Out of Sight

by Isabelle Grey

  After a lingering farewell kiss, Leonie watched him cycle away then returned to grin at Stella. ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s certainly intriguing. And very beautiful – I can understand why you’re so hooked!’

  Leonie waited for more. Stella licked her lips. ‘He’s pretty self-possessed, isn’t he?’

  ‘He knows his own mind,’ she agreed. ‘It’s one of the things I love about him. If he doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t do it. You always know exactly where you are with him.’

  ‘Off on your bikes together?’ Stella teased.

  ‘It’s fun!’

  ‘Making vegetarian food?’

  ‘He’s very principled. I still eat meat.’

  ‘And since when did you start buying into homeopathy?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s serious science, but I reckon there’s a role for it. Even if it is just a placebo effect.’

  ‘You’re really besotted, aren’t you?’

  Leonie tried to laugh but she couldn’t help being offended by Stella’s lack of faith. ‘Patrice is a good man. He helps people because of who he is, not necessarily because of what he does. That’s what alternative medicine is all about, isn’t it? Treating the whole person, not only the disease.’

  ‘But why does that mean he has to denounce hospital medicine? What’s “allopathy” when it’s at home?’ Stella saw she’d gone too far. ‘Sorry, Lennie.’ She went to give her a hug, which Leonie halfheartedly returned. ‘Go on, fill me in. What’s the rest of his story?’

  ‘I told you. He spent quite a bit of his childhood here, and came back when his grandmother died, after his marriage broke up.’

  ‘He’s a Euro-brat, right? If his folks were multinationals.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

  ‘What about his other exes?’

  ‘He’s only mentioned his ex-wife.’

  ‘But there must have been other relationships. He hasn’t been on his own all this time, surely?’

  ‘He’s never really said.’ Leonie blanked Stella’s look of disbelief.

  ‘So what happened to the marriage?’

  ‘I think there was someone else. Didn’t last long, anyhow.’

  ‘You’ve Googled him, obviously.’

  ‘No! Why would I?’

  ‘You’re kidding? Come on, let’s do it now.’ Stella went and lifted the lid of Leonie’s laptop, sitting down in front of it.

  Leonie didn’t move. ‘Don’t, Stella. Please. It’d be like I don’t trust him or something.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Everybody does it.’ Stella was already typing in Patrice’s name. ‘We’re not hacking into his private stuff. Just a little innocent cyber-stalking, that’s all. I’ve got good at this in the new job.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it? You do trust him, don’t you?’

  ‘He’d hate it.’ Leonie tried to make a joke of it. ‘He’s hardly going to be on Facebook, is he?’

  Stella looked at her seriously. ‘Lennie, if you’re afraid you’ll find something, that’s all the more reason to look.’

  Leonie relaxed. She had no fear of any terrible secret being revealed, and she could accept that her friend was merely looking out for her. ‘I’m not afraid of anything. I’d just rather he told me about himself in his own way, in his own time, that’s all. I don’t need to have read every line of his CV to understand who he is.’

  Stella remained sceptical. ‘How much does he ask about you? I mean, I don’t care whether or not he’s curious about me, but I imagined he might’ve been a bit more interested because through me he finds out about you.’

  Leonie conceded: ‘Okay. I did mind at first that he didn’t ask more questions, but now I like it this way. He’s very instinctive, and there’s no rush. I know where I am with him. And it’s good sometimes not to have to dredge up the past.’

  ‘So long as he cares about you, cares about what you want.’ Stella closed the computer unwillingly.

  ‘He’ll move at his own pace. My theory is that it’s from when he was a kid, packed off to boarding school or to stay with his grandmother. She sounds like a real refrigerator type. Left him a bit closed up. If anyone gets what that must’ve been like for a child, you should.’

  ‘Sure I do. And look what happened to some of the kids I had to deal with.’

  ‘He needs to take his time, that’s all.’

  ‘Damaged goods aren’t always happy ever after.’

  ‘But what about those who do get past their fear of being abandoned again?’

  ‘Well, okay …’ Stella didn’t hide her misgivings. ‘But don’t be too patient. Remember, you have your own stuff that’ll come seeping out between the cracks the minute you really let yourself be vulnerable. You need someone capable of being there for you, too.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. And it is scary. But what’s wrong with being scared? I’d rather feel too much, and risk getting hurt, than not feel anything.’ She laughed at herself. ‘Oh, Heathcliff! We were taught at school that love is bigger than any of us. And I swallowed it, hook, line and sinker.’ When Stella remained concerned, she reassured her. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’m over Greg, and I feel alive again. That’s what counts, surely?’

  Stella gave Leonie’s arm an affectionate rub. ‘I do like Patrice. What’s not to like about a man who brings flowers?’ she joked. ‘And if anyone can nurture a rescue dog and be rewarded with loyalty and devotion, it’ll be you!’

  At the airport two days later, as they hugged goodbye, Stella whispered into Leonie’s ear, ‘I have no idea how you can bear to go through all that pain and ecstasy again, but I’m bloody envious!’

  After Stella’s departure, Leonie tried to explain to herself her weepy exhaustion; to rationalise the instant, wild compulsion to run after the retreating figure of her oldest friend, climb onto the plane with her and go home. Why this sudden powerful urge to turn her back on her full and pleasant life here, to run away from further entanglement with Patrice? He had done nothing to provoke such a need to escape. It must be, as Stella said, that falling in love had left her raw and exposed in a way she hadn’t been for years – perhaps had never been, given how young and unformed she was when she met Greg. Maybe it was that Stella had brought with her some fleeting sense of comfort and safety that had disappeared again the moment she went through passport control.

  With a jolt, Leonie asked herself whether this meant that she had no such sense of comfort or safety with Patrice? In answer to the question, she had reluctantly to admit that she did not. But, she told herself, they were still new to one another. And besides, there must surely be mutual trust, or how could they be so wonderfully physically intimate? No; all that was actually at risk was her familiar comfort zone, and that she’d gladly lose. After all, if she was too much of a coward to dive into uncharted waters, what was the point of living? She might as well give up now.

  When Leonie returned to the office after her long weekend break, Gaby repeated an invitation to bring Patrice to dinner. It was an idea Gaby had floated several times before, but she had always tactfully retreated when Leonie made vague excuses. This time Leonie accepted. She had let herself become too accommodating to Patrice’s foibles: if she was to regain her equilibrium, she must be a little more pro-active about winkling him out of his shell.

  She resolved to ask him to Gaby’s dinner face to face, rather than on the phone. To fortify her confidence and calm her agitation, she showered, washed her hair and dressed with care before going over to his house. Even then she waited until they sat down with plates of steaming pasta puttanesca before telling him of her employer’s invitation.

  ‘Would I like her?’ he asked. ‘You said no one moves around here without Gaby knowing, right?’

  ‘I’ve told you lots about her,’ protested Leonie.

  ‘Doesn’t sound my type, I have to say.’ Though he spoke lightly, she glimpsed in his eyes the bright blue implacability behind his wor
ds.

  ‘It would mean a lot to me if you came.’

  ‘I’m no good at dinner parties.’

  Leonie perceived that this was a hurdle that would have to be jumped if she were to escape getting somehow mired into a submissiveness she did not believe he truly intended. It was a test for both of them. She had to be sure that, in respecting his reticence, she didn’t deny him opportunities to do things for the sole reason that they mattered to her, that she mattered to him.

  ‘Well, if you won’t come, then don’t go asking me to slink over here into bed with you afterwards,’ she said, aiming to sound light-hearted.

  He laughed a little guiltily. Normally she would have backed straight off rather than discomfit him, but she kept her promise to herself and persevered. ‘Please come. For me?’

  He looked at her in surprise, but picked up the pleading in her eyes. ‘Okay. So long as it doesn’t become a regular fixture.’

  Reassured and emboldened by this success, once they had turned out the lights and gone upstairs she tackled him about the other change she wished to make.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible for us to move into a room with a bigger bed?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep in Josette’s bed. Way too spooky.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be hers, but this is far too small for the two of us. The one in the spare room is twice the size.’

  ‘A slight exaggeration.’ He had his back to her, unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘I could help you renovate one of the other bedrooms.’

  ‘Finishing the hall will take a while yet.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Come here.’

  He turned to her, cupped her face in both his hands, fastened his lips on hers, and walked her backwards onto the bed. He was tender and thoughtful, his mouth roving her skin, but though she surrendered, the rebellious notion persisted that this sensuous kissing and stroking was to stop her asking anything else of him. Was to shut her up.

  Leonie had butterflies about Gaby’s dinner all day. Patrice had made it plain soon afterwards that he regretted his acceptance, and dropped heavy hints that he expected Leonie to let him off the hook. With an effort, she had resisted. Then there was the issue of how to get there. Gaby and Thierry lived a few miles outside the centre of town and Leonie had no intention of cycling there and back in the dark this late in the year, especially not when all dressed up for an evening out. But Patrice refused, as she expected, to go in her car. She couldn’t help being annoyed that they would have to arrive separately: how could it hurt the planet if, for once, he were a passenger in a car that was making the journey anyway? But there was no point arguing against his ecological integrity, he was too stubborn. And so, aware of the awkwardness if he were to get there before her, not knowing anyone, she would have to make sure she arrived first – and then have the anxiety of wondering whether he’d find the house, how edgy he’d be when he did turn up, whether he’d come at all …

  A woman as overtly prying and curious as Gaby was easy to misjudge: from the moment Leonie entered the Duvals’ house, her boss was full of discreet solicitude and encouragement, and Leonie blessed her for her kindness and tact. Leonie was fond of Thierry, too, a small, wiry man, every bit as shrewd as his wife and full of an energy that was generally, and instinctively, directed at assisting others. Leonie greeted his sister Sylviane and her husband, Jean-Paul, whom she had met before, but her heart sank when Gaby introduced Sylviane’s school friend Catherine and her husband Philippe, reminding her that it was Catherine who had for a long time remained in touch with Patrice’s mother, Agnès Hinde.

  ‘Gaby told me she has Alzheimer’s,’ said Catherine. ‘So very sad. All the same, it’ll be good to hear news of her. I hadn’t realised Patrice was living here again until Sylviane explained who he was.’

  The door bell chimed. ‘That’ll be him,’ announced Gaby. Leonie made haste to follow Thierry out to the hall so she could make the introductions between Patrice and his host, and perhaps manage a private word to warn Patrice about Catherine’s link to his mother. Only now did she realise, too late, how it would be sickeningly revealed that she and Gaby had been discussing him behind his back. As Thierry took Patrice’s coat and turned away to hang it in the hall closet, she held his arm. He looked down at her. ‘No need to look so scared. I said I’d come!’

  She had no chance to say anything before Thierry ushered them into the drawing room, made the necessary introductions and gave Patrice a drink. As everyone sat down on low grey sofas around a glass coffee table, Sylviane helped herself to a morsel of Melba toast dotted with foie gras.

  ‘Mmm, delicious. What a treat!’ She pushed the plate towards Patrice.

  Leonie had forewarned Gaby that Patrice was vegetarian, and now sharp-eyed Gaby was there before her, proffering a dish of olives so that he could decide for himself whether to declare his principles. With a conspiratorial smile at his hostess, he silently accepted an olive. Leonie saw from Gaby’s response that, far from scrutinising him for potential flaws, Gaby was ready to be charmed by his courteous reserve. Relaxing enough to pay attention, Leonie noted that Patrice had dressed with care, and was lankily elegant in black jeans with a black linen jacket and a soft green shirt he had not worn before. She began to feel a little less discouraged about the evening.

  ‘So you’re Agnès’ son,’ Catherine addressed him. ‘You won’t remember me, but I knew you as a little boy. Sylviane and I were both at school with your mother.’

  ‘Though she and I lost touch long ago,’ added Sylviane.

  ‘But I do remember,’ laughed Patrice. ‘I taught your son to play cricket, which, as I recall, he turned out to be rather too good at. And you used to feed us bread with delicious home-made plum jam.’

  Catherine was delighted. ‘Fancy you remembering that! I’d completely forgotten, though I still make jam. I must give you a jar.’

  ‘Please do!’

  ‘Now, tell me, how is your mother?’ asked Catherine.

  Leonie silently thanked her for not blundering in with illicitly obtained information and reminded herself to have greater confidence in these women’s social finesse, essential to the maintenance of harmony over lifetimes in a small provincial town.

  ‘I saw her at your grandmother’s funeral, but since then—’ Catherine ended with a polite Gallic shrug.

  ‘She’s not been well, I’m afraid,’ answered Patrice. ‘They say it’s not Alzheimer’s, but … did you see much of her in recent years?’ His expression as he awaited the reply held a curious watchfulness.

  ‘Yes. Whenever she visited her mother, we’d meet. Except the summer just before Madame Broyard’s death she didn’t come – or didn’t tell me if she did, anyway – and the year before that, I was away; my daughter was unwell and I had to look after the children.’

  Patrice nodded. ‘Then you’re aware of how anxious she could become,’ he said quietly. ‘Now it’s overwhelmed her, I’m afraid.’

  Leonie thought he looked as sad and bleak as she had ever seen him, and her heart went out to him.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Catherine. ‘We always wrote, and sent birthday and Christmas cards. But these last years, nothing. You must give me her address. I’d hate Agnès to think I’d forgotten her.’

  ‘She’s in a nursing home. I’ll write it down for you.’

  ‘That would be kind.’

  ‘She’s unlikely to reply, I’m afraid. It’s a while since she was able to write a letter.’

  ‘All the same. Such a sweet woman. I’ve always been very fond of her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrice. ‘Very loving. She tried so hard to be brave. And who knows, hearing from you may bring back happier times.’

  ‘Tough on your father, too, I imagine,’ put in Philippe.

  ‘Well, of course,’ agreed Sylviane. ‘Both your parents are still young. Only sixty-five, the same as us.’ She made a little moue at Patrice and Leonie. ‘Though that might not appear so young to y
ou!’

  Patrice laughed chivalrously.

  ‘Agnès usually came alone to visit her mother,’ Catherine probed, clearly hoping he might shed light upon his parents’ marriage.

  Patrice responded with a fixed smile – from which Leonie concluded he had been quizzed on this topic more often than he liked – before saying, ‘Dad never had an easy time. I suppose poor Maman was nervous right from the womb. Josette was eight months pregnant when her husband was shot dead, remember?’

  ‘Oh, too far back for me!’ laughed Catherine. ‘But in recent years, I think I only saw Geoffrey when he came for the funeral.’

  ‘He gets along as best he can.’ Patrice was sitting upright on the low sofa, his hands flexed and rigid on his thighs. ‘It’s not his fault. Nothing is his fault.’

  ‘Leonie, I hope you’ve not had any more trouble from that strange client?’ Thierry diverted the conversation. Even as Leonie turned away to answer, she could still detect Patrice’s heart hammering in his chest. Whatever had happened in the past was still very much with him now.

  ‘Actually, another postcard arrived yesterday,’ she told Thierry.

  ‘At the office? He doesn’t have your home address?’ He was sharp with concern.

  ‘No, no. Though he did his best to trap me into revealing it.’

  ‘Well, we’ll never accept another booking from him,’ said Gaby. ‘And I’ve requested other agencies that cover the area to do the same.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jean-Paul.

  ‘A client got rather obsessed with Leonie,’ explained Gaby. ‘Turned into a bit of a stalker. Father of five, wife a dowdy little mouse.’

  ‘Horrid for you!’ said Catherine.

  ‘Just a sad little man. It’s fine.’