The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘It matters to me,’ Imogen interrupted her.

  ‘And to me,’ said René. ‘I would never bring a woman I slept with to the café directly afterwards, Céline. You should know that.’

  ‘I should,’ she acknowledged. ‘And of course you’re entitled to have other women. You can even bring them here.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t,’ said René.

  ‘Ever the gentleman,’ Céline said. ‘Why on earth did I divorce you?’

  Because he’s a control freak, thought Imogen. Like Vince. Although not like Vince, because René didn’t try to make people do things they didn’t want to. Unless you included getting them to play in boules tournaments, of course.

  Céline brought the coffee and croissants, then bustled away to deal with her other clients. Imogen and René ate without speaking, but it was a companionable silence, and Imogen didn’t mind that René’s thoughts seemed to be miles away. Hers were too.

  Eventually she got up and said that she’d make a start on the day. René went back to the office while she set off up the Rue de Lilas to her first stop, feeling more light-hearted than she had done in years. I’ve been lucky ever since I began to execute the Plan, she thought as she hopped off the bike and leaned it against the wall of the house. Maybe it’s true that you make your own luck. And maybe I should have realised that sooner.

  She worked her way steadily through her schedule, and freewheeled back to the estate agency to leave the keys with René. The late night and the alcohol were beginning to catch up with her, and she was looking forward to getting back to her apartment. She’d forgotten, until he brought the bag of washing out to her, that she’d promised to drop it off at the Villa Martine.

  ‘You needn’t bother coming back with the keys tonight,’ he said as she stifled a yawn. ‘Go directly home and relax.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Just keep them secure,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Imogen as she hefted the bag into the basket at the front of the bike. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Cycling with the laundry in front of her was a little more precarious than she would have liked, but she made it to the Villa Martine without any problem. She tapped in the gate code and pushed the bike up the path, then let herself into the house. She left her bright green tote bag in the hallway and went upstairs with the sheets and towels.

  She was dividing them into neat piles and arranging them on a shelf in the main bedroom when she heard the front door bang and footsteps on the tiled floor below. Then the cheerful sound of someone whistling the theme to The Great Escape wafted up the stairs.

  She stood frozen, unable to move as she listened to the owner of the footsteps walk through the hallway towards the back of the house. Her heart was thumping like a hammer on an anvil, and the thought going through her head was that Vince was whistling his favourite tune because he’d tracked her down. But how the hell had he done it? Had she let something slip to Shona after all? Had her best friend betrayed her? Or had she herself made a mistake and overlooked something that had given her away?

  The whistling stopped and she heard the sound of the kitchen door being opened. Her legs were shaking so much that she could hardly stand.

  She had to get out before he came up the stairs and discovered her cowering in the corner. And then she had to cycle away as quickly as possible and go … where? She couldn’t return to the apartment, that was certain. He might already have been there. And there was nowhere else. Except, of course, Bastarache Immobilier, although René had probably left for the day. But the café was still open. Céline would help her, she was sure of that. René too, if he was able. And it struck her that in a place where she’d stayed for only a few weeks, she’d managed to find people she could trust. Somehow in Dublin, because everyone she knew also knew Vince, she’d been afraid to trust anyone at all.

  There was total silence from downstairs. She opened the bedroom door a little wider, tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peered down. There was nothing to see. Except her bag, neatly placed alongside the wall. Had he spotted it? It was new but would he guess it was hers? Did he know for sure she was here? And how had he got in? Had he persuaded René to give him the keys? In which case, she couldn’t depend on René to help her after all.

  She waited another few seconds while she tried to control her pounding heart, and then, hearing nothing more from downstairs, began to descend the staircase as quietly as possible. She was about halfway down when the sound of footsteps on the kitchen floor reached her again. She waited, petrified, until they stopped. Then she hurried down the remaining stairs and grabbed her bag. Her hand was trembling and she struggled to undo the latch. She heard the rattle of the kitchen door as she turned the knob and hauled the front door open frantically, but just as she tried to leave the house, she felt a hand grab her by the arm. She squirmed and pulled away, but his grip was firm.

  ‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?’ he demanded.

  It took her a couple of seconds to realise that the question had been asked in French.

  Vince didn’t speak French. In his view, other languages were unnecessary, as everyone who mattered spoke English anyway. So it couldn’t be Vince who was holding on to her and talking rapidly about calling the police.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she gasped eventually. ‘I didn’t realise anyone was coming today. I’m supposed to be here. I’m the cleaner.’

  His grip on her arm loosened but he didn’t let go. He pulled gently at her so that she was facing him. His dark hair was swept back from a tanned face. His eyes were blue-grey. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a navy crew-neck T-shirt, and he was looking at her with an angry expression that was somehow shockingly familiar. She’d seen that expression before, on the face of Denis Delissandes the first day she and Carol had arrived at the Villa Martine, when the boys had kicked a football in front of the car. She’d seen it a number of times over the following years too, usually when his sons had done something to annoy him.

  ‘Oliver?’ she said. ‘Charles?’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘I’m Giles. Do you know my brothers? Am I supposed to know you too?’

  ‘I … Not exactly, no …’

  Suspicion flickered in his eyes. ‘You know their names, you say you’re the cleaner, but you run away when you think one of them might arrive?’

  ‘I thought you were an intruder,’ said Imogen, while she processed the fact that there was another Delissandes boy. One who must have been born after she and Carol had left. ‘Please let go of my arm,’ she added.

  ‘An intruder who opens the door with his own key?’ he asked, nevertheless doing as she asked.

  ‘I thought that perhaps I hadn’t closed it properly,’ she admitted.

  ‘Well that was careless of you, wasn’t it? What if I’d been a real burglar?’

  ‘But I had and you weren’t.’ Imogen rubbed her arm. ‘Why didn’t you give the company notice you were coming?’

  ‘Because there was nothing that needed to be done in advance of our arrival.’ The sharpness had left his voice and he was looking at her with exasperation rather than anger. ‘The house was cleaned after my mother left.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m the one who cleaned it. I’m not here to clean again. I simply came to replace the bedlinen. It’s been laundered.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to call Bastarache Immobilier to check that you’re supposed to be here.’

  She watched him as he dialled the number and wondered when he’d been born. The fact that Denis and Lucie had had another child was a good sign, she thought. It meant that the indiscretion (the affair, she told herself; she’d have to get over calling it by that stupid word) must have been forgiven. So at least Carol hadn’t been responsible for breaking up the family. A wave of relief washed over her. She’d worried about that for years.

  ‘And your name?’ he asked, while he waited for the phone to be answe
red.

  ‘Imogen. Imogen Weir.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine,’ he said when René had vouched for her. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you, but you scared the hell out of me too.’

  ‘Apologies on both sides in that case.’ She was recovering her equilibrium but was still shaken by the sudden encounter with the unknown Delissandes boy.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. ‘To steady your nerves.’

  ‘My nerves are perfectly steady,’ she assured him, although her heart was still beating like a piston and her hands were shaking. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘Can I say that Monsieur Bastarache has certainly upped the stakes with his cleaners,’ said Giles. ‘Have you worked for us before? I don’t remember you, and I always remember a pretty face, but you’ve obviously met my brothers.’

  She had to confess. It would lead to all sorts of complications if she didn’t.

  ‘I lived here when I was younger,’ she told him.

  ‘And you knew them how?’

  ‘I knew all of your family,’ she said. ‘When I said I lived here, that’s exactly what I meant. I lived here.’

  ‘Here? In this house?’ He looked at her in disbelief. ‘That’s not possible. It’s been in our family for generations. Nobody else lived here.’

  ‘My mother was the housekeeper.’

  ‘We didn’t have a housekeeper.’ He sounded suspicious again.

  ‘It was before you were born obviously,’ she said. ‘My mother and I lived in this house. With Madame and Monsieur Delissandes and Oliver and Charles. She did the housework and I spoke English to them.’

  ‘They’ve never mentioned you,’ he said.

  ‘Why should they?’ She smiled even though inside she was in turmoil. ‘We were … we were staff, you know. And then we left.’

  ‘Nobody in my family ever spoke a word about you or your mother,’ said Giles. ‘If what you’re saying is true, surely they would have mentioned you at least once.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ She shrugged.

  ‘You need to tell me your story,’ he said. ‘It seems a little too coincidental to me that a cleaner I’ve never seen before is skulking around the house where she says she used to live. There’s a stalker element to it that I’m not very keen on.’

  ‘I’m not a stalker and there’s no story,’ said Imogen. ‘My mother worked for yours for a while, that’s all. We left before you were born, so maybe that’s why … Oh.’ It had suddenly occurred to her that Lucie could have been pregnant when Denis and Carol had been having their affair. She felt queasy at the thought.

  ‘Oh?’ he repeated.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head.

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘I was four when we came here first. Nearly nine when we left.’

  ‘You were here for all that time and yet I’ve never even heard of you!’ He was incredulous.

  ‘I guess the family forgot about us,’ she said.

  ‘Where did you sleep?’ He put the question to her abruptly.

  ‘In the garden bedroom,’ she replied. ‘It was divided into two then.’

  ‘What were the names of our dogs?’

  ‘When I was here?’ She screwed up her face as she recalled them. ‘Mimi and Loulou. They were puppies when I came.’

  He believed her now. She could see it in his face.

  ‘Mimi was ten when she was put to sleep,’ he said. ‘Loulou was nearly fifteen.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I liked those dogs. But I’m glad they had long lives.’

  ‘And I remember my father renovating the garden bedroom. I remember him taking down the dividing wall.’

  ‘So, you see.’ She smiled at him. ‘All true. No big deal. Now can I go? I only came to leave the laundry after all.’

  ‘You will be coming back to clean?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘It depends on Monsieur Bastarache.’

  ‘Imo-zhen.’ He said it slowly and deliberately. ‘You’re not from around here, though, are you? You moved away from Hendaye?’

  She nodded. ‘We returned to Dublin. It’s where my mum was from.’

  ‘And she’s still living there?’

  ‘She died,’ said Imogen quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was a good deal softer.

  ‘That was a long time ago too,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ve taken up too much of your time,’ she said. ‘And I’m truly sorry about … about the mix-up.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He grinned. ‘It’s made my day a lot more interesting. Or at least it would have done if you’d actually been a masked intruder raiding the house. I’ve always fancied myself as being able to stand up to a trespasser. I never expected one as lovely as you, though.’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Indeed. But I hope to see you again.’

  ‘I’ll be back next week.’

  ‘And my apologies if I hurt you in any way.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you were a burglar. I doubt I was gentle.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She flexed her wrist.

  ‘I didn’t bruise you, did I?’

  ‘No, no.’

  He reached out and took her hand in his, then looked at her arm.

  ‘I think it’s OK,’ he said.

  ‘As I said, I’m fine.’

  ‘In that case, au revoir.’

  ‘Au revoir,’ she said, and walked out of the door.

  He closed it firmly behind her.

  She stood on the step for a moment, gathering herself and her thoughts and trying to get her ragged breathing under control, before beginning to wheel her bicycle down the driveway. She hadn’t gone more than a couple of metres when the electric gates opened to admit a white Range Rover Evoque. The driver tooted the horn, and behind her, Giles opened the front door again. Imogen moved to one side as the car passed her. This time the driver slowed down and she saw him glance at her. It was probably because she’d already met Giles and had an idea of how the Delissandes boys looked in adulthood that she recognised him instantly. It was Oliver, the eldest. Oliver, who’d teased her mercilessly when she’d been smaller and on whom she’d exacted her revenge by putting ants in his bed. And now he was driving an expensive car and undoubtedly wondering what on earth a woman pushing a pink bicycle was doing in his garden.

  The gates had glided shut again, but she stayed where she was, mesmerised, as the car came to a stop in front of the house and Oliver got out, followed by his brother Charles and a tall blonde woman with a baby in her arms.

  ‘Bienvenue, bienvenue! You’ve arrived much quicker than I thought!’ Giles’s voice wafted towards her. ‘I only got here a short time ago myself.’

  ‘We didn’t stop except to change drivers,’ said Oliver. ‘And there were no roadworks.’

  ‘Bonjour, Giles.’ The blonde woman kissed him and then Charles embraced him, but Oliver was looking back down the driveway with a puzzled expression to where Imogen was standing watching them.

  ‘And she is?’

  ‘Imogen!’ called Giles. ‘S’il vous plaît. Come here.’

  She hesitated before pushing the bike back towards the house. The three Delissandes brothers were standing side by side looking at her curiously. They were very alike, she thought, although Charles, in the middle, was lighter-haired than the other two. He was the one who spoke first.

  ‘Imogen?’ he said. ‘The Imogen?’

  ‘Our Imogen?’ said Oliver. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘So it’s definitely true,’ said Giles. ‘We once had a housekeeper with a pretty daughter living in our house. I didn’t know we were that sort of family.’

  ‘We’re not,’ said Oliver, who was looking at her with a shocked expression.

  It was Charles who stepped forward and embraced her, kissing her quickly on each cheek and saying that it
was good, if surprising, to see her again. She didn’t return the hug because she was still holding the bike upright.

  ‘Are you visiting?’ he asked. ‘Did you come looking for us? Are you staying in Hendaye?’

  ‘She’s the cleaner,’ Giles said. ‘She came with the laundry.’

  ‘What?’ Charles looked surprised. ‘Have we changed from Bastarache?’

  ‘She works for Bastarache,’ said Giles.

  ‘You came back here to work for René?’ It was Oliver who spoke now, and he pushed his slightly too-long hair from his eyes as he looked at her. ‘Why?’

  Imogen said nothing and Oliver continued to stare at her, a puzzled look in his navy-blue eyes.

  ‘But we don’t want her to clean for us,’ he said to Giles. ‘And I can’t believe …’

  ‘I think she’s a competent cleaner,’ said Giles. ‘The house is in perfect order.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Oliver. ‘Imogen doesn’t … This is … Why are you here?’ He spoke directly to her.

  ‘You can tell him, Giles.’ Imogen tightened her grip on the bike. ‘I’ve already explained.’

  The blonde woman spoke. ‘You are a friend of the family?’ she asked. ‘Or a friend of Charles and Oliver?’

  ‘I’m not a friend of anyone,’ said Imogen. ‘Like Giles said, I’m just the cleaner.’ She turned away and began to push the bike down the driveway again.

  Nobody stopped her.

  When she reached the gate, she keyed in the code. She didn’t look to see if they were watching her as she left.

  It wasn’t until she was back in her apartment and making herself a cup of tea that her heartbeat finally slowed down. But her hands were still trembling as she sipped the tea and looked out over the garden. It was dusk now, and she wondered if the Delissandes were having a barbecue around their pool like they’d done in the past, when Denis had lit the coals under the grille before going off to get juicy steaks from the charcuterie. She and Carol usually joined the family for barbecue nights, even though on other evenings they would eat by themselves in the kitchen after Carol had helped Lucie prepare something for the family’s evening meal. The dividing line between employer and employee had been blurred in Imogen’s mind. She’d known that she and Carol only lived at the Villa Martine because they worked for the Delissandes. Yet Lucie had made them a part of almost everything they did. Perhaps that was why Carol had entered into the indiscretion with Denis. Perhaps she’d felt entitled.