‘What did you do that you shouldn’t have?’ Imogen asked when Carol walked into the room.
‘I was silly,’ said Carol. ‘Really silly.’
‘You call me silly sometimes,’ said Imogen. ‘And I’m always doing things I shouldn’t. But you don’t send me away.’
‘This was different.’
‘But you said sorry, didn’t you?’
‘Sometimes sorry isn’t enough.’
‘You always told me it was.’
‘Usually it is,’ conceded Carol. ‘But not this time.’
Imogen stared at her. ‘So is the other person who made the indiscretion sorry too?’
‘Give me a break,’ said Carol. ‘Stop asking questions.’
‘You always said that asking questions is good.’ Imogen was fractious. ‘Now you won’t let me. You’re mean, Mum.’
‘I know.’ Carol slammed a drawer closed. ‘I’m a mean mother and a mean woman and I don’t know how anyone puts up with me.’
Imogen was shocked into silence. Her mother had never spoken to her like that before.
‘You’re not mean,’ she said eventually, wrapping her arms around Carol. ‘I’m sorry I said that. You’re good. And if you said sorry and Madame didn’t listen to you, then she’s the one who’s mean.’
Carol hugged her.
‘You can’t blame Madame,’ she said. ‘She was always very good to us, Imogen. One day we’ll go back and apologise again. You and me both. And you can say sorry to Oliver and Charles for not being able to go camping with them.’
‘OK.’ Imogen sniffed. ‘And we can say sorry to Monsieur too.’
Carol didn’t answer. She just hugged Imogen tighter.
Although everyone agreed that she was a very adaptable child, Imogen struggled with being back in Ireland. It wasn’t only that she’d been uprooted; it was having to start all over again. Finding a new school. Making new friends. Learning new ways of doing things. It was a lot of effort and sometimes she felt tired of having to be the one to make it. Agnes and Berthe continually told her how lovely it was to have her living with them again, but Imogen, who’d almost forgotten her time at the Maison Lavande, couldn’t remember what it had been like before. She missed the Villa Martine, she missed Lucie and Oliver and Charles – and to a lesser extent Denis. She missed being able to walk to the beach. She missed everything. And she wanted to go back.
She kept asking her mother if ‘one day’ had come yet and if it was time to go back and say sorry and fix everything, but Carol kept saying no. She asked if they could go back to Hendaye anyway, even if they couldn’t live at the Villa Martine. After all, she said, I was doing better at school there than here. Carol told her that she’d get into the swing of things soon enough because she was a clever girl, and clever girls did well no matter where they lived.
She decided to run away in September. It had been a tough day at her new school where some of the girls had teased her about her accent, laughing at her pronunciation of ‘hall’ as ‘all’. Imogen was perfectly capable of pronouncing the ‘h’ but sometimes, when she spoke quickly, she forgot. Karen Connolly, one of the ringleaders, had made a big joke of it which had left Imogen feeling humiliated. Then, when she got home, Carol had picked on her for not tidying her room. Agnes had taken her mother’s side in the ensuing argument, and Imogen decided that she’d had enough.
She hated Ireland, she said to herself as she started stuffing clothes into her case. She’d go back to France without Carol and say sorry to Lucie herself. Then everything could go back to the way it was before.
‘Running away doesn’t solve anything,’ Carol said when she’d looked into Imogen’s room and seen her putting clothes into her small case.
‘You did.’ Imogen looked at her directly. ‘You ran away from the Villa Martine.’
‘No I didn’t,’ said Carol. ‘Madame asked me to leave.’
‘She didn’t mean it,’ said Imogen. ‘She often told Monsieur to leave! I remember, don’t you? She would say to him to get out of her office and out of her house.’
‘She didn’t mean for him to leave for ever,’ said Carol. ‘Just while she was working.’
‘She probably didn’t mean for us to leave for ever either,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s why I’m going back.’
‘People can’t go back either,’ said Carol. ‘You can never go back.’
‘Of course I can,’ said Imogen. ‘Monsieur always came back. And Berthe and Agnes came back to Ireland.’
‘That’s not what …’ Carol sighed. She knew it had been hard for her daughter, and she felt guilty once again for her reckless stupidity with Denis Delissandes. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Why do grown-ups always say things are complicated?’ demanded Imogen. ‘It’s not complicated at all.’
‘Believe me, Imogen, it is.’
‘So you won’t let me go?’
‘You’re too young to go by yourself,’ said Carol. ‘I told you we’d go back together one day. Besides, Agnes and Berthe are being lovely to us right now and we have to count our blessings.’
Carol’s favourite cliché wasn’t what Imogen wanted to hear. But it was clear that she wasn’t going to be permitted to run away. So she gave in and unpacked her bag again, allowing Carol to fold her crumpled clothes and put them away neatly.
Soon I’ll be old enough to go back on my own, she told herself. I’ll explain it all to Monsieur and Madame. They’ll understand. I know they will. And everything will be OK again.
But then Carol met Kevin, and from Imogen’s point of view, things went from bad to worse.
Kevin Sutton was a project engineer on a city regeneration scheme. He and Carol met a year after her return to Ireland, while they were both attending a parent–teacher evening at Imogen’s school. Kevin’s daughter Cheyenne was in the same year as her, although not the same class. By that time Imogen had settled into her life in Dublin and there was no more talk of running away or returning to France. There was no more talk of France in the house at all. By tacit consent it had become a taboo subject, and Imogen put it to the furthest recesses of her mind. Agnes and Berthe – who were planning to go back to the States the following year – encouraged the relationship between Carol and Kevin, especially because they thought it would be good for Imogen to make friends with a girl of her own age. Although she had a knack of getting on well with adults, she still didn’t seem to have made a close friend at school, but she was dismissive of her aunts’ championing of both Kevin and Cheyenne.
‘You like him?’ she asked one evening when Carol had gone out with him, leaving her with Agnes and Berthe. ‘But he’s fat.’
‘Don’t be pass-remarkable,’ said Agnes. ‘Anyway, he’s not fat. He’s well built.’
‘Pah!’ Imogen wrinkled her nose in a very Gallic way. ‘I say fat.’
Berthe grinned. ‘But your maman loves him.’
‘Does she?’ Imogen made a face. ‘I was hoping it was another indiscretion.’
Agnes and Berthe exchanged glances.
‘A what?’ asked Agnes.
‘An indiscretion. You told me about it before, Berthe. It’s doing something you shouldn’t. I looked it up afterwards. It’s a mistake about sex. Mum had an indiscretion in France with Monsieur Delissandes and I thought perhaps she was having one with Kevin too.’
‘O … K …’ Berthe said.
‘It makes sense,’ said Imogen. ‘You shouldn’t have sex with someone who’s not your husband. Everyone knows that’s wrong. It’s an affaire and it’s nearly always a massive mistake. That explains why Madame was so annoyed with Mum, doesn’t it? She was probably afraid that Mum and Monsieur Delissandes would run away together, even though Mum says that running away doesn’t solve anything.’
‘I see,’ said Agnes.
‘And so that’s why we left. Mum had an indiscretion and Madame decided to forgive Monsieur because he was her family and she loved him and didn’t want to divorce him, but she couldn’t forgive M
um because we weren’t family, even though I thought we sort of were. So I think you have to be careful with indiscretions. It doesn’t matter so much if Mum has one with Kevin, because his wife died, same as Dad. But I still think he’s a mistake for her.’
Agnes and Berthe exchanged glances.
‘Mum didn’t say sorry properly to Madame,’ added Imogen. ‘We left in such a hurry she couldn’t possibly have. She rushed out without thinking really. But she said that one day we’d go back and apologise together. I think Madame will forgive her then.’
‘I’m sure she’s forgiven her by now,’ said Berthe.
‘But if she had, we’d go back.’
‘Imogen.’ Agnes spoke gently. ‘You can’t go back. You live here now, in Ireland.’
‘Oh, why does everyone always say that!’ cried Imogen. ‘I go back to school, don’t I? Why can’t I go back to the Villa Martine?’
‘It’s different,’ said Berthe.
‘Because of the indiscretion?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because things change, Imogen. They never stay the same.’
‘I wish they did.’ Imogen’s lip trembled. ‘It would be much nicer that way.’
Chapter 17
It was good to have the money from Céline in her purse, but Imogen knew that she was going to have to withdraw some cash from her bank account soon. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to take out money in Hendaye. She knew she was being silly in thinking that Vince could track her, because realistically there was no way he could have found out about her secret account, much less accessed information about it, yet she’d got this far by being ultra-cautious and she wanted to keep it that way. So on Sunday morning she decided to cycle across the bridge to the small Spanish town of Irun on the opposite side of the river to find a bank machine. That way, she reckoned, if Vince somehow had managed to find out about it, he’d be sent on a wild goose chase around the Spanish Basque country instead of concentrating on France.
She smiled to herself as she hopped on to the pink bicycle and freewheeled down the road feeling happier than she’d done in ages. She waved at Madame Lefeuvre, from the boulangerie where she bought fresh bread daily, and then turned towards the Bidassoa river, which formed the border between France and Spain. According to Google Maps, the border actually ran through the middle of it, so halfway across, she stopped and took a selfie of herself with one foot in France and the other in Spain. She would have liked to send it to Shona, because she knew her friend would smile at it, but for now she contented herself with saving it to her camera roll before getting on the bike again. Once on the Spanish side of the river, she could see that the road signs were subtly different and that the language had changed too.
Irun lacked the coastal scenery of Hendaye, but Imogen wasn’t interested in scenery. The most important thing from her point of view was that after a few minutes she saw a bank with a cashpoint outside it. She dismounted from the bike and leaned it against the wall while she inserted her card. When the screen flashed up with ‘Welcome Ms Weir’, she heaved a sigh of relief.
Once she’d taken some money out, she looked around her. There was a small café on the corner, and for the novelty value of having a coffee in a country she’d been able to cycle to in under twenty minutes, she sat at one of the outside tables and ordered an Americano. At the table beside her, a young couple were chatting animatedly to each other. Hearing their Spanish conversation made Imogen feel even further away from Vince than before. She felt her shoulders relax and she exhaled with the sheer pleasure of sitting in the sun.
‘Imogen? Is that you?’
She whirled around in the seat, her heart pounding. For a moment she hadn’t been sure what language the question had been asked in, but then she realised it was French and that the speaker couldn’t be Vince.
‘René,’ she said as she saw him.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ He pulled out a chair and sat down without being invited.
‘I decided to do some exploring,’ she said. ‘What about you?’
‘There’s a wonderful open-all-hours deli around the corner that does the best chorizo in the world – you can’t get it anywhere else. I drive over from time to time to pick some up. It adds great flavour to my cooking.’
‘I didn’t realise you were a cook,’ said Imogen.
‘I was married to a chef’s daughter,’ René reminded her. ‘What did you expect?’
‘Maybe that you’d rebel by eating nothing but McDonald’s.’
He laughed, then looked at her enquiringly.
‘I believe you’re working for Céline now.’
‘That’s OK, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘It doesn’t interfere with what I do for the agency.’
‘Hey, if you want to earn more money, who am I to stop you. I was simply surprised when she told me.’
‘She told you herself?’
‘But of course. Like you, I get my coffee from her café. I always have.’
‘You don’t find it awkward seeing her all the time?’ asked Imogen.
‘Not at all,’ replied René. ‘We were in love once. We’re not any more. We’re happier apart than together. C’est la vie.’
‘If only it was always that simple,’ said Imogen.
‘I’ve been fortunate,’ agreed René. ‘We had a good marriage, at least for a time. And an easy divorce. How about you?’ he asked. ‘It has not been simple for you?’
‘I think I made it complicated for myself,’ she replied.
‘Ah well, we learn from our mistakes,’ said René. ‘There is someone in your life now? Or not?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘I don’t have time for anyone.’
‘It’s only English or American people who say that,’ René told her. ‘Everyone should have time for another person.’
‘Maybe in the future.’ Imogen shook the unopened sachet of sugar on the side of her saucer.
‘You’re too busy being a cleaner to have a lover?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Because it seems to me, Imogen Weir, that it would be good for you to have someone. Someone to help you, to support you – and, of course, to love you.’
‘I don’t need help or support or love.’
‘Everyone needs love. And most of us need some help and support as well.’
‘Love doesn’t always work out the way it should,’ remarked Imogen.
‘And what way is that?’
‘Happy. It doesn’t work out happy.’
René said nothing. Imogen tore the top off the sachet and tipped a tiny amount of sugar into her coffee.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve overstepped the mark.’
‘A little.’
‘It’s just that I don’t like to see you sitting alone at a table in a pavement café.’
‘I’m perfectly happy,’ said Imogen. ‘Besides, I’m not alone. You’re with me.’
He smiled. ‘I keep thinking that you’re a … a fragile figure, Imogen. But you’re not, are you?’
Vince frequently called her fragile. And for a time that might have been true. But she wasn’t fragile now.
‘I can look after myself,’ she told René.
‘Yes, you can.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘Have you plans for the rest of the day?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Cycle home, sit by the window, read a book.’
‘And in the evening?’
‘I bought some fresh fish yesterday,’ she said. ‘I’m going to cook it and eat it with a salad and a glass of Sancerre.’
‘All alone again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you would like not to eat by yourself?’ suggested René. ‘Perhaps you would like to eat with me? I’m not looking for love, you understand. But if we don’t eat together, we will both be alone this evening.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Imogen. ‘I bought fish for one.’
René grinned. ‘I didn’t make myself clear. I thought you migh
t like to forget about the solitary fish in your fridge for tonight and eat out with me instead.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, but you’re my boss,’ she told him. ‘It’s horribly inappropriate.’
‘Bastarache Immobilier is hardly a global enterprise,’ he remarked. ‘It’s not like we need a list of things that are appropriate or not.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m your employee and I don’t think you should be taking me to dinner.’
‘Why not?’
‘You might discover things about me you don’t like,’ she said. ‘They might affect your judgement of me and make it more difficult for me to work for you.’
‘Unless I find out that you’re secretly a serial murderer who uses our cleaning products as a means to conceal her nefarious activities, nothing you say will alter my judgement of you.’
‘I’m not sure it would do your reputation any good to be seen out with one of your cleaners,’ said Imogen.
‘It will do my reputation no harm at all to be seen out with a beautiful woman,’ René said.
Imogen laughed. ‘You’re such a charmer.’
‘Why wouldn’t I try to charm an attractive woman into having dinner with me?’ René shrugged.
‘It’s very nice of you,’ said Imogen. ‘But I can’t.’
‘Am I not charming enough? Do you not find me attractive as a dinner companion? Am I less interesting than a dead fish?’ He looked at her with mock outrage.
‘You’re very attractive,’ she assured him.
‘Well then.’
‘René, I …’
‘I’m not trying to get you into bed with me,’ said René. ‘Well, maybe I’m thinking about it for the future. Why wouldn’t I? But for tonight, dinner will be enough.’
‘For heaven’s sake, René.’ She couldn’t help laughing again. ‘You don’t have to be so blunt about it.’
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘You’re an Anglaise, you have repressed notions.’
‘I’m an Irlandaise,’ she reminded him. ‘And I’m not repressed. Just not ready to hop into bed with someone I work for.’
‘But you might be one day?’
‘Aargh!’ She shook her head. ‘Please stop talking about going to bed with me.’
The Missing Wife Page 16