The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  He sat on the low wall outside the apartment block for about twenty minutes, but nobody came or went, although one or two passers-by looked at him curiously. Vince realised that he was making himself noticeable, and after looking at his watch and realising how late it had become, he decided to go back to his hotel for the night. The man wasn’t going anywhere and would come back to his apartment sooner or later. He could talk to him tomorrow. There was nothing to be gained by waiting for him now.

  He stood up. As he walked, tiredness began to overtake him. He’d been up early that morning, and the drive from Marseille had been a long one. He needed to sleep. He yawned as he crossed the road, and then stumbled over an uneven part of the pavement, pitching forward so that he nearly fell.

  ‘Faites attention!’ A young man hurried to help him, catching his arm and steadying him.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Vince irritably.

  ‘English?’ said the man.

  Vince nodded. He couldn’t be bothered to say that he was Irish but spoke English as Imogen always did when she met someone from a different country.

  ‘Take care on the street,’ said the man.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ said Vince, feeling that he was being stereotyped.

  ‘I didn’t think you were,’ said the man. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Vince strode swiftly away.

  Max Gasquet turned the corner and walked up the pathway to the apartment block. He forgot about the encounter immediately as he put his key in the lock and went into the hallway where Imogen was standing.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you on your way out?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve just put my laundry in the machine.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I meant to do it before I went out this morning,’ she said. ‘But I forgot. That’s the trouble with doing housework for other people. You neglect your own. And I’m going to be busy tomorrow, so I thought I should put a wash on now.’

  ‘You will leave the machine all night?’

  She grinned. ‘You’re being safety-conscious, aren’t you? No, I’m putting on a quick wash now, then I’ll wait for it to finish, put the clothes in my basket and peg them out in the morning. Is that OK?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Max held up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to interfere.’

  ‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘It’s sort of sweet that you worry.’

  ‘I don’t worry,’ protested Max. ‘But …’ He looked a little shamefaced. ‘When I was a kid, a neighbour left the dishwasher on while they went to work. Something happened to the timer and it didn’t stop. It actually went on fire and the house was destroyed.’

  ‘Not really!’ exclaimed Imogen. ‘I’ve heard of that happening but always thought it was an … an old wives’ tale,’ she added in English.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the right expression. Something that you’ve heard and that might be true but you can’t really believe it is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Max nodded. ‘Une histoire à dormir debout.’

  ‘More or less.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ll be awake until the cycle has finished, so you don’t have to worry about the apartment burning down.’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Would you like to have a drink with me while you wait?’

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I don’t sleep when I’ve been working late,’ said Max. ‘It takes me time to unwind. Would you like to unwind with me?’

  This time her expression was startled.

  ‘I don’t mean … not … Just a drink. As neighbours,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘Why not.’

  The forty-five minutes she spent with Max were pleasant and relaxed. He chatted about his work at the hospital, about his family and his hopes for the future. She listened, adding a remark from time to time but happy to let him talk. It was weird, she thought after she’d said goodnight to him, retrieved her washing and got into bed, how many men she was talking to these days. And it was equally weird (to her if maybe not to other people) how many men were perfectly straightforward and nice and didn’t read deep and dark hidden meanings into casual remarks. Vince had done that all the time. No matter what she said, he always found a way to take another meaning from it. One that inevitably seemed to disrespect him in some way. Imogen had got out of the habit of having light-hearted conversations with men without having to second-guess what they might be thinking.

  I thought it was all about me, she told herself as she slid beneath the single sheet on her bed. I thought it was my fault, that I said the wrong things all the time. But I didn’t. I really didn’t. I wasn’t a bad person. I’m not a bad person. And from now on, I’m going to be my own person. Which is definitely a good thing.

  She was smiling when she fell asleep.

  The following morning she arrived at Céline’s a little ahead of schedule, having first put her washing out to dry. Céline was rushing around, putting down her bag and forgetting where she’d left it, looking for the keys to the café and generally dithering in a way that was totally unlike her.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘Yes, yes, fine,’ said Céline. ‘But wondering why on earth I open the café so early on a Saturday.’

  ‘I’ve wondered that myself,’ confessed Imogen. ‘But I suppose there are a lot of people wanting breakfast.’

  ‘Those who swim in the morning, or walk on the beach, and those whose businesses are open all want coffee and croissants,’ agreed Céline. ‘But nobody ever has a cup of coffee ready for me.’

  Imogen paused, duster in hand. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You seem distracted this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I’m distracted.’ Céline made a face. ‘I’ve been a total idiot.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘René came here last night,’ she said. ‘He brought a bottle of wine. We drank it. One thing led to another, and—’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Imogen. ‘You didn’t sleep with him, did you?’

  ‘Of course I slept with him, the salaud!’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Now he thinks I’m crazy in love with him all over again.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘It didn’t work out the first time,’ said Céline. ‘We haven’t changed. It wouldn’t work out a second time either.’

  ‘Because he’s too bossy?’

  ‘Exactly! He always thinks he knows best. He was forever giving me unwanted advice.’

  ‘Did you take any of it?’

  ‘Some,’ admitted Céline. ‘But that doesn’t mean any of it was good.’ She sighed. ‘If he thinks he can walk back into my life, he has another think coming.’

  ‘I thought you were going out with Art.’

  ‘So did I.’ Céline sighed. ‘I am an imbecile.’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ said Imogen. ‘But maybe … maybe you and René aren’t a mistake.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Céline spoke sharply. ‘Look, the sex with him was always great. And it was great last night too. But I divorced him for a reason, and that hasn’t changed. Now he’s left here like a cat with the cream and I know he’s thinking that I melted back into his heart. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Actually I’m quite pleased to see you upset about it,’ said Imogen. ‘I always thought you two were amazingly polite and friendly and so cool about your divorce. I’m glad that you can get emotional about each other too. And that sleeping with him was a bit of a big deal after all and not a forgettable French affair.’

  This time Céline laughed. ‘Of course you would have your English way about it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the right way.’ Imogen made a face. ‘Revenge and anger and bitterness have their place.’

  ‘Oh well, I guess I’ll get over it, and René will learn that a one-night stand with me was just that.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s all he wanted.’ Imogen folded some clothes.

  ‘Actu
ally, I think he wants me as a standby for when his other affaires aren’t working out.’ Céline made a face. ‘He doesn’t seem to have a woman in his life at the moment. So I’m his fallback.’

  ‘Don’t be cynical,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Years of experience. I must go.’ Céline, who’d finally found her bag and her keys, bustled towards the door. ‘Please don’t tell him you know he was here.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Imogen assured her.

  Left alone with her cleaning, Imogen couldn’t help wondering if there was the possibility of a second chance for René and Céline. The café owner had a point when she said that people didn’t change. Imogen believed that essentially that was true. But their behaviour could change. Would René’s? And would Céline give him a second chance if it did?

  Would I? she asked herself. If Vince turned up and told me that there would be no more rules, that he was never going to track me on Find My Friends again, that everything in our lives would change – would I be prepared to give it another go? If I really and truly believed him? If he promised?

  She shivered. That was exactly what he would do, she thought. He’d tell her that he’d changed. He’d promise her that things would be better. He’d try to make her believe that she’d made a terrible mistake by leaving him. And her job was to remember that she couldn’t afford to trust him. She had to trust herself instead.

  She glanced at the clock and tut-tutted in annoyance. She needed to stop obsessing about her damn marriage and speed up with her cleaning so that she’d be finished in time for the trip to San Sebastian. Which was a much better use of her time than trying to second-guess her own emotions.

  Even though she’d been sceptical at first, she was looking forward to the outing as a welcome change in the routine she’d set for herself. She hurried through the house, pausing in the bedroom to notice that although Céline had straightened the summer duvet on the bed, the sheets below were still a tangled mess. She hesitated, then took off the duvet and made the bed, trying not to think of René and Céline entwined on it the night before.

  She sped through the rest of the cleaning, then locked up the house before getting on her bike and cycling as fast as she could up the hill. She turned in to the gateway to her building and hopped off the bike almost in a single movement when she saw Oliver already waiting for her.

  ‘Am I late?’ She looked at her watch in dismay.

  ‘No. No. Don’t worry. I was ready and I thought I’d see if you were too. If so, we could have had a coffee or something in San Sebastian before meeting Paul.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have to shower and change. But it’ll only take me ten minutes.’

  ‘There’s no rush, take your time.’

  ‘Do you want to wait in the apartment?’ She made the offer without thinking.

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  He followed her into the building and praised the compact neatness of her home.

  ‘It’s a shoebox,’ she said, going into the bathroom. ‘But it my shoebox.’

  It took her twenty minutes to get ready. She didn’t need to wash her hair, which was now gently curling closer to her shoulders, but she changed from her shorts and T-shirt into a pretty carmine-red dress that hugged her waist and skimmed her hips. She wore red espadrilles on her feet.

  ‘Très jolie,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I don’t really have any dressy-up clothes in my wardrobe. I don’t need them.’

  ‘Good clothes are an art form,’ said Oliver. ‘At least that’s what my mother believes. But sometimes it’s the person wearing them who is the art form.’

  ‘Oliver!’ Imogen blushed. ‘That’s a very chic compliment. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s go.’

  They went outside and Oliver opened the door to the Range Rover.

  ‘It’s very high up.’ Imogen hauled herself into the passenger seat. ‘And totally extravagant.’

  ‘That’s the joy of it,’ he told her as he got in beside her. ‘Allons-y.’ He put the automatic into drive and they glided away from the apartment block. Imogen sat back in the leather seat, enjoying the comfort and smoothness of the car. They made a left turn at the Hotel Pyrénées, but because she’d leaned forward to adjust the passenger climate control, she didn’t see Vince standing in the doorway, his map in his hand.

  Vince glanced up when he heard the Range Rover approaching. He saw the driver and then, as she sat up again, the passenger. It wasn’t until after the vehicle had disappeared down the street that it registered with him that the girl in the red dress had been Imogen. At least he was pretty sure it was his wife, although with the new hairstyle it was hard to tell. But there had been a definite something in the way she’d moved her head that had triggered a mental picture of Imogen.

  He ran to the bottom of the road but the car had already disappeared. He was annoyed but not despondent. In fact, he was somewhat elated. Despite the 66 million to 1 odds, he’d found her. Just as he’d believed he would. She was definitely here and sooner or later he’d come face to face with her and tell her she was coming home with him. He’d demand an explanation too about how she’d come to be cavorting with someone who owned a damn flashy car. She’d changed her tune about that, hadn’t she? She’d always sneered at 4x4s before. So was the driver the ex-son-in-law of the restaurateur? René? Or was it Gerry, the moon-faced man in the photograph that had put him on the right track?

  He reconsidered his plan for the day. He’d been on his way to René’s apartment when he’d seen the car. Now it seemed that Imogen had gone somewhere with him. It was always possible, of course, that it wasn’t René behind the wheel of the Range Rover. In which case he wasn’t sure what to think about her behaviour. If she was running around France with multiple partners, he didn’t want anything more to do with her. Nevertheless, she was his wife and he deserved an explanation. Being honest, he didn’t think she was having affairs with all and sundry. But even if she was, she still belonged to him and she still had to answer to him.

  He returned to the hotel lobby and mulled over his options. He took out his phone and looked at it. There had been a text message earlier, from Shona:

  Hi Vince – any luck in the search for Imogen? Sx

  He hadn’t been sure how to answer it. He didn’t trust Imogen’s friend any longer and wasn’t going to give her any information she might pass on to his wife.

  So he simply replied: No joy so far. Maybe I’ve made a mistake coming here. Will keep in touch.

  Chapter 31

  The motorway to San Sebastian snaked through the mountains, enchanting Imogen, who exclaimed with delight at the spectacular scenery.

  ‘We’re on the edge of the Pyrenees here,’ Oliver remarked as they climbed a steep hill, leaving some wheezing trucks in their wake. ‘This is easy stuff. It’s more dramatic on the other side of San Sebastian. Reminds me of scenes from Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘I never saw that movie.’ Imogen gazed towards a forest that swept the mountainside. ‘And it’s a long time since I read the book. But I remember mixing up my Orcs and my Elves and whatnot.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘Don’t you think there could be Orcs and Elves here?’

  ‘Very probably,’ agreed Imogen. ‘Did we visit San Sebastian as kids? Do you remember?’

  ‘Charles and I came with Dad a few times,’ replied Oliver. ‘I’m not sure if you were with us. It’s very pretty. Though not as pretty as Hendaye, obviously.’

  ‘I feel sure I would have remembered this drive, but childhood memories can be faulty. Things get mixed up in your head.’

  ‘Mine are a mixture,’ he admitted. ‘Of the lovely summers when my parents were together and then the more difficult ones when they split up.’

  ‘I really wish—’

  ‘Don’t start blaming your mum again,’ he said. ‘I told you already. There were plenty of affaires.’

  ‘When did you realise?’

 
‘After Giles was born,’ said Oliver. ‘I was a bit older by then and I could see that everything wasn’t right. Maman and Papa were very polite to each other – that was probably part of the problem. They were skating their way around the difficulties between them. And then it all blew up and Maman threw him out. We were in Paris at the time.’

  ‘It must have been horrible.’

  ‘To be honest, it was more horrible before,’ he admitted. ‘The atmosphere in the house was terrible. In the end, it was a relief when he left.’

  ‘Did you divide your time between your parents?’

  He snorted. ‘Are you kidding? My dad embarked on a very bachelor lifestyle. He moved into a fashionable apartment and kept a steady stream of women friends. I thought it was a glamorous life at first. Later it seemed a bit sad.’

  ‘How about your mother?’

  ‘You know Maman. She’s a formidable woman. She sat us down and explained what was going on and then told us we were the men in her life. There may have been boyfriends, but none I knew about until Giles was at least fifteen. Now she has Armand. They keep separate apartments but they’re together a lot of the time.’

  ‘And the Villa Martine? Who owns that?’

  ‘The option had been to sell it as part of the divorce settlement. But neither of them wanted to do that. My father spends a lot of time there in the cooler months. He enjoys sailing and skiing, so it suits him better.’

  ‘Another remarkably civilised-sounding arrangement,’ said Imogen, thinking of René and Céline.

  ‘It’s better to be civilised if you can,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Hmm.’ Her thoughts turned to Vince. Whatever happened between them in the future, she couldn’t imagine it being civilised.

  ‘And you?’ she asked after a moment’s silence. ‘What about your life?’