‘Angie,’ he said as he embraced them in turn. ‘Raoul.’
It was the first time Imogen had met René’s business partner, who wasn’t at all how she’d imagined her. Instead of a formidable and chillingly beautiful entrepreneur, Angelique was a short, plump woman of about forty, with curly black hair and dark eyes. She gave Imogen a brief kiss on the cheek, told her that she was delighted to finally meet her, then handed her a bright yellow bib with the words ‘Team Bastarache’ printed on it.
‘There is an extra two hundred and fifty euros for the charity of the winning team,’ she said. ‘We are supporting homeless children and I want us to win.’
‘No pressure then,’ muttered Imogen.
‘None at all,’ agreed Raoul, his voice filled with confidence. ‘The rest of them are useless.’
‘Mesdames et messieurs!’ A voice boomed over the PA system. ‘The fifth annual Jazkiel Boules for Benefits tournament is about to commence. Can all the teams please register at the desk.’
‘Alors!’ René patted Imogen on the back. ‘Let’s go and kick ass.’
Imogen laughed and followed him to the desk. Céline and an older couple were also waiting there, along with a tall, lanky man with sandy hair and grey eyes whose left arm was in a sling. Céline introduced the couple as her parents and the lanky man as Artemis. It was clear from her voice and the way she looked at him that they were in a relationship. He gave Imogen a polite kiss on the cheek, while Céline’s parents greeted her cheerfully.
‘I believe you ate in my restaurant some time ago,’ said her father. ‘What did you think?’
‘It was wonderful,’ replied Imogen. ‘Who’s looking after it tonight?’
‘Adrien,’ said Céline. ‘My brother. Almost as good a chef as Dad.’
Her father gave her a jaundiced look before turning to his former son-in-law and nodding briefly at him. ‘René.’
‘Bernard.’ René returned the nod. Then he kissed Céline’s mother politely on the cheek. ‘Florence.’ Finally he turned to the lanky man. ‘Art, mon ami. I hope you’re not going to blame your broken wrist for your ultimate defeat. It is your left hand after all.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage to crush you anyhow,’ Art told him, and René patted him on the back.
It was all very civilised, thought Imogen. She tried to imagine the scene if, after a more conventional separation, she’d turned up to an event with a male friend and seen Vince there. She was pretty sure it would be significantly more awkward than this. She shivered in the warm evening air. She didn’t want to think about Vince. Not tonight.
‘There are six teams in the competition,’ said the referee. ‘Each team will play the others. The top two teams will play each other in the final. Is that clear?’
All the team members nodded.
‘Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Mazarine and her helpers will take the bets of the spectators!’ He looked around as a group of pretty blondes made their way through the crowd with betting slips. ‘Bet early and often to raise money for our charities tonight.’
There was a buzz of chatter among the spectators.
‘Allez Team Le Bleu!’ cried someone.
‘Allez Team Chi-chi!’ called someone else.
Team Chi-chi, comprised of three beauty therapists all impeccably made up and wearing jewelled false eyelashes, waved at their supporters.
There were competing cries from the crowd as the teams took up their positions.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ René said to Imogen. ‘We’re playing Chi-chi first. We’ll beat them easily.’
‘You think?’
‘For sure.’ René gave her a reassuring hug and then got ready to throw the wooden cochonnet that would become the target for their game.
‘You get a point for each boule closest to it,’ he told her. ‘But you only score if one of yours is the nearest to start with. Come on, Angie. You’re up first.’
She stood in the marked circle and threw her boule. It landed within half a metre of the cochonnet. Her next two were even closer.
‘Excellent!’ cried Raoul. ‘Well done.’
The first member of Team Chi-chi stepped up for her turn. Her boule landed outside Angie’s.
‘Bon,’ said René. ‘We are holding the point. They must throw again.’
But although the Chi-chis threw all of their boules, none of them got inside Angie’s.
‘A winning position for us,’ said René as he stood up to take his throws. They were wide of the mark, but Raoul was more successful, leaving two of his boules close.
‘We are already ahead,’ said René. ‘So there is no pressure on you, Imogen.’
‘Just as well,’ she muttered as she stood in the circle to throw. She reminded herself that it was supposed to be fun, but she couldn’t believe how nervous she was as she weighed the boule in her hand before gently lobbing it forward.
It landed right beside the cochonnet.
‘Fantastique!’ cried Angie and Raoul in unison.
‘Lucky,’ said Imogen.
‘Are you sure it’s luck?’ demanded René when her next two boules landed either side of the first. ‘That was brilliant.’
Imogen knew it was chance, but she was pleased with herself. The rules were that the teams played three sets against each other. In each of the other two, her boules landed closest to the cochonnet.
‘We have a natural here.’ René beamed with delight. ‘And they are all betting on you, Imogen.’
‘Oh God,’ she said, suddenly panicked. ‘They shouldn’t. It was a fluke.’
‘No, no,’ said Angelique. ‘It is because you are from Provence. Pétanque is in your blood.’
Imogen shook her head. ‘You can’t really consider me a Provençal,’ she said. ‘After all, I lived …’ Just in time she stopped herself saying that she’d lived in Hendaye for as long as she’d lived in Provence. That was something she didn’t want broadcast yet. If ever. ‘… in Ireland for much longer,’ she finished.
Her throwing wasn’t quite as accurate in the next game, but they were still doing well. Then they played Céline’s Team Le Bleu. Almost at once, Imogen was aware of a different level to the rivalry. René and Céline might be civilised about their break-up, but there was a definite competition between them, egged on by Bernard on Céline’s side and Angie on René’s.
Nerves got to Imogen this time, and only one of her boules scored, but René was more accurate and they won the match by a point. When the referee added up all the scores, Team Bastarache and Team Le Bleu were in the final.
‘I hate competing against René,’ Céline told Imogen when the announcement was made. ‘He always has to be the best. When we were married, every time I took up something new, he had to do it as well, so that he could beat me. I grew tired of it.’
‘I’m sure it was difficult.’
‘What was difficult was deciding to call time on it,’ said Céline. ‘But if I hadn’t … well, he was stifling me. He didn’t mean to, but he was.’
It sounded so familiar, thought Imogen. Yet René and Céline were not at all like her and Vince. At least not on the surface.
‘I still care about him,’ Céline added. ‘But living with him was too damn difficult. He always wanted his own way.’
‘Men are like that,’ agreed Imogen.
Céline shot her a glance. There had been an undertone to Imogen’s words that surprised her. But Imogen had turned away and was watching the brass band, which had tuned up again and was blasting out some rousing music.
René called his team together. ‘It is important that we are focused on the final match. Not just because we want to beat Team Le Bleu, but also because we want the extra money for our charity. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Angie. ‘We don’t have to worry, though. We’re better. Especially as Imogen has turned out to be a star performer.’
‘Please don’t say that,’ implored Imogen. ‘I could crumble at any minute. I probably will.’
‘Nonse
nse,’ said Raoul. ‘We haven’t lost yet; we’re not going to now.’
The music stopped and they lined up again.
‘The final of the competition,’ announced the referee. ‘The best of three games. Team Bastarache versus Team Le Bleu. Team Le Bleu will throw first.’
Bernard stood up and threw the cochonnet, which landed quite a distance away.
‘He prefers to throw long,’ said René. ‘He thinks he will beat us that way.’
‘And he might have a chance,’ murmured Angie after Bernard threw the first boule and it landed close.
‘Huh. We’ll see.’
But when it was his turn, none of René’s boules landed inside Bernard’s, and his ex-father-in-law gave him a self-satisfied smile.
‘You go next, Imogen,’ said René. ‘You’ll get one inside.’
She looked anxiously at the target as she took aim, but her boules too landed short, and Team Le Bleu won the game.
‘One more for the win,’ said Bernard.
‘Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué, Bernard. Don’t count your chickens …’ René shrugged expressively, while Angie and Imogen exchanged anxious glances. They were both beginning to feel the pressure, although Raoul was very relaxed, and Art, who was clearly hampered by his wrist, didn’t seem too bothered either. However, Céline and her mother both wore slightly hunted expressions.
‘It’s only a game,’ said Florence.
Her husband snorted. ‘Let’s go.’
But this time Team Bastarache managed to score the points to take it to a decider.
‘You’d swear we were playing in the World Cup,’ muttered Céline to Imogen. ‘Or the French Open tennis.’
‘Let’s agree that we’re friends no matter what,’ said Imogen, and Céline laughed.
‘Of course,’ she said.
Almost inevitably, the game was close, with the opportunities to throw going back and forth between the two teams. The crowd had completely got into the spirit of things and was cheering on first one side and then the other. Betting on the outcome was brisk.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Imogen when Florence got her final throw to rest right beside the cochonnet and put Team Le Bleu into the lead, causing Bernard to almost crush her in an excited hug.
‘It’s all up to you,’ René told her. ‘You need to get closer.’
‘There isn’t any closer than touching it,’ Imogen told him.
‘You need to move her boule and leave yours beside it instead,’ Raoul said.
‘The chances of that are practically zero,’ said Imogen.
‘You can do it.’
No you can’t. You’re hopeless, Imogen.
She whirled around, truly expecting to see Vince standing behind her, because she could have sworn the words had been spoken out loud. But there was nobody there.
You’re trying to ingratiate yourself with these people. But they don’t care about you. Only I do.
She thought she was going to faint. She closed her eyes for a moment.
‘Imogen?’ There was concern in René’s voice. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I …’ She couldn’t do this. Vince was right. She was pretending to be involved. Pretending to be part of something when the truth was she was an outsider.
‘Come on, Imogen!’ Céline was calling to her. Imogen opened her eyes again. The café owner gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Noisettes for a week on me if you win. But,’ she added with a wicked grin, ‘I don’t think you will.’
Imogen smiled faintly. She looked down at the boule in her hand and then stepped into the throwing circle.
‘Come on, Imogen!’ cried René. ‘Come on, Team Bastarache!’ He began a slow handclap, which was taken up by the crowd.
For Imogen, it wasn’t about getting the boule close to the cochonnet. It was about letting go of it in the first place. She felt her head begin to spin and was afraid that she might pass out. Her fingers tightened around the silver ball.
‘Allez!’ chanted the crowd.
‘Let’s go, Imogen!’ yelled Angie.
The boule felt like a ball of fire in her hands. She had to get rid of it. She exhaled sharply, then threw it.
It was an awful shot.
‘Never mind.’ René comforted her by patting her on the back, even though it had been so short that she knew he must have been horrified. ‘Next one.’
She swallowed hard and, without waiting, threw the boule. This time it landed a yard past the cochonnet. A mixture of catcalls and cheers erupted from the crowd.
‘Not to put the pressure on,’ said René, ‘but …’
‘I’m doing my best,’ she said tightly. ‘I really am. I told you I was hopeless. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ René sounded genuinely contrite. ‘I get carried away sometimes. Don’t worry, Imogen. Just throw it and let le bon Dieu do the rest.’ He squeezed her shoulders. ‘And if he decides that it is not our turn for glory, I can live with that.’
Imogen turned towards him. His blue eyes twinkled and he gave her an approving nod. She realised she’d expected him to look like Vince, hard and angry with her for not living up to his expectations. She could still hear him saying it over and over again: You’re hopeless, Imogen. Hopeless. But René wasn’t saying anything at all. He was giving her a reassuring look.
She took a deep breath, hefted the boule in her hand and lobbed it at the cochonnet. It struck it cleanly, moving it away from Florence’s boule and towards the ones both she and René had thrown earlier. Behind her, she heard him cry out in triumph, and then Angie was patting her on the back, congratulating her.
‘We won! We won!’ she cried. ‘Wonderful shot! Well done, Imogen.’
Imogen was stunned. She couldn’t tell them that she hadn’t thought about the shot before throwing. She couldn’t say that it was yet another fluke. She had to bask in their joy at winning while sending an apologetic glance in Céline’s direction. But the café owner was smiling, not at all upset by the defeat.
‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ she told Imogen later when they were drinking a glass of wine at one of the outdoor tables. ‘It was for the charity, after all. But my father always wants to beat René. Even when we were married, there was this feeling between them.’
‘I’m sure that didn’t help your marriage either.’
‘It was nothing to do with my father,’ said Céline. ‘The competition for top dog was always between me and René.’
‘He tried to control you?’
Céline shook her head. ‘Ah, non,’ she said. ‘As I told you, he likes to be the best. He was always giving me advice that I didn’t need. I wouldn’t listen to him. I am my own woman, after all. However …’ she gave Imogen a knowing look, ‘it might be different between you and him.’
‘What?’ Imogen shook her head vigorously. ‘There’s nothing between René and me. I don’t know what would make you think otherwise.’
‘Sorry, sorry!’ Céline held up her hands. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But it seems to me that there’s a spark between you.’
‘Not that sort of spark,’ Imogen assured her.
‘If you say so,’ said Céline. ‘But perhaps, given time?’
‘I doubt I’ll be here long enough to give it time,’ said Imogen.
‘You will leave us?’
‘Not yet. But …’ Imogen shrugged. ‘I’ll have to find a proper job at some stage. It’s not that cleaning isn’t a proper job,’ she added quickly in case Céline thought she wasn’t being thorough enough, ‘it’s just that I don’t see myself doing it for ever.’
‘What would you like to do?’ asked Céline.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Imogen.
‘What did you do before?’
Imogen told her about her time with the professors and afterwards at Chandon Leclerc, which made Céline look at her in surprise.
‘And yet you’re here, cleaning houses?’
‘There’s not much
relevant work for people with European history degrees,’ said Imogen. ‘And I have to earn a living, so here I am.’
‘We all have to earn a living,’ agreed Céline. ‘Maybe one day you can write a book about the history of Hendaye.’
Imogen made a face. ‘I doubt that somehow.’
‘Here you are, chérie.’ Art arrived and sat down beside Céline. He put his good arm around her and drew her closer. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. I didn’t think you’d be hobnobbing with your rival.’
Céline laughed. ‘Once the game is over, we’re friends.’
‘I should probably go.’ Imogen stood up. ‘I’ve had too much to drink and I have to get home.’
‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Céline. ‘There will be dancing!’
‘It’s Thursday night. I have to be at the agency in the morning.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Céline. ‘I know how it works. They don’t send the cleaners to the apartments too early in case you get the holidaymakers out of bed.’
Imogen smiled. ‘That’s true. But I’m doing houses now, and—’
‘Sit down.’ Céline poured some more wine into Imogen’s glass. ‘We’re all friends here. Have some fun.’
Imogen was trying to remember the last time she’d been in a group like this. The last time she’d been out on her own and not had to worry about getting a text from Vince wondering what time she’d be home. It had to have been before she met him. After their marriage she stopped going out by herself, unless she was with Shona. And she had to text him every hour to tell him where she was.
But tonight she didn’t have to answer to anybody. And it was liberating.
She continued to chat to Céline and Art, until René told her it was time to dance. Wooden decking had been put over the boules surface and the brass band had been replaced by a DJ, who was encouraging the crowd to get up and move to the music. Which many of them were.
‘I’m a hopeless dancer,’ said Imogen.
‘Nobody is a hopeless dancer,’ René told her. ‘They just haven’t found the right partner.’ He pulled her to her feet and led her to the improvised dance floor. ‘Et voilà!’ he cried as he twirled her around. ‘Not hopeless at all.’
Angie and Raoul joined them, along with Céline and Art, and some other people Imogen didn’t know. The music was hard and fast and so was the dancing, but everyone kept going until René finally said that he needed a rest.
The Missing Wife Page 22