The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘Well …’ She was beginning to warm to the idea of a literary lunch with Oliver, his author and the author’s girlfriend in the Spanish coastal city. It seemed a little glamorous to her, and she liked the idea of doing something different. ‘I normally start early anyway, but I won’t be finished until after eleven.’

  ‘It’s only a half-hour drive.’

  ‘I’d have to get home and change first.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?’

  She told him.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’ he asked.

  She thought about it again for a moment, then nodded. ‘Why not? Besides, it’ll be nice to talk to someone from Ireland again.’

  ‘Her name’s Blanaid O’Casey.’

  ‘Not a bad effort,’ she said as she corrected his pronunciation.

  ‘This reminds me of when we were kids,’ he said. ‘You were so precise correcting us.’

  ‘It was my job,’ said Imogen.

  He laughed.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘When my mum was employed by yours, we were told that she was the housekeeper and I was to help you with your English. I took it very seriously.’

  ‘That’s true. I hated it, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were so much younger than me. I didn’t like being corrected by a baby. Although I had to revise my opinion of you after the ants-in-the-bed incident.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, although there was a bubble of amusement in her voice. ‘But you’d really annoyed me that day. I can’t remember why now. Anyway, I enjoyed correcting your English. It made me feel useful.’

  ‘Oh, you had a lot more uses than that!’ exclaimed Oliver. ‘D’you remember when we played at magicians and you were my assistant?’

  ‘You wanted to cut me in half,’ she recalled. ‘With your mother’s Sabatier knife.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have actually done it,’ he assured her.

  ‘Somewhat madly, I trusted you.’

  He grinned. ‘God knows why.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She drained her glass and put it on the table. Then she stood up.

  ‘Back to work?’ asked Oliver. ‘Already?’

  ‘I’ve a lot to do today,’ she said. ‘So yes.’

  Much to his annoyance, Vince hadn’t been able to get the direct flight from Marseille to Biarritz on Friday morning because it was fully booked. He played around with the alternatives for a while before eventually deciding that it would be less stressful to drive himself. So he went back to the car hire people and asked about a rental that involved leaving the car on the west coast. After a lot of discussion, and a flurry of paperwork (Vince wondered what had happened to the concept of a paperless office), they said that he could leave the car at Biarritz once he’d paid a fee for a different drop-off point. The fee was nearly as much as the flight would have cost, but Vince preferred to think that he was spending his time heading in the right direction instead of flying back to Paris and then on to Biarritz.

  The drive from Marseille was a little over seven hundred kilometres, which was a lot more than he’d normally do in a single day. Mainly on the motorway, it got tiresome after a while, and Vince found himself stopping at service stations more often than he’d originally anticipated simply to break the monotony. In the end, it took him over eight hours to reach his destination, and he was tired and tetchy by the time he turned in to the car park of the Hotel Pyrénées – having had to go around the block because he’d missed the narrow entrance the first time, thinking that it was the gateway to a large suburban villa.

  After he’d parked the car and checked in to a room far more basic than the one at La Vie en Rose, he went down to the hotel bar, had two beers and then stepped outside. The hotel was about two kilometres from the beach, which was why, he decided, they’d had a free room. The walk, through what was mainly a residential area of private properties, was pleasant enough, but he couldn’t see why on earth anyone would want to come to this place on holiday. He understood it a little better when he reached the beach, which was long and wide and reminded him of Irish beaches he’d been to see as a child. Despite the fact that it was after six, it was still busy, and flooded by the evening sun, which hung over the Atlantic and turned the water to liquid gold. He stared at the holidaymakers, wondering if Imogen was among them, but it was difficult to make out anyone’s features in the sunlight. Had she come to this out-of-the-way spot to hang around on the beach? Or to meet the mysterious Gerry of the photograph? He took the printout he’d made of it from his pocket and looked at it again. He clenched his fist.

  He began to make his way along the Boulevard de la Mer, looking at the street names as he passed them, until he came to the Rue Berbier. He walked along it until he was standing outside the Le Bleu restaurant. The wooden doors were closed and a notice in the window informed him that it opened at 7 p.m. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven now, so he waited outside until a young waiter in a black suit opened up.

  ‘M’sieur?’ He looked at Vince enquiringly. ‘You have a reservation?’

  ‘No.’ Vince took the printout from his pocket and showed it to the waiter, asking if he knew any of the people in the picture. When the younger man shook his head, Vince asked to speak to anyone else in the restaurant who might be able to help.

  ‘Not now.’ The waiter was shocked. ‘We are starting service. The chef is busy. The staff are busy.’

  ‘You don’t have any customers yet,’ Vince pointed out, even as an elderly couple arrived and stood behind him. He waved them ahead, and the waiter escorted them inside and to a table near the wall. Vince followed them in. It was an upmarket restaurant, he thought as he noted the modern place settings and the contemporary art on the walls. Not really the kind he and Imogen normally went to.

  ‘I’m sorry, M’sieur.’ The waiter returned to him. ‘I cannot help you with your question … Perhaps if you come back later someone else can talk to you. After ten. It will be quieter then.’

  ‘It’s bloody quiet now!’ exclaimed Vince, although more diners were beginning to arrive and were queuing at the door.

  ‘Later, M’sieur,’ said the waiter.

  Vince gave him an angry glare but went outside again. He walked back along the seafront and stopped at a pizzeria, where he ordered a calzone and a glass of beer. He showed the printed photo to the waitress who served him, but she shook her head and said she didn’t recognise them.

  Sooner or later somebody would, Vince thought, as he cut through the dough of the folded pizza. Somebody would look at that photo and nod in recognition and tell him where she was. The town wasn’t all that big. She couldn’t hide from him here. He was close to finding her. And when he did, and brought her home, she’d learn to live by his rules. New rules. No going out to work, for starters. No going to the gym with that lying bitch Shona. She’d find out that she couldn’t mess with him. She’d be sorry she’d tried.

  Imogen was excited about the trip to San Sebastian. It was nice to think that she was going somewhere different, and it would also give her the opportunity to take some more money out of her account. Given that Vince was in France (something that she was trying very hard to put out of her head), it felt even more important to lay whatever false trails she could, even if he wasn’t really able to follow them.

  She wondered where he was now. Her first attempt at misleading him had been in Paris, when she’d asked about transport to Montpellier. She’d acknowledged to herself that it was a feeble and probably futile stab at sending him on a wild goose chase, and even at the time she’d been resigned to the fact that it wouldn’t stall him for long, and he would eventually make his way to Marseille. But she was utterly confident that he’d fail in his efforts to find her from there. Nevertheless, Vince never gave up. It was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. If there was the faintest possibility of finding a connection, he would. But there wasn’t the faintest possibility. None at all. She was
safe. And as long as she didn’t blurt out her location to Shona, nothing could go wrong.

  She poured herself a glass of sparkling water, dropped a slice of lemon into it and sat at the window overlooking the pool, watching as Max, Nellie and Becky splashed about. The two girls were leaving on Sunday, something that had made Imogen realise that time was passing. It had made her think again about her own plans, though right now she was happy without any. Her life wasn’t mapped out. Even though she currently had a routine with her job, every day was different. She loved that. She thrived on the unpredictability of it. So even though she knew that financially she needed to sort out her future, she was content to let things drift for the time being.

  She took out her phone and saw another email from Shona.

  From: Blondie@moonshine.com

  To: Vanished@mymail.com

  Subject: Vince

  He’s in Marseille. He’s trying to find the place you used to live. He asked again if you were in touch and I’m sorry, Imogen, I had to tell him you were. He really wants to help you but I know he’s angry too because I can hear it in his voice. I thought you should know. Call me if you need anything.

  Sxx

  She took a long drink of water. Marseille was all right. Marseille had been inevitable. And it was seven hundred kilometres away.

  There was nothing to worry about.

  Nothing at all.

  At 10.30 that evening, Vince went back to the Le Bleu restaurant. Even at that relatively late hour, it was buzzing with people. He spotted the waiter he’d spoken to earlier carrying plates to a table near the window, and when he started to walk away again, he accosted him.

  ‘So can I speak to someone now?’ he demanded.

  The waiter looked irritated. ‘I really think—’

  ‘I don’t care what you think,’ said Vince. ‘I only care that you let me talk to someone else about the photograph.’

  ‘I will ask Monsieur Biendon to talk to you,’ said the waiter. ‘He is the owner. Please wait a moment.’

  Vince stood watching the diners while the waiter disappeared through a black door marked Privée. A few minutes later, a tall, burly man in a chef’s apron walked out. There was a smattering of applause from the diners and the man raised his hand in acknowledgement before standing in front of Vince.

  ‘I am Bernard Biendon,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘What is it that you want?’

  Vince took the photograph from his pocket again. ‘This woman and this man ate in your restaurant,’ he said. ‘I want to know where I can find them.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I want to find the people in this photograph,’ said Vince. ‘Do you know where they are?’

  The chef waved his arm to encompass the restaurant.

  ‘You see all these customers,’ he said. ‘Every night this many and more in my restaurant. You want me to tell you about two of them? I cannot.’

  ‘Look at them again,’ said Vince, thrusting the printout in front of him. ‘All I want to know is if you know who they are and where they might be.’

  ‘What am I?’ asked Bernard. ‘A telephone directory?’

  ‘Just look,’ said Vince.

  Bernard sighed and took the piece of paper from him.

  ‘Him, I do not know,’ he said dismissively. ‘Her …’ He frowned. ‘She is familiar, but I cannot remember …’

  ‘Try,’ said Vince.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘The woman is my wife,’ said Vince.

  ‘And he is her lover?’ Bernard gave him a knowing look.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Merde,’ said Bernard. ‘I am sorry if there is a personal problem for you, mon ami, but—’

  ‘Don’t give me any of your French free-love crap or whatever it is,’ said Vince. ‘Tell me if you know where she is.’

  ‘I truly cannot remem— Oh!’ Bernard tapped his forehead. ‘I do remember. Not her visit here with this man. That, I do not. But she was at a charity boules match a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Here? In the town?’

  ‘Where else?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Well that’s the thing.’ Bernard was looking at the photograph more intently. ‘I remember her at the tournament because she was with my daughter’s ex-husband.’

  ‘This man is your son-in-law?’ Vince was incredulous.

  ‘This man is clearly English.’ Bernard was dismissive. ‘René is from the town.’

  ‘She’s with a man from here?’ Vince was bemused. The list of people that Imogen could have been having an affair with had got longer again. Conor Foley. The man in the photograph. And now the chef’s ex-son-in-law. Rage with his wife balled up inside him.

  ‘So where does he live, this René?’

  ‘I’m not going to give you his address so that you can rush to his house and have a quarrel,’ said Bernard. ‘That is not the way to do things.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find him myself,’ said Vince. ‘And I don’t want to fight with him. I want to talk to him. My wife isn’t a well person.’

  ‘She is sick?’

  ‘In the head.’ Vince tapped his temple.

  ‘I do not remember her well, but I would not say she was sick in the head.’

  ‘You don’t know her,’ said Vince. ‘Now, are you going to give me this man’s address or not?’

  Bernard hesitated. Then he walked over to the small bar, took a card from it and scribbled on the back.

  ‘Rue Gorosuretta?’ Vince stumbled over the name.

  ‘It’s at the northern end of the town,’ said Bernard. ‘Wait.’ He took a tourist map from behind the bar and opened it. ‘We’re here.’ He circled an area of the map. ‘Rue Gorosuretta is here. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vince.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Vince nodded briefly and walked out of the door.

  Bernard stared after him until he disappeared from view. Then he picked up his phone and dialled a number.

  Chapter 30

  René heard his phone ringing, but when he saw the caller ID, he didn’t bother answering. He wasn’t going to talk to Bernard while he was sitting in his ex-wife’s house, sharing a bottle of wine with her. His unexpected arrival, bottle in hand, had been motivated by the concern he’d felt when he’d seen her at the beach barbecue with Art Barthoullet. It was the proprietorial way that Art had put his arm around Céline’s waist that had bothered him. He told himself that he didn’t mind her seeing someone else; he knew she’d had a couple of short-lived romances since their divorce, but Art definitely wasn’t good enough for her. He had no ambition. Céline was an ambitious woman herself. She needed someone with some get-up-and-go. Not a man like Art who was nothing more than a functionary for the train company.

  But he didn’t say any of this to her while they sat opposite each other in her cosy living room. It had been a long time since René had been in the house they’d once shared, and his first impression was that his ex-wife had suddenly embraced her inner domestic goddess. Everything was in its place and yet nothing looked too studied or artificial. Céline had turned the house into a welcoming home, and René couldn’t help thinking that it was much more inviting than when he’d lived there. It compared favourably to his own rather stark apartment too. He wondered why she’d never bothered before, and whether it was all for Art’s benefit. Then he remembered that Imogen was doing her cleaning. He suddenly realised why his clients praised his employee so much. She wasn’t just a cleaner. She was a home-maker. And as such, a true domestic goddess At least as far as turning an untidy, unattractive room into a warm and welcoming space went.

  Maybe I should have turned up at Imogen’s with the wine, thought René, as Céline kept their conversation strictly on topics related to their businesses. Even though Imogen seemed closed off and distant as far as relationships were concerned, he wondered if he could be the man to c
hange all that. The one to make her melt. And then Céline looked at him with her dark eyes, tilted her head to one side and asked him what the real reason for him coming to her house on a Friday night was. And he forgot about Imogen.

  ‘I came because I’m concerned about you and Art Barthoullet,’ he admitted.

  ‘What?’ Céline looked at him in astonishment. ‘Why on earth would you be concerned? And what gives you the right to be?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said René. ‘It’s simply—’

  ‘When we were married, you were always trying to run my life,’ said Céline. ‘And now we’re divorced, you’re still trying.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ René gave her an injured look. ‘I never interfere.’

  She snorted.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I never advise you any more.’

  ‘You know better.’

  ‘All I wanted was to help,’ he said.

  ‘You interfered,’ Céline told him. ‘You drove me nuts.’

  ‘I interfered because I cared.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, René. I can live my own life.’

  ‘Without me.’

  ‘Without anyone.’ She gave him a half-smile. ‘I don’t need you and I don’t need Art either.’

  ‘I don’t want you to make a mistake, that’s all.’

  ‘If I make a second mistake, it’s my own to make,’ said Céline.

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was back then and I still am.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘An idiot with good intentions.’

  ‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I still care for you, René Bastarache,’ said Céline. ‘But I won’t be influenced by you.’

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  ‘Have another one.’ She picked up the bottle of ruby-red merlot. ‘Let’s talk about old times.’

  ‘Old times,’ said René, and clinked his glass against hers.

  Vince stood outside the address Bernard Biendon had given him. It was a three-storey apartment block, more modern than most of the buildings around it, set back from the road and surrounded by a small garden. He had rung the bell a number of times, but there had been no reply, and after working out which apartment might be René’s, he could see that it was in darkness. His lip curled. Was the fucker with his wife? he wondered. Was he doing things to her that only Vince had a right to do? He felt the blood boil in his veins and his head pound with fury.