closer. At the door I stopped, ran my fingers through my hair, neatening it, drew in my breath and rapped confidently. Silence. Moments ticked by. I wondered what conversation they might be having. The walls were soundproof, I couldn’t hear anything. My heart beat fast; I was about to see Stephen. Finally, Priscilla opened up. I pushed her backwards and barged in as she squawked in alarm.

  She was alone. I moved around the room seeking evidence of Stephen. I flung open the wardrobe, expecting to find new clothes he’d bought in Paris – but there was only Priscilla’s high fashion. I hurtled into the bathroom – a single toothbrush, make-up, perfume. Nothing male.

  ‘Where is he?’ I demanded hotly as I re-entered the main room, which was decked out luxuriously in thick velvets.

  Priscilla stood by the neatly made bed, tears flooding her cheeks. ‘Darling, he’s not here.’ She hugged me, so tightly I couldn’t breathe. ‘I really haven’t seen Stephen. You must believe me. Tell me everything that happened.’

  She drew away to look at me and I slapped her face, hard. In my shock I felt like I had released a valve that had been stuck tight. She flung a hand to her reddened cheek, eyes wide in surprise and pain. As I went to slap her again she grabbed me, twisting my wrist into a grind of nerves.

  ‘Listen. To. Me. Stephen drowned, Rebecca, didn’t he? You’re going to have to come to terms with it. We both are, God knows how. Either that or you murdered him, as the police think.’

  I lunged at her, desperate to force the truth out, but she caught me and held me back.

  ‘You must go now and calm down, Rebecca. Contact me when you’re ready to talk.’ Her face crumpled as she propelled me to the passage in a grip so tight I could do nothing other than obey. Pain seared my arms. She threw me out and locked the door.

  I stood breathlessly, arms hanging limp at my sides. A happy-looking couple approached, staring curiously as they entered the room next door. I heard their door click shut and, in a daz
e, I found the lift.

  In the foyer I pushed through the milling tourists who were still checking in. Once in the street I tried to process Priscilla’s reaction. I was certain she was lying. It was typical and cruel of her to pretend that Stephen had drowned like my father. How could I get to him?

  I walked fast and soon passed through the clipped gardens of the Palais Royal with their startling green lawn and headed through the traffic on Rue de Rivoli, going towards the Louvre. I turned right as I reached IM Pei’s glass pyramid, where tourists posed ludicrously as statues on little coloured blocks. I crossed the road into the Tuileries Gardens.

  My feet propelled me to the table. Stephen had been here recently. I found comfort in that, despite knowing that he had been here with Priscilla.

  ‘Back again?’ said the waiter as I sat and ordered a café crème. I obsessively watched every passer-by, tapping my fingers on the table to try to calm down, thrumming out a tattoo until people nearby threw looks of annoyance. With difficulty I tried to sit still. I reminded myself I needed to remain invisible but my leg started bouncing up and down. My body refused to obey commands. I threw down a handful of euros, not waiting for my coffee, and fled.

  Walking up the wide tree-lined path I tried desperately to form a plan but my mind was blank. All I could hear was the crunching of gravel echoing loudly underfoot.

  I passed through the gardens and out into the chaos of Place de la Concorde. Cars roared by as I crossed the River Seine over to the Left Bank. A crowd had gathered outside the Musée D’Orsay, queuing in the wide forecourt beside the old railway building with its giant clock. It was open late tonight. Had fate led me here? Another place to which Stephen and I had always come. Perhaps today would be no different? I joined the queue, forcing away my doubts. It was in Priscilla’s nature to mislead; she did it with relish, along with her theatrics.

  I glided through a special Impressionist exhibition including our favourite painters – Monet, Manet, Renoir, Sisley, Pissarro – more of their work than I had ever seen hung along the vast walls. They appeared different today, my sleep-deprived mind taking in every brushstroke. I saw the detail rather than the picture, the fine beads of paint. It was unnerving and yet exciting. I looked everywhere, expecting to see Stephen poring over a masterpiece as he waited for Priscilla’s all-clear. I wasn’t fooled for a minute that she wasn’t with him. They must have carefully packed away his belongings. She would have expected me to follow her.

  When I couldn’t find Stephen I hurried upstairs. Still no sighting. I rushed into the restaurant, forcing myself to slow to an amble beneath the grand chandeliers. I stared at the tables of diners eating in the sumptuously decorated rooms. Outside, Paris was beginning to twinkle, the parks and rooftops floating.

  I took in everything and everyone. My mind was a computer.

  ‘Can I help you, madame?’ An officious man in black and white stood close. Not a policeman, only a waiter.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. He’s tall, fit, dark-haired with a beard.’ I paused. ‘Actually, he may be clean-shaven. He’s a little older than me but you wouldn’t know it.’ As if from a distance I heard myself give a silvery laugh. The waiter eyed me with concern.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like a glass of water?’

  I shook my head and walked away, knocking into a group of diners, hearing the quiet tones of people’s reactions.

  A guard approached. ‘Can I help, madame?’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I called.

  ‘Then let me show you the way, madame.’ He took me gently by the elbow and propelled me down to the exit. I blinked into the soft night air, confused, disoriented; where should I go now? In the long queue to enter the museum, I felt someone staring and glanced up.

  ‘Melinda?’

  I was certain it was Melinda but she looked so different. Years younger, happy. Stunningly beautiful. Parisian. And she’d died her hair blonde.

  ‘Melinda, you’re in Paris!’

  But she was already out of the queue and moving rapidly away.

  ‘Melinda! Mel?’

  Suddenly she was running. Hadn’t she recognised me with my extra make-up and formal clothes? But surely Mel, of all people, would know me. A horrifying thought occurred – could Stephen be with Melinda? She was blonde now. And she certainly wasn’t pleased to see me.

  She flew down a narrow street lined with tiny homewares shops and cutting-edge art galleries. I knew I was quicker, but I pretended to be breathless, doubling over feigning a stitch, keeping a firm eye on the street she turned down. As soon as she was out of sight I pursued, trying to absorb the possibility of her with Stephen. How could either of them do that to me?

  For several blocks I stalked from a distance, hiding in shop doorways or behind crowds of pedestrians whenever Melinda turned to check she wasn’t being followed.

  But all the time I felt that someone was behind me, too.

  The stalker being stalked.

  I turned back abruptly. ‘Stephen?’ But I recognised no faces in the mass of tourists and locals chattering happily as they headed out to dinner.

  I hurried after Melinda and saw her open a heavy blue door with a lion’s-head handle. She was soon swallowed into a shadowy courtyard as the door swung shut. I ran and slipped my foot in the crack just before it closed, then waited a few moments before I poked my head inside. Melinda had climbed a long set of stairs and was unlocking an apartment adorned with red geraniums. As soon as she disappeared, I followed.

  I climbed the stairs, making sure my feet made no noise. The apartments looked expensive, far beyond Melinda’s budget. Had Stephen used our money? The betrayal was deeper than anything I’d thought possible. My arms reached out to a pot plant and I hurled it through the window. The glass was old and gave way easily. The red geraniums flew into the gloom inside and Melinda, furious, opened the door.

  ‘Get away, Rebecca, or I’ll call the police.’ She looked around but no neighbours had appeared.

  ‘Let me in. I need to see Stephen.’ My voice cracked. I wanted desperately to hold him. To have him envelop me and tell me how sorry he was.

  ‘Stephen?’ Melinda was icy, her face pinched with rage. ‘He’s not here. I wouldn’t have anyone here from your lot.’

  I tried to push past but she blocked the door. There was terror in her eyes.

  ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

  ‘I must see him. Please!’ Everything was unreal.

  ‘I’ve told you he’s not here. Why on earth would he be, Rebecca?’

  Melinda seemed genuinely confused. But why had she run? Her hands were shaking violently.

  My mind ticked over, slowing down as I watched her, trying to work out what was going on, grappling to understand. There was something… And then it hit me. I had trusted Melinda with my passport once. I had been frantically busy preparing for an overseas trip and I had asked her to check me in online.

  ‘You’re the fourth person under investigation, aren’t you?’ I blurted.

  Melinda stepped closer.

  ‘They’ve figured it out,’ I bluffed. ‘You accessed my passport.’

  Melinda’s fury was palpable. I’d guessed right.

  ‘I thought we were friends,’ I said, shocked, realising I should leave. I glanced around, trying to work out how I could get away. I was between her and the stairs and I didn’t want to turn my back.

  ‘At least I rob honestly,’ she replied angrily. ‘Not like you, on your fat salaries while you whine about how bad things are. Do you realise how little I made when I worked harder than any of you? And now you’ve hunted me down.’ She pitched forward suddenly with alarming speed and I lost my footing, tumbling backwards. I tried to grab hold of her but she pushed me away. The gaping stairway flew beneath until I crashed to the courtyard and my head struck the unyielding stone. Blood flowed into my eyes, wet and gelatinous; my nose went numb. The kangaroo attack roared back but this time there was no dog to save me. Flashes of Stephen and Erin and James sca
rred my mind as Melinda stepped down towards me. She was wearing sparkling red Parisian stilettos and they were coming fast, flickering like the images in a silent film, and that was the last thing I saw.

  26

  I awoke with a start and gazed around a sterile hospital ward. Nearby were two other patients, both asleep, both elderly. The snowy-haired man snored loudly. The breathing of the other, a slender woman, was so shallow she might have been dead.

  How had I come to be here? I looked around expectantly for Stephen, then realised with a thud that I was alone.

  ‘My children?’ I said aloud to the indifferent room.

  I rolled onto my side to reach the telephone sitting on a nightstand but the drip attached to my arm made movement foolish. I yelped as my ribs erupted in pain. The man woke, flapping about, and pressed an emergency button. A nurse came running and he pointed to me, speaking rapidly in French.

  The nurse shifted me onto my back. ‘Shh, shh, madame, vous êtes malade.’ She stroked my brow as she fiddled with the drip. After a few moments I drifted away again.

  • • •

  It was hot and bright when I opened my eyes. The ward was bustling. I had more neighbours in beds and everyone had visitors.

  ‘How are you going?’ Sally Chesser sat in a corner of the room. She came over and squeezed my hand.

  ‘Sally?’ I wasn’t yet ready to believe she was real.

  ‘You must feel pretty sore?’

  ‘Like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer. What happened?’

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  I shook my head and gritted my teeth in pain.

  Disjointed images flashed slowly back.

  Melinda running into the distance.

  Melinda’s angry face, snapped tight and foreign.

  ‘How did you know she was the one who embezzled the money from Coastal?’ Sally asked piercingly.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But you accused Melinda. You know it would have been better if you hadn’t. You were lucky I was there.’

  Why were you there, I thought, my mind a jumble.