“You’re the last one, Gabriel. A few months ago you seemed governed by anger. Is that still the case today?”
Gabriel shakes his head. “When Chloé ‘died,”” he says, punctuating his words with air quotes, “I thought I’d never get over it. Nothing made sense anymore, everything was bleak. But when she came back, it turned out to be even worse. I felt like I had lost everything, like I’d been betrayed, manipulated, and humiliated. I didn’t think we’d ever be able to survive this together. But I was wrong. Over the weeks, she managed to win me over again, to make me want to trust her. She waited patiently for me to come back to her, gave me the time I needed to get some perspective. And she never stopped believing in us. She never gave up. Today I’m not angry anymore. On the contrary, I feel calm, I’m at peace. As she said when we renewed our vows, the ‘better’ part lies ahead . . .”
“I think that’s a wonderful way to conclude this group’s last meeting,” says Edith.
“Yes, and it’s high time you all tasted my famous cookies!” adds Gabriel with a laugh.
EMMA
“Boarding will begin at terminal 2E, gate 28, in about thirty minutes,” explains the woman at check-in as she hands Emma’s passport back. Emma watches her red suitcase make its way down the conveyor belt. She takes advantage of the wait to stop by the restroom and then to buy a pack of spearmint gum—she hates having clogged ears on the plane.
“Air France invites all passengers on flight AF354 to Tel Aviv to make their way to gate 28 for immediate boarding.”
An airline employee checks her ticket and passport one last time before letting her onto the plane. She takes a copy of Libération on her way to her window seat. She distractedly puts her headphones in her ears and starts reading as the other passengers noisily fill the plane.
She doesn’t have any idea what she’ll do when she gets to Tel Aviv. Strangely, that doesn’t worry her at all. On the contrary, actually. She feels light and carefree. She’s not even panicking about barely having any money to live on. She feels confident in the future and her talents. With her camera around her neck, she’s going to take her chances and see what happens. And if that doesn’t work, she can always return home to her parents in Arles. That idea is scary enough to motivate her to do anything and everything necessary to get good photos and sell them to a news agency.
Nathan loaned her two thousand euros before she left. Emma was embarrassed to be asking her little brother for money, when he’d barely been working for two years, but he brushed away her reservations with a shrug.
“I don’t see it as a loan, Emma. It’s an investment that’ll pay dividends very soon. I’ll give you two thousand euros, and in exchange, when you get famous, you’ll give me an exclusive interview. I can already see my headline, ‘Emma Lenglet: Risking Her Life for the Perfect Shot.’”
For now Nathan freelances for a local daily, but he plans to move to Paris someday and work for a national paper.
“Either way I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I don’t like having debts.”
“Fine, whenever, I’m not worried. But do send me e-mails and let me know where you are, okay? And use some of my money to buy a bulletproof vest!”
Her brother’s tone was light, but they both knew the suggestion was hardly a joke.
Emma is pulled from her thoughts by a man trying desperately to fit an oversized bag into the overhead compartment right above her. After squashing it as much as possible, he finally shoves it in, then quickly clicks the latch shut. He sits down in the seat next to Emma and lets out a long sigh.
“I really didn’t think it was going to fit! And the flight attendant doesn’t seem like the warm and fuzzy type . . . It was a close call!”
He points at one of the women in a navy-blue uniform. Emma has to admit that with her arms crossed behind her back and a rugby player’s build, the woman does look pretty menacing. Not the kind who enjoys a good joke.
“Let me tell you a secret . . . Her name is actually Natasha Petroskova. She works for the Russian mob.”
“Oh really? What is the Russian mob doing on a flight from Paris to Tel Aviv?” Emma asks skeptically.
“You haven’t heard?” he asks dryly. “Their spies are on the lookout for counterfeit vodka! Apparently, they have orders to taste every bottle of water to make sure it’s not smuggled booze!”
“That’s ridiculous!”
Emma can’t help but laugh at his terrible made-up story.
“I’m Benjamin. But everyone calls me Ben.”
The man holds out his hand. He looks about Emma’s age, maybe a few years older. Short light-brown hair and cheerful green eyes behind lenses in black plastic frames. He has a scar running through one eyebrow and a five-o’clock shadow.
“I’m Emma. But everyone calls me Emma,” she mocks.
“Hmm . . . Seems like your sense of humor’s about as refined as mine,” he answers with a smile.
She shakes his hand.
“So, are you on vacation?” he asks.
Emma is relaxed as they start talking. The flight’s about five hours long, so they’ll have plenty of time to get to know one another. She tells him that she’s a photographer.
“Cool! A kindred spirit. I work for a TV network, and they’re always sending me to report from conflict zones. I head out with my video camera and my mic and stay alive however I can. I’m kidding about that last part, but I have made it through a few scrapes.”
They talk for a few hours, then Emma goes back to reading her newspaper before dozing off. Her excitement kept her awake last night, so she’s catching up on sleep.
Next to her, Benjamin takes off his glasses and discreetly checks that the micro SD card hidden in one of the temples is working. Given everything he had to do to get on the show as a contestant, there’s no way he’s going to mess everything up now.
CHAPTER 20
JULY 2014
CHLOÉ
Last night Gabriel checked the weather forecast and suggested we have a picnic lunch at our cove today. We haven’t been back since I “drowned,” and it would be the perfect place to spend some time together and really enjoy each other’s company like before.
I’m making chicken sandwiches to put in the plastic cooler while Gabriel gathers some fruit and two bottles of champagne.
“Two bottles, huh? You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
I lean into him and he holds me tight.
“Mrs. Hamon, do you really think I need alcohol to seduce you?”
He bends down to nibble on my ear and I melt instantly. It’s crazy how easily he can excite me ever since I came back. It’s like I have a new husband, like we just met. The way he takes the initiative now really turns me on. I always used to like to run the show, so I’m pleasantly surprised to see Gabriel in this new light.
We get comfortable on the small beach, still shaded at this time of day. I’d forgotten how calming the sound of the gently crashing waves could be.
Gabriel hands me a glass of champagne.
“To us?”
“To us.”
I take a sip and sigh with pleasure. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
We eat in silence; we don’t have to talk to be happy. We simply enjoy the peace and quiet. As we drink glass after glass, Gabriel’s hands begin to wander, and I languorously give in to his advances. My head is spinning a bit, and I giggle as he undoes my bra. He kisses my shoulder, my breasts, my stomach. I surrender and enjoy it. After a few minutes, he lies down next to me as I try to catch my breath. I’m too weak to sit up. Gabriel props himself up on his elbow.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a worried tone.
“I’m fine. I’m just . . . a little tipsy!”
I’m feeling so good and carefree, I can’t help but laugh. Gabriel’s always worrying about me instead of simply sitting back and enjoying the moment.
He leans over me and gently strokes my hair, an affectionate look in his eyes.
“Rest a little, okay?
I think we went a bit overboard with the champagne,” he says, pointing to the two empty bottles.
“Mmm.”
“I’m going to swim a few laps while you take a nap. When you feel better, we’ll go home.”
My husband gets up and heads toward the water.
“No, wait for me! I want to go swimming too!”
I stagger as I stand up, and Gabriel runs over to catch me.
“That’s not a good idea, honey. You’re in no state to go swimming right now.”
“Oh, come on, Gabriel, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud! It’s not like I’m about to pass out! How about you carry me? We could do all sorts of things together in the water . . .”
I’m not sure my suggestion is clear to him. Everything around me is out of focus. I try to concentrate on my husband’s hesitant face.
“Come on, carry me!”
Gabriel gives in and carries me into the water.
“Don’t let go, okay, Chloé? We won’t stay in long . . .”
We wade deeper into the water, his arms tight around me. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Gabriel walks farther out into the waves until the water’s up to his chest. He stops and twirls me around gently. Only my head’s still dry, and the cool water feels good.
“Stop, Gabriel, I think I’m going to throw up . . .”
GABRIEL
He gazes down at Chloé reassuringly.
“Do you want to go back to the beach?”
“Yes, please. You were right, it wasn’t a good idea.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said you were right. It wasn’t a good idea . . .” Chloé mumbles as she runs her hand over her face. She’s heavy, floppy, like dead weight in Gabriel’s arms.
“What wasn’t a good idea? The show?”
Chloé frowns. She can barely open her eyes.
“Huh? What are you talking about? Take me back. I want to go home . . .”
Gabriel takes another step out and Chloé’s head goes under. She tries to sit up, clutching at him, but she’s too weak. Her arms must weigh a ton, and her brain is clearly moving in slow motion.
“Come on, honey, let’s get out . . . I really don’t feel well. Apparently I can’t handle my champagne . . .”
“Or maybe it’s the three Xanax tablets you had with it?”
Chloé manages to open her eyes. She doesn’t seem to understand what Gabriel’s saying.
“What’s it like to be back at the scene of your death?”
“What are you talking about? This isn’t funny. I really don’t feel well . . . and I’m starting to get cold.”
“It’s not funny?”
Gabriel’s voice is thick with irony.
“How funny was everything you put me through, huh?”
“We’ve already talked about all this. We’ve put it behind us . . .”
Chloé’s voice is heavy and she’s slurring her words.
Gabriel looks at his wife and decides she doesn’t deserve an explanation. Besides, she’s probably beyond the point where she could understand anyway. Might as well save his breath.
He wishes she could understand how she destroyed him, how much he’s hated her since she came back into his life. For years, he adored her—in every sense of the word. He put her on a pedestal and idolized her. She was the perfect wife and they were the perfect couple. He loved her so much he would have done anything for her, even sacrifice his own needs and desires—and follow her to the ends of the earth. He thought their feelings were reciprocal, thought she loved him just as passionately.
He hadn’t been able to love her since the end of that fucking show, but he couldn’t just let her leave either. She would have forgotten him all too quickly—especially with all that money. She had to pay for the eight years he had wasted believing in them, in her. Eight years he had spent with a stranger.
He did try to forgive her, but it was no use. Now he feels compelled to see the grieving period he began when she disappeared through to the end. He can’t shake the bitter taste in his mouth. The hate has been growing ever since she came back, every time she opens her mouth, every time she laughs. The only thing he ever feels besides hate is disgust. The idea of touching her, of brushing up against her revolts him. But he’s hidden it from her and everyone else. He’s played the loving, forgiving husband to a T.
Chloé spits and coughs faintly, trying to catch her breath despite the water filling her nose and throat. Gabriel can feel her grasping at him, but she’s too weak, her muscles aren’t responding.
He’s going to drown her nice and slowly. She’ll barely resist. It’s almost too easy. He would have preferred a real fight, but he knows he can’t leave any traces of a struggle on his wife’s body if he wants the authorities to deem it an accidental drowning. So he crushed up some antianxiety meds and discreetly mixed them into the champagne, then got her drunk so she wouldn’t notice a thing. She never even takes Tylenol, so the alcohol-downer cocktail was even more effective than he’d hoped.
If they ever find the body, the autopsy will reveal that Chloé had taken Xanax and gotten drunk. Gabriel will tell them through his sobs that he’d noticed his wife hadn’t been doing well since the show ended, that she’d seemed depressed. She’d been having a hard time getting back into the swing of real life after being cut off from the world for months. She’d been drinking too much, and Gabriel had found several boxes of antidepressants and antianxiety medications in her nightstand. With tears in his eyes, he’ll say, “I didn’t realize how bad it was. She always put on a strong face; I didn’t realize she was struggling.” Everyone would believe him, especially since reality TV contestants addicted to alcohol and drugs are a dime a dozen. “My wife is television’s latest victim,” he’ll stutter as he crumples onto the floor. “I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering whether it was suicide or an accident . . .”
Everyone will feel sorry for him, the poor man who’s been faced with every misfortune. He’ll give the five hundred thousand euros to a charity. He doesn’t care about the stupid money. And more importantly, he doesn’t want anyone to think that he killed his wife to get it all to himself. He’ll become a hero instead by giving it away. Yes, he’ll give it all to a lifeguard training program or something like that. Perfect. “So no one else will ever drown again!” He can already see himself gazing into the distance, a sorrowful expression in his eyes, chin trembling, inspiring crowds with his speech.
Chloé can’t breathe and is starting to gurgle and choke as the water laps into her mouth. The noise pulls Gabriel out of his daydream. He looks at her disapprovingly. Her eyes are like two giant question marks. She doesn’t understand why he’s doing this. She doesn’t understand what’s happening to her.
“Shh, shh . . . it’ll all be over soon,” Gabriel reassures her. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you to the end. I won’t leave you.”
Chloé tries to push him away but he holds her tightly. She can’t fight, she can’t escape. She tries to scream but can’t manage to make even the slightest sound. A small flock of seagulls flies overhead, and Gabriel is almost sure they’re laughing among themselves.
“They’ll find you tomorrow, the next day, or a month from now . . . Maybe never. I’ll mourn you publicly. I know exactly what it’s like to be devastated by my wife’s death. After all, I’ve lived it, remember?”
Chloé closes her eyes for several long seconds. She’s giving up. Water covers her face. She opens her mouth over and over, like a fish, instinctively. She’s desperately seeking air but keeps swallowing water. Her eyes stare at Gabriel again. Why why why.
Her arms relax, then go limp. Her eyes go blank. Gabriel loosens his grip and lets Chloé sink down into the water.
Thank goodness that’s over with. Now he can go home and walk Lucky. The poor dog’s been locked in the house all day and must be dying to go out.
“Not that you lied to me, but that I no longer believe you, has shaken me.”
Friedri
ch Nietzsche
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first inclination was not to include any acknowledgments, because I was afraid of forgetting or hurting someone important.
But as time passed, I realized that I would regret not paying tribute to all the people who had helped turn the life of this independent author into a waking dream.
First and foremost, I would like to thank Mathieu, who puts up with me all day every day, providing steadfast support, and who has stood by my side since the very beginning of this adventure.
I would also like to acknowledge:
My father, who was one of this novel’s earliest defenders. He was always forthcoming with advice, ready to read and reread successive versions on the hunt for the tiniest discrepancy or typo.
My sister, who now prefaces her confidences with, “This won’t end up in one of your books, will it?”
Mélanie, for her sincere enthusiasm and unfailing encouragement.
Frédéric, whose trained eye was an incredible help in reworking the text at a moment when I had lost perspective on the story I had imagined.
Claire, for rekindling the somewhat crazy idea that I should write a novel.
I would also like to express my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful community of independent authors I am honored to be a part of. In particular, I am indebted to Patrick Ferrer, Jacques Vandroux, and Alice Quinn for their precious advice.
And I could never forget Solène Bakowski. The seagulls are for you!
I of course owe a huge thank-you to the thousands of readers who have talked about, blogged about, and reviewed the original French version of Interference since I published it in March 2015. Some of them even took the time to write directly to me.
Special thanks go out to Julien Arnaud, my first “unknown” reader.
I wish to express my appreciation to the Amazon France and US teams for their support, creativity, and ambition to share Interference with as many readers as possible.
Many thanks to Florian Lafani at Editions Michel Lafon, who probably had no idea how hard my heart was pounding during our first phone call . . .
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