A French Affair

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Darling, please don’t let’s go there, or we’ll end up falling out again.’

  ‘But you need a holiday . . .’

  ‘Not now, Jessica. I’m tired, it’s been a long day . . .’

  Sighing she said, ‘OK, then what are you doing this evening?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, ‘If I told you Melissa’s invited me for dinner, would you hang up on me?’

  Though she detested the very idea of Charlie going to Melissa’s, she said, ‘It depends whether or not Paul’s going to be there.’

  ‘He is – and the rest of the gang.’

  ‘You know, I’ve always hated being thought of as part of a gang.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, nothing I say is ever right,’ he responded irritably. ‘It’s just a word.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Give everyone my love,’ she added, attempting to be friendly.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll send theirs too.’

  ‘Just as long as I have yours, that’s all that counts.’

  ‘You know you do.’

  ‘Even when you’re annoyed with me?’

  ‘Even then,’ he said, and the smile in his voice made her smile too.

  After assuring him she loved him just as much, she rang off and wandered back outside to watch the crimson glow of the sunset spreading like treacle over the vines. It was so exquisite and restful that once again she felt lines from Lamartine and Baudelaire gathering inside her, as though to soothe away her angst and bring her back into the beauty around her.

  After a while she found herself thinking about her mother again, and the curious events of that fateful morning. She wished now that she’d asked Charlie for the number in Italy so she could challenge her mother herself, though she doubted he’d have given it, since he of all people knew how quickly any contact with Veronica could turn into a disaster. It didn’t matter though, she’d speak to her sooner or later, while for the time being she’d continue along the path she was on, by talking to the officials who’d been involved that day, and of course to Luc.

  When darkness finally began to fall she went back inside and settled down to indulge in a few chapters of Suite Française. It was the most entrancing escape she could think of, and if she were able to write anywhere near as beautifully she’d have no concerns at all for her own book. However, since she was never going to get near such a talent, she was happy simply to draw inspiration from Irène Némirovsky’s wonderfully lyrical prose.

  Much later, after taking a shower, she was gazing at her reflection in the mirror and thinking of how long it had been since she and Charlie had made love. She felt certain he must miss the physical release every bit as much as she did, so maybe she should tell him what an arousing effect the sun and good wine were having on her, because there must surely be a chance it would work the same magic for him. However, as she looked at the dark gleam in her eyes, and the soft light on her newly tanned skin, she could almost hear him telling her that if she thought being in the place Natalie had died was ever going to help him get over anything, she either didn’t know him at all – or she was losing her mind.

  The following morning, having called first thing and been told to try again at eleven, she was on the line to the gendarmerie when she heard footsteps on the patio outside. Turning to see who it was she felt her heart give a quick beat of unease, for a tall male figure was stepping into the doorway and the dazzling sun was making it impossible to distinguish his features. Then, realising it was Luc, she started to smile and beckoned him to come on in.

  ‘Madame? Vous êtes toujours là?’ a voice at the other end of the line demanded.

  ‘Oui,’ she replied. ‘Oui, je vous écoute.’

  ‘Vous est il possible de venir demain à onze heures?’ Can you come tomorrow at eleven?

  ‘Oui, très bien,’ she replied, making a note. ‘Merci beaucoup. À demain,’ and she ended the call.

  As she replaced her mobile on the table she was on the point of going to greet Luc in the traditional French way, when she found herself a little shy of attempting something that seemed rather intimate in such a small space, particularly when no-one else was around. Presumably he felt it too, for he stayed where he was, leaning against the sink with his arms folded as she said, ‘It’s good to see you. How was Paris? More to the point, how was Lilian when you left her?’

  With a typically droll expression he said, ‘Already halfway to Hong Kong, I’m afraid.’ Then continued, ‘She called last night to remind me to bring you a parasol, which I’ve left outside. I’ll put it up before I leave. She also sends her love, and says you should call her mobile if you need to, any time day or night . . .’ His head went to one side as he thought. ‘I’m trying to remember if I have any more instructions.’

  Laughing, Jessica said, ‘Will a drink help refresh your memory?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he replied with relief. Then, taking the bottle from her to uncork it, ‘Do you have everything you need here?’

  Her eyes were dancing as she said, ‘Everything and more.’

  Responding to her humour with an arch of his eyebrows, he filled the two glasses she put down in front of him. After saluting her with his he inhaled the bouquet, swivelled the wine around the bowl of the glass, smelled it again, then taking a sip he savoured the taste and aroma before finally swallowing. ‘So, are you making good progress with your research?’ he asked, glancing at the table where her books and notepads were strewn.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, going to sit down and feeling pleased when he pulled out a chair too. ‘At some point I’ll have to make a trip to Paris, to visit Montmartre, but it’s not pressing. There’s plenty for me to go through here.’

  ‘Ah, Suite Française,’ he remarked, picking up the novel she’d left open on the chair he was about to sit on. Then he added wryly, ‘I think you’ll learn a lot about the French character from this, and perhaps not all of it is flattering.’

  She laughed. ‘That must mean you’ve read it.’

  ‘Mais bien sûr. The reviews were excellent, and deservedly so.’ He frowned for a moment, then started to quote, ‘“It’s as though the rhythm of the words has wings that carry you right into the heart of their beauty and pain, their happiness and horror . . .” I think that is more or less accurate, non?’

  Jessica was looking at him in amazement. ‘You read my review?’ she said.

  ‘Of course. Lilian is one of your biggest fans, she reads everything you write for the magazines and passes it to me to make sure I do too.’

  Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sorry if it gets tedious.’

  ‘It doesn’t, but I admit in the case of Suite Française I was particularly interested to know what you’d written, because it is a book that fascinated me when the manuscript was first discovered here in France. Naturally I read it in the original when it was published, then Lilian gave me your review when the English translation came out, plus a copy of the book.’

  ‘So you’ve read it in French and English?’

  He nodded. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No, but I should. Is it a good translation?’

  ‘Excellent.’ He looked down at the copy he was holding. ‘I know it is set at a different time to the belle époque, but it contains much about France that I imagine you are finding helpful for your story.’

  ‘I’m finding it inspiring on just about every level,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever read a book that I admire or love more.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘A touching tribute to a woman who died so tragically,’ he commented.

  She smiled, then looked away as the resonance of his words seemed to touch on the events that had taken place in the very room they were in.

  Apparently following her thoughts, he said, ‘Lilian tells me you are hoping to make things a little clearer in your mind while you are here.’

  She continued to look down at her glass as she nodded. Then, bringing her eyes to his, she said, ‘I suppose, l
ike everyone else, you think I’m crazy, or at the very least in some kind of denial.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, seeming to wonder why she’d think that.

  Surprised, she found herself momentarily lost for a response.

  ‘You were her mother,’ he continued, ‘if you feel that something is not right, then I would not be the one to say you are wrong.’

  His words were so unexpected, and so what she’d longed to hear these past months from Charlie or Lilian, that for a moment she felt herself swamped by emotion. ‘But you were here,’ she said. ‘You came right after she fell, so if something wasn’t right . . .’

  ‘By the time I arrived the police and paramedics were everywhere, but I don’t think you are so much worried about what happened then. It is what happened before that concerns you?’

  Her eyes were fixed intently on his as her breath started to become shallow. ‘Do you know if anything did happen?’ she asked. ‘I mean, apart from what my mother told us?’

  His expression seemed paradoxically harsh and gentle as he said, ‘All I can tell you is what I told Charlie and the gendarmes. I didn’t see your mother or Natalie at all that morning. The first I knew that anything was wrong was when you called me.’

  ‘So you didn’t offer to drive them to the village for lunch?’

  He was taken aback. ‘No. Why? Does your mother say I did?’

  ‘No. Apparently she told Daniella she was intending to take Natalie there, and I just don’t believe she’d have walked in the rain. If I’m right, it can only mean someone was going to take them.’ She sighed, then took a sip of her wine. ‘Of course, they didn’t go anyway . . .’ Her eyes went to his. ‘Did you speak to her at all that morning? Or see anyone here?’

  He shook his head. ‘As you must already know, the only unusual thing I saw was the car.’

  Jessica’s eyes opened wide.

  Evidently surprised by her reaction, he said, ‘I see you didn’t know about the car?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Her heart was starting to pound. Her thoughts were coming too fast. ‘Please tell me,’ she said, almost breathlessly.

  Clearly concerned about finding himself in a vacuum he hadn’t even known existed, he said, ‘I only noticed it because normally the space outside the cottage was empty, but that morning, when I happened to look this way, maybe at about eleven o’clock, or a little after, I saw that someone had parked outside. I knew your mother hadn’t rented a car, so I presumed it was a visitor.’

  Jessica rose to her feet, so thrown by this news that she couldn’t fully take it in. ‘So whose was it? What happened to it?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe it belonged to a tourist,’ he replied. ‘Someone who was lost and stopped to ask for directions.’

  ‘That’s what my mother said? Then she’s a liar.’ The words had escaped her before she could stop them. Realising he wasn’t going to contradict her, she became more agitated than ever. ‘Does Charlie know about this car?’ she asked.

  Though his eyes met the glittering challenge in hers, it was clear he didn’t want to answer.

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ she said quietly.

  Unable to lie, he said, ‘It was mentioned when we were talking to the gendarmes, but by then your mother had assured everyone that the car belonged to someone who was lost and had stopped to ask the way, so it was probably not considered to be important.’

  Jessica turned sharply away. Important or not, Charlie had known about this car and never told her. Suddenly she turned back again. ‘Does Lilian know?’ she asked.

  Appearing more uncomfortable than ever, he said, ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  Shock hit her heart hard. ‘Then why has she never told me?’

  ‘Probably for the same reason as Charlie, because she didn’t want you to become upset about something that didn’t matter.’

  Jessica pushed a hand through her hair and tried again to make herself think. She’d had her suspicions for so long, and now to be told that both Charlie and Lilian were covering up for her mother was disorienting her badly. ‘Do you believe it was a tourist?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘I have no reason not to.’

  She looked at him closely. ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  Holding her eyes he said, ‘No, not entirely.’

  She took a breath, then quite suddenly she realised she felt afraid. ‘I have to call the Médecin Légiste in the morning,’ she told him, a ragged edge to her voice. ‘And I’ve arranged to go and see the gendarmes. I think . . . I don’t know . . .’ She put her hands to her head, not sure what she was trying to say. ‘This is changing what I need to ask and I can’t . . .’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ he said gently.

  Startled, her eyes went to his. ‘I could ask Daniella,’ she said, ‘but she has the children . . .’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he interrupted, and as her eyes filled with tears he got up from the table to go outside and put up the parasol, apparently realising she needed a moment to be alone.

  He stayed for a long time that afternoon, listening as she talked about Natalie in a way she hadn’t felt able to since she’d lost her. There was so much, too much, locked up in her heart, and though she’d never imagined she would unleash it all to him, as the words spilled from her she began to realise that maybe it could only ever have been him. After all, he was the one who’d been here that day, who’d seen Natalie at the end and carried her little body out to the ambulance when it was time to take her away. He’d even made sure he knew where they were taking her before they left; then he’d had the terrible ordeal of telling a mother her child was dead.

  He mentioned nothing of his own role now, he merely listened as she spoke from her heart, never once showing any sign of discomfort, or saying anything to make her feel he would like to go.

  She didn’t cry then, that happened later, when she was alone, but during that long, hot afternoon she felt as though all the confusion and loneliness inside her was at last finding some small sense of relief.

  ‘It’s as though parts of me have been shut up in darkness since she died,’ she told him, as she finally began to run out of words, ‘and now you’re allowing them to come into the light.’

  His only answer was to look at her in a way that she couldn’t quite fathom at first, until a kind of lambency came into his eyes that made her start to smile. This tragedy had forged a connection between them that needed no words, she realised, it was simply there, as gentle as the air and intangible as the understanding that was lifting her heart.

  He got up to go and rinse their glasses, then refilled them from a fresh bottle of Macon-Valennes, and once again she watched the way he drank, appearing to savour every nuance of the flavour and perhaps each delicate part of the aroma before finally allowing himself to swallow.

  ‘Tell me what you’re doing,’ she said.

  He seemed confused.

  Realising that to drink that way was second nature to him, she said, ‘I’d like to know about the wine, what you’re looking for when you’re tasting, how it feels in your mouth.’

  He stared down at his glass, then apparently understanding her need to talk about something else for a while, he brought his eyes back to hers and began to explain, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to want to know about wine, and for him to be telling her. ‘With a white wine like this,’ he said, ‘I am checking for its acidity, because this is important to its freshness. What we have here is a vin de table, so the quality is not going to be the same as for the premiers ou grands crus. Nevertheless, we must establish the fruits or flowers of the taste, whether there is a residue of oak from the barrels . . . Maybe it will be easier to explain if we do a tasting at the caves, sometime.’

  She was just saying she’d love to when they heard a car door slam outside and seconds later an enormous dog skidded into the kitchen, all glossy black fur and fat pink tongue, and launched itself straight into Luc’s lap.

  ‘Ah R
ousseau,’ he laughed, ruffling the dog playfully. ‘Je pensais que tu nous avais quittés pour de bon.’ I thought you’d left home for good.

  Jessica laughed as the dog insisted on giving Luc’s face a thorough licking before rearranging its large, sleek body to plant two huge paws on his master’s shoulders, as though preventing him from seeing anyone but his adoring beast.

  ‘Tonton Luc. Tonton Luc. Tu es là,’ Elodie cried as she and Antoine raced in after the dog. ‘Maman, Tonton Luc est ici avec Jessica.’

  ‘So he is,’ Daniella responded dryly as she came in with Hugo. Then she rolled her eyes as the twins circled a big embrace around both Luc and the dog. ‘I hope we are not interrupting,’ she said to Jessica, putting Hugo down so he could join in the hug.

  ‘Not at all,’ Jessica assured her, going for another glass. ‘Luc was just telling me how to taste wine.’ She laughed as Rousseau, having suddenly realised there was someone new to greet, whizzed round in front of her and sat very upright, tongue hanging out, tail wagging as he waited to be spoiled.

  ‘You are too adorable for words,’ she told him, catching his mischievous face between her hands and stooping to kiss him. ‘I’m not sure if you remember me, but Harry hasn’t forgotten you.’

  ‘Maman, pouvons nous avoir une boisson?’ Antoine cried, as Luc kissed his sister on both cheeks, then took over the pouring of her wine.

  ‘You must ask Jessica,’ she responded.

  His big brown eyes turned to Jessica. ‘Pouvons nous . . .’

  ‘In English,’ Daniella interrupted.

  Antoine looked anxiously at Elodie, who promptly drew him into a huddle so they could work out the translation. Not to be left out, Rousseau pushed his nose between them and began thumping a chair with his tail.

  ‘I am bringing the twins for their next sitting,’ Daniella reminded Luc, as he passed her a drink. ‘And then I think we stay for dinner, because Claude is out for the evening. I hope you will join us, Jessica, I have bring plenty of food.’

  Jessica was about to respond when Luc said, ‘Brought plenty of food – and of course she will join us.’