Imogen didn’t believe in fate. Her mother had once told her that discovering she was pregnant after the road accident that had killed her parents and her husband had been fate, but Imogen had frowned at the comment and said that if Carol was trying to say that something good had come out of the crash that had obliterated her family, she was being very generous towards fate.
‘But you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,’ Carol protested.
‘I would’ve been born anyway,’ Imogen pointed out. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better if Dad had been alive when it happened?’
Carol had struggled to answer her question. But then Carol had always struggled to answer her questions, Imogen thought as she got on her bike and began to pedal to her first job. At least until she went down the road of using inspirational quotes and clichés to make her points. In trying to make sense of what had happened to her family, Carol had allowed herself to get caught up in a New Age way of thinking, egged on, Imogen remembered, by Lucie Delissandes, who sometimes treated her mother like a project to be worked on, and was forever exchanging motivational sayings with her, as well as insisting on hanging crystal angels and dreamcatchers in the room that she and Imogen shared. Not that the inspirational stuff had done any good in the end. And as for the bloody dreamcatchers, thought Imogen, freewheeling down a short hill, they hadn’t caught the dreams that left her mother crying out as she relived the accident. And they hadn’t caught the indiscretion before it started either.
She stopped outside the first house, La Lumière, and rang the bell. Time to get to work, she told herself, and stop thinking about things in the past that had nothing whatsoever to do with the present. Or, as the quote from the Buddha that her mum had once had framed over her bed said: Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. Except it was hard not to dwell on the past right now. Because if it wasn’t for things that had happened years ago, her future, and therefore the present moment, might have been very, very different.
Nevertheless, it was the present that required her time now, and she resolved to be the best cleaner that had ever worked for René Bastarache. The future could, at least temporarily, look after itself.
It was infinitely more satisfying to clean the homes of people who lived in them than the holiday lets. The owners took proper care of their things and Imogen did too, enjoying the shine of the furniture after she’d polished it and taking pleasure in putting everything back in its proper place. Although to be fair, neither of the first two houses was very untidy.
As she cycled along a road that tugged at the edges of her memory, she wondered what the Villa Martine would be like. She also wondered how accurate her memories of it really were.
She knew that there was a turn coming up even before Google Maps told her, because she’d seen the sign for the campsite near the house and she remembered the name: Jazkiel. When she’d seen it as a child, she’d thought it had something to do with jazz music and had expected to see a band playing at the gates. Fortunately she hadn’t said that to anyone, particularly Oliver and Charles, who would have laughed at her. They used to laugh at her anyway because of her accent, although she always had the last laugh there because they were supposed to be speaking English, and every time they pronounced her name Imo-zhen, she would snort and say that they hadn’t got a clue. Although they rarely called her Imogen. They’d been the ones to christen her Genie. Which they still pronounced in their very French way as Zhee-nie.
And so the present has finally brought me here, she said to herself as she stopped outside the front gates of the Villa Martine. After all the times I’ve wanted to come, after my silly childish thoughts about how to make things right, I’ve arrived by accident rather than design. I wonder would Mum think it was fate after all?
She looked at the chrome name plate set into the wall. It was new. So were the gates. When she’d arrived that first day, sitting beside Carol in Denis Delissandes’ car, they’d been white-painted metal with the house name stuck on in gold lettering. Now the gates were stained wood, modern and new, and instead of opening inwards as they had before, Imogen could see that they were on a track, so that they would glide to one side. There was a wooden pedestrian gate beside them, along with a keypad. She pressed the bell on the keypad in case anyone was still there, but nobody answered, so she tapped in the code that René had given her. A quiet click told her that the gate had opened. She pushed it gently and walked through.
She didn’t know what she remembered and what she didn’t. The gravel driveway might have been gravel back then too, but the stone path that led from the pedestrian gate to the front door was unfamiliar. She was sure that the garden was neater – there were flower beds and decorative stone areas that couldn’t have been there in the days when Oliver and Charles played football. But the house itself was the same: white-painted like so many of the houses in the area, with the traditional alpine-style shallow sloping roof and red-shuttered windows. The shutters were all tightly closed.
She walked up the steps to the front door and put the key in the lock. She opened it, and then swiped the tag in front of the alarm pad, relieved when the insistent beeping stopped. She took a deep breath. She was inside the house she’d lived in for nearly five years. The house she’d believed was her home, no matter how stupid that belief had been.
Zhee-nie. Zhee-nie! Where are you? The words echoed around the empty hallway. We’re going to the beach! Get your things. Zhee-nie! Depêche-toi!!
Overwhelmed by the voices in her head, Imogen sank slowly on to the bottom stair and put her head between her knees, suddenly afraid that she was about to faint.
Come here, Genie. Let me do your hair.
Madame – as Imogen had always called Lucie Delissandes – loved to arrange her luxurious long hair, brushing it, plaiting it and putting it up in intricate styles that looked pretty but lasted for about ten minutes, because then she’d run outside to play with the boys and it always ended up falling around her face in wayward curls.
Genie, what on earth are you doing? Get upstairs this instant and under that shower.
Her mother approved of her playing with the boys, but not the fact that she invariably ended up filthy after their games of football or chasing or pirates …
She raised her head and looked around her again. Despite the clarity of the voices, the house was very definitely deserted. She realised that a tear was rolling down her face and she fished a tissue from her bag. Silly to be nostalgic, she thought, as she wiped it away. Silly to suddenly feel as though she belonged here again. She didn’t. She’d changed. Everything had changed. Everything always did.
And that’s a good thing, she told herself as she stood up. I’ve learned that. And I’m changing too, because I’ve taken back control of my life and control of my future. Now I have to get on with it.
All the same, as she began to walk along the still familiar hallway towards the kitchen, the memories continued to wash over her. And yet, she realised as she opened the shutters and allowed the bright sunlight to flood the house, they weren’t entirely accurate. The kitchen, which had been updated with modern units, seemed smaller than she remembered. So did the living room beyond it. The rustic brick fireplace had been replaced by a sleek gas unit behind tempered glass, and the heavy mahogany furniture had given way to pieces that had clearly come from IKEA.
She left the living room and made her way upstairs to the bedroom where she’d once slept. Originally it had been a large room, but the Delissandes had divided it into two, one part for her mother and the other for her. Now it had been restored to the single bigger room it had been before and was dominated by a king-sized bed. The free-standing units Imogen remembered had been replaced by expensive fitted ones. Even though she could clearly recall being here with Carol, it was now something quite firmly in her past. Running her finger along the surface of the dressing table to check for dust, she realised that the Villa Martine wasn’t some shrine to the
way things had once been. It was a lived-in house that had aged with her. It was a house where old memories had faded and new ones had taken their place. And, she thought, it was a house that she was here to clean, not to wander around like a lost ghost. Nor was there a need to apologise for the past. Everyone had moved on. As people always did.
You’ve wasted enough time blubbering like a fool, she told herself sternly, and you’ve work to do. The first part of which was to get the laundry together. She took a deep breath as she opened the door to the master bedroom. It too was furnished in a modern style, but she didn’t know if it always had been, or if the units were new, as she’d never been in it before. The sheets were in a pile on top of the mattress, along with some blue and white striped towels. She gathered them up and brought them downstairs. Without even thinking about it, she turned towards the utility room, where she knew the washing machine was housed, before remembering that she was supposed to bring the laundry back to René. She took a folded black refuse sack from her bag and piled the sheets and towels inside. Then she opened the door that led to the garden. The clothes line was still there, a selection of colourful pegs attached to it. It was a long time since Imogen had dried clothes on a washing line. She used the dryer in Bellwood Park. Vince hated seeing clothes hung up in the garden. He said it was offensive to have his shirts and shorts out there for everyone to see. But Imogen loved drying things in the fresh air. Once again she recalled the white sheets rising and falling in the offshore breeze while she and Oliver and Charles pretended they were the sails of a pirate ship and chased each other around them. She inhaled deeply. The sheets had always smelled faintly of the lavender washing powder that Lucie liked to buy. But today the only scent was from the vivid pink oleander bush that grew beside the wall.
She was late returning to the estate agency with the keys to the properties and the washing from the Villa Martine, and René’s eyes narrowed as she walked into the office.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘You’re always asking me that. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You look peaky,’ he said. ‘And you’re behind schedule.’
‘Big houses take a lot of time,’ she told him.
‘I want you to do a good job,’ he said. ‘But you don’t have to be forensic about it.’
‘I wasn’t. It takes time opening and closing shutters and making sure everything is secure. Also …’ she grinned, ‘it took me longer to cycle back because there was more dirty linen than usual and it was hard to see over the top of the basket.’
René took the bag from her.
‘Are they returning soon?’ she asked as he slipped a ‘Villa Martine’ tag on it.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘They usually phone beforehand. They’re here for a lot of the summer.’
Once again, Imogen wanted to ask if it was the Delissandes. But René spoke before she had the chance to formulate the question.
‘Did you reset the alarms?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m putting a lot of faith in you,’ said René. ‘These are people’s homes.’
A knot of worry wound itself around her stomach. Had he done a background check on her? Had he discovered something to concern him?
‘I know they are.’ She spoke calmly. ‘I’m very conscious of that.’
He seemed to relax. ‘Normally the person who does the cleaning for permanent or semi-permanent clients is the longest-serving member of the team,’ he said. ‘But Viktoria was the one to leave, and getting someone to do her work has been difficult.’
‘Thank you for your confidence in me,’ Imogen said.
‘I didn’t have that much at the start,’ admitted René. ‘And you haven’t been with us very long. However, Angelique is impressed.’
‘She is? But I haven’t even met her.’
‘She inspects the work after you’ve finished,’ René said. ‘Not every time, you understand. But for some of the properties. The apartments are always pristine when you’ve done them. Today she called to the Blanchards after you’d left. They told her you were the most thorough cleaner they’d ever had.’
‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,’ she said in English.
‘Huh?’
‘I think in France you say, “Ça vaut la peine si c’est bien fait”.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘In any event, we’re happy with your work.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘And yet …’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘Nothing,’ said René. ‘Nothing at all. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you then,’ said Imogen.
She left the office and went to the seafront café for the after-work coffee that had become a ritual for her. The waitress, Céline, a slender woman of around her own age who wore her fair hair in a carefully disordered topknot, greeted her warmly and asked after her day.
‘Strangely satisfying,’ replied Imogen. ‘I never thought I’d like cleaning houses, but I do.’
‘Would you be interested in adding mine to your list?’ asked Céline.
Imogen was a little surprised at the request. Céline saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes and grinned.
‘I don’t have time for it because I work such long hours in the café,’ she said. ‘I am the proprietor. I’m here all of the summer, for twelve hours a day, which is why my poor house is neglected so much. And I feel bad for it.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘What do you think?’ Céline gave her a hopeful look. ‘I can probably pay you a little more than they do at the agency.’
‘Well …’
‘Take a moment to consider it while I make your coffee,’ said Céline, and she turned back towards the building, picking up cups as she went.
Imogen sat at the café table and thought about the offer. Three weeks ago, working for Chandon Leclerc, she would have been the one paying for a cleaner (if Vince had allowed it, which he didn’t; he said he didn’t want strangers in their home, something Imogen understood even if she didn’t agree with). Today, she was welcoming the idea of work she would happily have allowed someone else to do for her – and for a fraction of the money she would have paid, too. And yet she was enjoying being a cleaner. She liked the exhausted sleep it brought because it meant that she didn’t spend her nights tossing and turning and worrying about what Vince might be up to. She liked doing something physical for a change. More important than anything else, however, was that she needed any work that came her way. Even though she was living as simply as possible, she couldn’t afford to turn down any paying job.
‘Une noisette et une tarte au citron.’ Céline placed the small cup with its half-and-half of espresso and hot milk and the individual lemon tart in front of her.
‘I didn’t ask for a pastry,’ said Imogen.
‘On the house.’ Céline’s sea-blue eyes twinkled at her. ‘While you think.’
‘You’re bribing me with cake?’ asked Imogen with a smile.
‘If it works. I really could do with some help.’ Céline sat opposite her, allowing the student who also worked in the café to look after the other customers. ‘Because you see, when I’m not here, I also help out in my father’s restaurant. Everyone must work hard in the summer; it’s when we make most of our money. I don’t have time for my poor little house.’
‘Oh, which restaurant?’
‘It’s called Le Bleu,’ Céline replied. ‘It’s—’
‘I know it!’ exclaimed Imogen, recalling that that was the name of the one she’d visited with Samantha and Gerry. ‘I had dinner there a while ago with some friends.’
‘In that case perhaps you don’t need a job with me,’ said Céline. ‘It’s not cheap.’
Imogen grinned. ‘It was a one-off. And very good.’
‘Of course it was good,’ said Céline. ‘My father trained under Albert Roux. But he has continued to update his cooking. Now he does more Basque style.’
> ‘I need to improve my own cooking skills,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m afraid my style is very plain.’
‘Plain food cooked well is excellent,’ Céline remarked as she watched Imogen eat the cake. ‘Anyway, what d’you think about the cleaning?’
‘You’re sure you want someone?’
‘Of course I want someone. I’m crying out for help,’ said Céline. ‘Besides, René says you’re the best cleaner they’ve ever had.’
‘René does? You know him?’ Imogen looked at her in surprise.
‘Yes, I know him,’ said Céline. ‘I used to be married to him.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Why would I joke?’
‘You … and René.’ Imogen wiped some crumbs from the corner of her mouth. ‘I didn’t realise … That’s a coincidence.’
‘We were at school together,’ said Céline. ‘And we live in a relatively small town. It’s not such a surprise.’
‘You look far too young to have been at school with René!’
Céline smiled. ‘Merci pour le compliment. He was a few years ahead of me. My childhood sweetheart. You should never marry your childhood sweetheart, it’s bound to end in disappointment.’
‘I didn’t have one, so I don’t have to worry about that ever happening,’ said Imogen. ‘In spite of René being your ex, you get on well with him?’
‘Well enough.’ Céline shrugged. ‘It’s better that way in a town where you are both in business, don’t you think?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And so we are all hard workers,’ said Céline. ‘René with his houses, me with my café, my father with his restaurant and you … you with your cleaning, which you get to on my bicycle.’ Her voice bubbled with merriment.
The Missing Wife Page 11