Out of Sight

by Isabelle Grey

  Over the next few weeks, during which they settled into a pattern of meeting every three or four days, Leonie found it hard to believe that she could look forward with such luxuriously matter-of-fact assurance to something as exquisite and exalting as their love-making. It gave her almost as much pleasure to think about Patrice during the days she did not see him – and sometimes not hear from him, either – as to be with him. And when they were together, his ability to read from her body language what kind of day she’d had, and then wordlessly either soothe her or elicit and share some small elation, created a wonderful intimacy.

  She had no memory of it being like that with Greg. She possessed more energy than she’d had in years. Her life seemed whole, as if she were constantly on the point of effortlessly winning a race, throwing out her arms and flying past the tape. The very last of the grimy rim of misery that had clung to her since she left London was rinsed away. She felt cleansed of unhappiness – and vindicated: it was not she who was unloving, unlovable. There could be nothing wrong with her if she could feel like this with Patrice.

  ‘I’d better book a ticket and come meet this man,’ declared Stella, when Leonie attempted to explain her happiness over the phone. ‘I want to relish the sight of a loved-up Lennie!’

  After Leonie ended the call, she forced herself to analyse why her instant, though luckily unvoiced, reaction had been to tell Stella not to come. Stella was her closest friend. Not once had she ever been apprehensive at the idea of spending time with her. Why should she be reluctant now? It wasn’t that she was afraid of Stella not liking Patrice. She was sure Stella would discover everything in him that she herself so adored. It was, she decided, merely that she and Patrice were still in that initial starry-eyed lovers’ bubble into which, so far, no third party had been invited. They hadn’t even yet gone out for a meal, preferring the intimacy and spontaneity of eating at home. Patrice had spent a couple of nights at her apartment, but mostly they had tacitly opted for his house – a place which, to her at least, had itself become magically set apart from day-to-day reality. She had been charmed, though, at how he took note of the type of breakfast tea and jam she had at home and produced them the next time she came to him.

  Now, examining her reluctance to see Stella, she acknowledged how she’d repeatedly put off arrangements with a couple of the friends she’d made locally – Audra, who dealt in bricolage and garden and kitchen antiques, and Martine, who worked for the private catering company they recommended to some of their wealthier villa clients. She had declined their invitations because she couldn’t always be certain in advance which night Patrice might suggest meeting, and she wanted to be sure of seeing him as often as she could. But that was not a good pattern to fall into. Not that she minded him not making fixed dates, she wasn’t insecure about it; he always promised to call her and he always did. But equally, she instructed herself, she ought not to go on sacrificing her own arrangements, the infrastructure of friendships and appointments that had supported her life here – friendships that, when she first arrived, battered and fragile, she’d worked hard to establish. She picked up the phone, called Audra and fixed to meet in three days’ time.

  Sure enough, when Patrice called her the following evening, he said he’d like to meet up that same Thursday.

  ‘Oh, I can’t, Patrice. I’m going out with a friend.’

  ‘Well, never mind.’

  Leonie could hear that he was slightly taken aback, but squashed her craven impulse to say she’d cancel. She waited, breathless.

  ‘Did you sort out the problem with the cots?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Gaby had to borrow a travel cot from one of her daughters. You’d expect people to shout well ahead that they had triplets. How many rented houses are going to have two cots, let alone three?’

  ‘True. I had an interesting new case today. I’ll tell you when I see you.’ Patrice liked to discuss his work with her, although he never identified his patients.

  ‘You could come along on Thursday if you want to,’ she offered, cringing at herself. ‘You’d like Audra. She’s good fun.’

  ‘I won’t intrude. Another time. What are you up to this evening?’

  Her hopes soared. ‘Not much.’

  ‘I’m ironing. Run out of shirts.’

  Disappointed, she wondered whether she dared suggest going over there.

  ‘And been watching the swallows gathering,’ he went on. ‘They’ll be starting to leave soon. Nights are already drawing in, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that! Summer’s not over yet.’

  ‘I imagined you’d prefer it out of season. A lot less busy.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Anything rather than getting up and coming home in the cold and dark. I always hated the lack of daylight in London, so I’ll take every last bit of sunshine and heat I can get.’ When he didn’t reply, she prompted him. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘It gets a bit stressful. Some relief when autumn comes. Call you on Friday … Bye for now.’

  Alone, she looked out of her kitchen window at the swallows endlessly swapping places on the telephone wires across the road, calming herself with the image of the birds’ mysterious voyages as a direct link to Patrice on the other side of the town. She reminded herself of the powerful part his elusiveness played in his attraction for her. That such an essentially shy man should be lured by her willingness not to rush him, by her ability to coax him with stillness and waiting, emphasised her sensitivity and empathy. She couldn’t help but like such a reflected image of herself. And Patrice was the complete opposite of Greg, whose failure to commit had stemmed from immaturity, a lack of depth. Patrice, she felt instinctively, suffered from an abundance of depth, profound places where he wrestled with difficult memories.

  She hoped one day he would tell her what they were. She was sure they were bound up with why he was drawn to homeopathy: the wounded healer. He had all but explained himself to her when he outlined the theory of miasms, of past or inherited damage that causes an endless repetition of symptoms, of aches and pains caused by old and invisible injuries and diseases. She wasn’t sure she believed in every last word of homeopathy, but she certainly believed in the healing power of love. She had only to be patient, and, she was sure, they would free one another from their pasts.

  Unexpectedly, Leonie really enjoyed catching up with Audra. They compared one another’s latest clothes and shoe purchases, chatted about random stuff, laughed over nothing much. She started to relax properly for the first time in weeks, and was on the point of ordering two more glasses of wine when her mobile chirped. She looked at the screen. Apologising to Audra, she moved away so she could speak in private.

  ‘Patrice?’

  ‘Hello. I realise you’re with your friend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I thought maybe you could come here afterwards.’

  ‘Oh!’ Leonie was confused. Maybe it was the wine on an empty stomach, but she resented his assumption that he could summon her like this. Yet a ripple of desire told her she would go anyway. It also reminded her that she did not have her contraceptive cap with her. ‘I could be a while,’ she hedged. ‘I haven’t seen Audra in ages, and we’ve not even ordered any food yet.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting.’

  The insubordinate ripple made itself felt again. ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you soon, then. Bye.’

  She returned to her companion, making out the call was work related, but her earlier lightness and ease had gone. They ordered, and, while they ate, Leonie asked diligent questions about Audra’s business, what she’d managed to buy at a recent auction, whether the Dutch were still chasing after old enamel cookware. But all the while she couldn’t help wondering how late it was, and when she could decently leave.

  When, at last, Leonie parked outside Patrice’s house, she sat in the car, trying to work out why she was feeling so ambivalent about going in. It was already eleven o’clock, and they both had to work the
next day. He hadn’t wanted to fix an arrangement for another night, yet invited her now when there was no time for anything other than sex. Was that all he wanted? On the other hand, she could hardly blame him: she wanted to be in his bed every bit as much as, it would appear, he wanted her to be there. She reminded herself that this was exciting, a midnight assignation with her lover.

  She thought back to when she had last doubted him, remembering the restored bicycle. She had been naïve then in assuming that because he didn’t call straight away it was over, never going to happen. But it wasn’t. And two or three times since then they’d taken their bikes at weekends and pedalled to various places together: nowhere special, but it had been lovely to cover some distance yet cycle slowly enough to look at hedgerows and clouds, the immaculate potagers and sloping vineyards. One day, returning home, they had stopped at the gates to the local cemetery, set among fields of mown hay. Patrice dismounted and, holding out his hand, had led her to a simple headstone.

  ‘My grandfather, Patrice Broyard,’ he told her.

  ‘Your grandmother, too,’ Leonie had said, pointing out the other name, the newer letters below carved more sharply into the stone.

  He sighed. ‘I idolised his memory when I was a kid, but now I wonder what the true story was – about his death.’

  Leonie had been surprised. ‘Does it matter now?’

  ‘Josette was always disappointed in me, as if I could never measure up to him. But then once, when she was really cross, I remember her shaking me, scolding that I was just like him.’ With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the stone edging around the grave. ‘I’d never seen her so full of spite, like I had something really bad and evil in me. So maybe he wasn’t such a hero after all.’

  ‘Grief makes people angry. Maybe it was just that. Nothing to do with you.’

  He had shrugged and turned away. ‘Maybe.’

  There, surrounded by the sun-kissed fields, she had taken his arm to walk back to where they’d left their bikes, following his lead in talking of other things. Now, in her darkened car, she breathed more deeply. There was nothing bad in him. Whatever his demons, he was not trying to conceal them from her. She had doubted him before, and it had been all right: he had wanted her to have the bicycle so she could ride beside him. She must try not to let herself get into quite such a state. Patrice would surely have heard her car draw up and must be wondering by now why she hadn’t come inside. If she wasn’t going to turn around and go home, she must resolve to take what he offered at face value.

  When Patrice opened the door, Leonie was touched to find that he seemed as nervous as she. Greeting her with little more than a peck on the cheek, he made for the kitchen, asking if she wanted coffee. It occurred to her how, once he’d made his phone call, he’d had to wait alone for her arrival. Maybe he’d been having similar doubts about the interpretation of his impulsive action. The insight empowered her, and she stopped on the threshold. ‘I’ve had my dinner, thanks.’

  She cast her gaze provocatively up the stairs, but he gave a short laugh, deflecting her, and said, ‘I guess maybe I need a drink.’

  Determined to enjoy this erotic adventure, she leant stagily against the door jamb. ‘And I’d like a kiss.’

  Still edgy, he came to her. She was beginning to understand how, despite his passion, he nevertheless sought to evade responsibility, to repudiate the role of seducer. She wondered if maybe he feared repeating whatever erotic decision or mistake had led to the end of his marriage. And so she chose to be reassuring, slow, seductive, and in the almost frantic sex that followed allowed herself to forget all about having no contraception.

  Although she resolved never to take such a stupid risk again, the few days of uncertainty and forbidden hope that followed opened a door on her thorniest sorrows – that she was thirty-four and desperately wanted to be a mother, and that it was her desperation to have a child that had driven Greg away.

  III

  Leonie’s period arrived bang on time a fortnight later. The familiar stomach cramps made her shift around in the car seat as she drove to pick up Stella from the airport. She had taken a couple of days’ holiday herself so they could spend time together. Although fewer of Gaby’s rental properties were occupied in mid-October, there was still plenty of work to do. Inventories had to be checked, repairs organised, recalcitrant owners persuaded to refurbish. Photographs and other details on the website needed to be updated and costings revised, all before the new booking season opened for the following year.

  The autumn colours of the landscape chimed with her dragging sense of regret, of life passing too quickly. She couldn’t wait to set eyes on Stella, the one person in whom she could confide. Leonie had to admit that she was exhausted, strung out. Life was full of intensity and novelty, which was wonderful, but there were too many nights when she and Patrice didn’t sleep until after midnight, when his bed was ridiculously narrow for the two of them. Too many nights when, alone in the more spacious bed in her own apartment, she stayed awake, hoping past all reasonableness that he’d call. She had imagined she would feel more settled by now, more entitled to his consideration, though she wasn’t sure she would care to admit that even to Stella. Besides, this obscure dejection must surely just be hormones. She should buck up and make the most of her friend’s brief weekend visit.

  ‘Lennie!’ Stella, a big, graceful woman wearing untidy clothes, hugged her fiercely. ‘I can feel your ribs. I hope you’re eating!’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine. But oh, I’ve missed you!’ Finding relief in the effortless expression of a simple emotion, Leonie bit back the insidious reminder of how she still felt the need to be guarded with Patrice: neither had yet used the L-word, for example, though sometimes it hung in the air between them.

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you how good it is to be here. I’m shattered.’ Stella surrendered possession of her carry-on case and let Leonie lead the way out of the terminal.

  ‘But you’re still glad you took the job?’

  ‘Oh yes. The more I get into it, the more fascinating it is. I’ll fill you in, don’t worry! But first, how soon do I get to meet the man?’

  ‘Tomorrow probably.’ Waiting for the automatic doors to open, Leonie avoided Stella’s glance. ‘He’s not a great one for arrangements,’ she added, making light of Patrice’s rather trying and, if she was honest, hurtful refusal to be nailed down on when he’d come over to meet her oldest friend.

  The women postponed the big topics until they were on the road to Riberac. ‘If I tell you all about work now, then it’s out of the way and I can forget about it ’til I go home,’ said Stella. ‘But I am so pleased I made the change.’

  Stella’s previous job had been to match children in care to optimistic couples who tended to have little idea of the problems they were taking on, and who, despite her best efforts, seldom wanted to be told. Stella had watched helplessly as some adoptions broke down under the stress of extreme behaviour which comprehensively trashed both parties’ dreams of happy family life. Leonie could only admire Stella’s pragmatism and fortitude when she’d had to step in and send already damaged children back to inadequate children’s homes or temporary foster families, and she’d seen how Stella’s close involvement in such guilt and disappointment took its toll. She had hoped her friend’s new role would carry less emotional attrition; now Stella assured her that it did, as well as teaching her unexpected detective skills in tracing birth parents and other lost family members. Not every story ended well, Stella explained, but she spoke enthusiastically about the rewards of negotiating the boundaries of first reunions, and the joy and relief to which she was often witness.

  ‘It’s so great, what you’re doing.’ Leonie was hotly proud of her. ‘Makes me question what the hell I’m up to being a glorified holiday rep.’

  ‘Is that all it’s turned out to be?’ asked Stella, disappointed for her.

  ‘No. Actually I love it. Much more than I expected.’

  ‘Really?’ Stella s
ounded sceptical.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Leonie robustly. ‘I like being out and about, and it’s great having to use French so spontaneously. And what more innocent pleasure than ensuring people enjoy their holiday?’

  ‘Think you’ll stay another season?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Burying yourself out here … is any man worth that?’

  Leonie ran through several attempts before formulating her answer. ‘It’s not just Patrice. I like the rural life. Even if I came back to England, I’m not sure I could face living in London again, especially not in the winter.’ She kept her eyes on the road, but couldn’t escape awareness of Stella’s steady gaze.

  ‘If you stay away too long, it’ll be tough getting back in.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘Publishing. Translation. Academic research. Jobs are scarce.’

  Leonie shook her head. ‘I don’t miss any of it. Truly. I enjoy it here.’ She caught Stella’s doubtful look, and laughed. ‘I won’t throw myself away. Honest.’

  ‘So go on. Tell me all about him.’

  ‘He’s like no one else I’ve ever met. So much going on beneath the surface, so much still to understand. Though no wonder Romeo and Juliet were teenagers. Once you get to our age, this stuff is exhausting!’

  ‘You do look a bit haggard, I must say.’

  ‘Oh, time of the month, that’s all. I couldn’t be happier. Honestly.’ Leonie fought the urge to pull the car over and weep.

  To Leonie’s delight, Patrice rang that night to ask if he could join them the following evening. He arrived freshly shaved, with flowers and a bottle of wine. He had never given her flowers before, but she quickly replaced the disloyal idea that he had done so now in order to make a favourable impression on Stella with the conviction that, an undemonstrative man, he wanted to display his affection in front of her friend. Throughout the evening, he was charmingly solicitous of them both, encouraged them to reminisce, to talk about the subjects that flowed naturally between them, without seeking to insert himself unnecessarily into the conversation. After insisting gallantly on helping to clear up, showing himself to be at home in Leonie’s kitchen, he took himself off, wishing Stella all the best for the remaining two days of her visit.