The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘I know it’s been a long day,’ he said. ‘But would you care for a nightcap at the Villa Martine?’

  Imogen was tired, but she didn’t have to get up early in the morning, and for the first time since arriving in France, she didn’t want to be on her own either. It wasn’t that she was afraid of solitude; rather that she’d enjoyed sharing her entire day with other people. And Oliver, despite that sudden frisson she’d felt when he’d wiped the oil from her face, had been such an easy person to spend time with. He talked with her and not at her. He made her feel as though her opinion was important to him. There was something tremendously comforting about being with him. And so despite her reservations at getting too close to him, she agreed to a drink at the Villa Martine.

  ‘Giles must be here,’ he said as the gates slid open and they saw that there were lights on in the house. ‘He said he’d be back for a few days. Hopefully he hasn’t turned the kitchen into a drinking den again!’

  But when they got out of the car and walked around to the back of the house, it wasn’t Giles who was sitting on the terrace surrounded by lemon-scented candles. The person who got up from the cushioned wicker chair to greet them was Lucie Delissandes.

  ‘Maman.’ Oliver kissed her on the cheek. ‘Such a surprise! But lovely to see you.’

  ‘I was fed up at the office and decided to take the mid-morning train,’ she said. ‘There’s no better way to travel. How did it go for you with Paul Urdien today?’

  ‘Don’t say you came all the way from Paris to check up on me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any meetings until next week so I thought it would be nice to visit for a few days.’

  ‘I was teasing,’ said Oliver. ‘It went well with Paul.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. I thought you’d be home a lot sooner.’

  ‘We were delayed.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lucie glanced at Imogen and then back to her son.

  ‘Maman, this is Imogen.’ Oliver put his hand at the small of Imogen’s back and gave her a gentle nudge forward. ‘Imogen Weir.’

  ‘Imogen! La petite Imogen? Here in Hendaye. I don’t believe it!’ Lucie looked at her in astonishment. ‘Oh my dear, how I’ve wondered about you over the years.’

  ‘Hello, Madame,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Don’t Madame me!’ cried Lucie. She stood up and held out her arms to embrace the younger woman. ‘Come here. Say hello properly.’

  Imogen took a step closer, and Lucie put her arms around her, hugging her tightly and murmuring over and over again that it was good to see her.

  ‘So have you come back to visit us? Is that it?’ In the soft light of the candles, Lucie’s eyes glowed. ‘I’m so glad you did. Oliver, why didn’t you tell me she was here? Where are you staying, Imogen? You must come to us. I insist.’

  Imogen slowly disentangled herself from Lucie’s embrace and checked that her stained dress hadn’t in turn marked the elegant ivory skirt that the older woman was wearing.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Madame … I’m sorry, I think of you as Madame.’

  ‘You must call me Lucie, otherwise you’ll make me feel like a Parisian matron,’ insisted Lucie. ‘Come here. Sit down. Tell me everything. How have you been keeping? And how is your maman?’

  ‘I’ll get some glasses and a bottle,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Yes, please do. We must toast Imogen’s return.’ Lucie beamed at him and waved Imogen towards a chair. ‘So, ma p’tite. What has happened in your life?’

  Imogen waited until Oliver returned before telling the story of her and Carol’s return to Ireland, Carol’s subsequent marriage and her terminal illness.

  ‘Oh no.’ There was genuine sadness in Lucie’s eyes. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’ The opportunity that Imogen had always wanted had now presented itself. ‘What my mother did to you was very wrong, and I feel ashamed that she betrayed your trust.’

  Lucie looked at her over the rim of the glass she’d just raised to her lips.

  ‘You think your mother betrayed me?’

  ‘Of course. She was your employee. You’d been amazing to us. And yet she and Monsieur Delissandes had an indiscretion.’ The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  Lucie laughed. ‘An indiscretion!’

  ‘That’s what I heard one of my aunts call it,’ said Imogen in embarrassment. ‘It’s how I always think of it.’

  ‘Well, your aunt was right, it was certainly indiscreet,’ said Lucie. ‘But it wasn’t your fault, Imogen.’

  ‘So I keep telling her,’ said Oliver. ‘But I don’t think she believes me.’

  Imogen glanced at him and then looked at Lucie again. ‘I know it wasn’t my fault. Nevertheless, she was my mother, and—’

  ‘And you certainly weren’t responsible for her actions,’ finished Lucie. ‘Naturally I was furious with her. But more furious with Denis. He should have known better than to create a mess on his own doorstep.’

  ‘All the same …’

  ‘And it did seem to me afterwards that I’d sent the wrong person away,’ said Lucie. ‘I was stuck with serially unfaithful Denis and I lost the best housekeeper I ever had.’

  ‘We had three housekeepers after your mum,’ said Oliver. ‘None of them lasted for more than a couple of months.’

  ‘Nobody could ever match up,’ said Lucie.

  ‘I’m sure you would have found somebody perfectly suitable eventually,’ said Imogen.

  ‘But not as sympathique. And not with a child who fitted into our household. Sometimes I think Denis and I had Giles to make up for losing you. He was meant to keep us together, but in the end I couldn’t take it any more. Denis was incapable of fidelity. When it was with women my own age, I was more accepting of it. But you know how it is with men. They want younger and younger models. Idiots.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Imogen again.

  ‘There is nothing for you to be sorry about. I’m so glad to be able to tell you that. It seems to me you’ve been carrying your mother’s guilt as a burden, Imogen.’

  ‘Perhaps a little.’

  ‘Well, please forget it. And please tell me you can stay with us here for a few days.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, but I have a place of my own.’

  ‘Of your own? You mean you’ve come back to live in Hendaye?’ Lucie looked surprised.

  ‘Only for a short time,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Imogen is working as a cleaner,’ Oliver said. ‘She cleans our house, Maman.’

  ‘C’est pas vrai.’ Lucie was even more surprised. ‘You are joking me, Imogen, no?’

  ‘Like mother like daughter.’ Imogen smiled faintly.

  ‘I should have told you before, Maman,’ Oliver said. ‘After all, I met Imogen a couple of weeks ago. But we were busy with stuff in the office and it slipped my mind. Giles and Charles also met her. They didn’t say anything to you?’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘And this is your chosen career?’ she asked Imogen. ‘A housekeeper like your maman?’

  ‘No, she’s a historian,’ said Oliver. ‘But without a suitable job.’

  ‘Please stop answering for me, Oliver,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself.’

  ‘Of course.’ Oliver looked at her apologetically.

  Imogen explained to Lucie that she’d decided to get away from it all in Hendaye for a few months, and that she’d taken up cleaning to earn some money while she stayed in the town.

  ‘And then you go back to Ireland? Do you have a job there?’

  ‘I was working for a French company. I’m sure I’ll get something.’

  ‘Though not in the field of history,’ said Oliver. ‘Imogen has struggled with that.’

  ‘It’s somewhat specialised unless you pursue an academic career,’ agreed Lucie.

  ‘Anyhow, I’m fine and enjoying Hendaye for the moment,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s been absolutely wonderful to see y
ou again, Mad— Lucie.’

  ‘And you. I’ve never been more surprised. Or, I have to say, delighted.’

  Imogen drained her glass. ‘I’d better go. It’s getting late.’

  ‘Not that late,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Late enough.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for a lovely day, Oliver. And I’m delighted to have met you again too, Lucie.’

  ‘I’ll drive you back to your apartment,’ Oliver said.

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Imogen. ‘You’ve had a large glass of wine. It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t drive. But I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘There’s really no need—’

  ‘Yes he will.’ Lucie interrupted her. ‘I’m not having you wander the streets on your own at night, no matter that this is a very safe area.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Imogen,’ said Lucie. ‘Let Oliver go with you.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ She looked at him helplessly.

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s a nice evening for a walk.’

  ‘We were walking half the day,’ Imogen reminded him.

  ‘Why? Did Paul insist on showing you around?’ asked Lucie.

  ‘No, Imogen and I went exploring afterwards,’ replied Oliver. ‘We climbed Monte Urgull.’

  ‘Goodness, in this heat?’

  ‘I think I burnt my nose,’ said Imogen.

  ‘You couldn’t have!’ Oliver protested. ‘I bought you a baseball cap to protect it.’

  Lucie looked from one to the other. ‘I’m glad you both seem to have had a good day.’

  ‘We did,’ said Imogen. ‘It was nice of Oliver to invite me. Paul’s girlfriend is lovely and we’re definitely going to keep in touch.’

  ‘That’s why I asked Imogen along,’ Oliver told his mother. ‘She has been working for Flèche Publishing all day as an entertainment consultant. Because Paul’s girlfriend is from Ireland I thought it would be nice for the two of them to meet.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed his mother. ‘We must use your talents in other directions as well sometime, Imogen.’

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t commute between Hendaye and Paris to clean houses,’ Imogen said lightly. ‘Anyway, now I really must go.’

  ‘A bientôt,’ said Lucie, and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘See you later, Maman,’ said Oliver, and he and Imogen walked down the driveway together.

  Vince lived by the mantra that everything comes to he who waits. He also believed in seizing the moment. So when he checked the rear-view mirror of his car and saw René Bastarache leave the apartment building, he immediately forgot about his thirst and began to follow him. As he did, he mused that he should think about changing careers himself. Over the last fortnight, he’d arrived in France, a country about eight times the size of Ireland and more than ten times the population, and without any major leads managed to track down his errant wife to this small town on the west coast. He’d done it without incurring the kind of expenses that the PIs he’d spoken to had quoted to him, and he’d done it with an impressive level of efficiency. Now, as he hung back and watched René turn left at a junction, he might be being brought directly to Imogen’s doorstep.

  He felt comfortable allowing a reasonable gap to open up between himself and René, not wanting to alert the other man in any way. After all, if René was heading to talk to Imogen, he’d be looking out for Vince too, wouldn’t he? At least he should be. But then perhaps René was underestimating him. As everyone did, Imogen included.

  A hundred metres ahead of him, René parked the car. Vince dampened down a desire to get out and follow him immediately, and was rewarded when he saw the man cross the road and walk into one of the many whitewashed buildings. A few minutes later, he came out alone, got back into his car and drove off again. Vince debated with himself for a moment, then got out of his car and walked up the road. Two young women were strolling towards him, and as they turned in towards the building, he slowed down until they caught up with him at the gate.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the taller of the two. ‘Can we help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend who told me she’s living around here somewhere. But I’m not sure I have the right address.’

  ‘Oh? Who is she?’

  ‘Imogen Nau— Imogen Weir.’ He knew she’d be using her maiden name.

  ‘Imogen! You’re in luck. She lives here.’ The girl gave him a bright smile. ‘Next door to us in fact.’

  ‘How fortunate is that.’ Vince beamed at her in return. ‘I guess I’ll follow you lovely ladies, in that case.’

  He walked with them and waited as they unlocked the front door.

  ‘Which number is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Number six. Top of the stairs and the first door to your left. We’re the second.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Vince. ‘Thanks so much.’

  ‘You’re from Ireland too?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She might have mentioned us. Becky and Nellie.’

  ‘She sure did.’ Vince beamed at them again. ‘She said she couldn’t have asked for better neighbours.’

  ‘Neither could we,’ said Becky. ‘Imogen’s lovely. She really is. That’s her apartment.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Vince rapped on the door while Becky and Nellie walked to their apartment a little further up the corridor.

  ‘Isn’t she in?’ asked Nellie, seeing that the door hadn’t been opened.

  ‘I’m probably early,’ Vince said. ‘I don’t think she was expecting me yet.’

  ‘Oh. Well you could wait for her in the garden,’ suggested Becky. ‘I’m sure she won’t be long. She’s never out late.’

  ‘It might be better if I come back a bit later. Is there anywhere around here to get something to drink?’

  ‘There’s a bar at the end of the road,’ Becky told him. ‘You can get coffee there too.’

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’

  ‘Hopefully she’ll be home soon,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Vince, and walked out of the apartment building again.

  ‘Your mother looks amazing,’ said Imogen when she and Oliver had left the Villa Martine. ‘She hasn’t changed at all. Well,’ she added before he could say anything, ‘she’s become glossier.’

  ‘Glossier?’

  ‘More sophisticated. Not that she wasn’t always grown-up and sophisticated to me, but back then she was sort of hippy-chic, and today … glossy.’

  He smiled in the darkness. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t tease me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I meant it. Maman would be delighted to think she looks well. All women want to look well.’

  Imogen gave a rueful look at her stained dress. ‘She was lovely to me, but she was probably thinking that I’m still the same messy kid as I was before.’

  ‘You’re certainly not a messy kid,’ said Oliver. ‘You’re a beautiful woman.’

  She felt herself blush. ‘Not in comparison to most French women,’ she told him. ‘They’re always stunning.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I bet all your girlfriends are gorgeous. And glossy.’

  He grinned. ‘I could certainly list them by the amount of products they use to try to be that way.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m sure it’s a long list.’

  ‘And why would you be so sure of that?’ he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she asked. ‘You’re a single man in your thirties. Don’t tell me you haven’t made a list.’

  ‘I might have,’ he admitted.

  ‘Starting with Virginie whatever-her-name-was.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘Starting way before that. Just because Virginie was the first one I slept with doesn’t mean there weren’t women before.’

  ‘Oliver!’ she cried.
/>
  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ She looked at him in amusement. ‘You and René can be so very … French sometimes!’

  He grinned. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘My not-glossy-but-very-beautiful Imogen. Who’s on your list?’

  ‘Nobody worth talking about.’ She knew that she sounded abrupt, and from the corner of her eye she saw Oliver’s expression tighten. ‘We’re like teenagers asking about boyfriends and girlfriends,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Silly stuff. Much more interesting to talk about our achievements.’

  ‘And yours is to have a degree in European history yet work as a cleaner,’ he remarked.

  ‘Oliver Delissandes.’ She stopped in the middle of the pavement and turned to him. ‘There’s no need to be such a damn snob. But of course that’s to be expected, because you come from a family with two houses who flit between Paris and Hendaye at the drop of a hat. And because you drive a top-of-the-range car with leather seats and all sorts of gadgets. And because you have a cushy job in a company where your mother is a director. And because you can afford to have a cleaner in the first place!’

  She tossed her head and began walking up the street ahead of him. He followed a few steps behind.

  ‘Imogen!’ he cried as she crossed the road and turned the corner. ‘Stop.’

  But she kept walking. And then she was at the gate to her building.

  ‘Imogen.’ He caught up with her. ‘That’s not how it is.’

  ‘I know,’ she said as she turned to him. ‘I’m sorry. But sometimes …’

  ‘Sometimes what?’

  ‘When I was small, I felt part of it,’ she confessed. ‘Part of how you lived. Especially in the summers, when we spent hours on the beach and your dad took us out in his boat and we played pirates in the garden. In the winter, when Mum and I were alone there together, the Villa Martine felt like our own house. But of course it wasn’t and we weren’t really part of the family. It was an illusion. Which is perfectly right, Oliver. I’m nothing. Nobody. Tonight, though … it all came rushing back, and I couldn’t help envying how you all seem to have it mapped out. Even your parents’ divorce doesn’t seem to have caused a change in your lifestyle. Every one of you is someone bien dans sa peau. Comfortable with who you are. I contrast it with how utterly, utterly messed up my own life is and I wonder why it is that some people get it right while others … don’t. You’re right about another thing too – I should have pursued some kind of academic career, and I might have, only …’