Out of Sight

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘It’s the pathetic ones you need to watch,’ warned Philippe.

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ protested Patrice to Leonie.

  ‘I did mention the postcards. And I’m sure he’s harmless.’

  ‘You should take it seriously, Patrice,’ admonished Philippe. ‘Nothing more dangerous than an inadequate man.’

  Patrice glared at Leonie’s self-appointed champion before turning to her. ‘These were the views of the Lake District?’ he demanded.

  She nodded, rather flattered by Patrice’s prickliness. ‘He sends two or three cards a week. Quotes bits of Wordsworth, or Wainwright. Could hardly be less sinister. And he’s safely back in Yorkshire now.’

  ‘Mid-life crisis,’ decided Sylviane, and all the women agreed.

  ‘Let’s eat!’ announced Gaby.

  As they all rose to go through to the dining room, Leonie linked her arm through Patrice’s. She could feel his muscles clenched and hard through the sleeve of his jacket, and he looked straight ahead, avoiding any physical contact with Philippe as they went through the door. It struck Leonie that, like an angry, fearful dog, its hair bristling along its back, he too expressed his vulnerability physically.

  Gaby served smoked fish as an hors d’oeuvre, then roast partridge: Thierry, Leonie knew, regarded any meal without meat as a snack. Without comment, Gaby handed Patrice a dish of large and succulent cèpes in place of the game, passing him the other vegetables in turn. Philippe leant forward across the table to peer at Patrice’s plate, then turned away with a dismissive laugh, saying nothing. Leonie saw Patrice’s jaw tighten. She had not met Philippe before this evening, and she was beginning to dislike him intensely. She looked around the table. Thierry, Jean-Paul and Philippe were discussing the wine, a good Crozes-Hermitage purchased on a past tasting trip to the region – evidently a regular event shared and enjoyed by the three men. They made no attempt to include Patrice, who in any case was listening sympathetically to Sylviane’s tale of her granddaughter’s eczema, and suggesting she bring the girl to him for a homeopathic consultation.

  As Leonie agreed idly with Gaby and Catherine’s complaints about new parking restrictions around the market square, she found herself speculating about the three couples. She looked at Thierry, Jean-Paul and Philippe, noting the dry grey hairs sprouting from their ears and nostrils, their balding skulls and the sagging skin of their necks, and couldn’t imagine any one of them making love to their wives. Granted they were all a generation older, but she pitied them their passionless existences. Sunk in their companionable habits, she doubted whether they had ever comprehended the knife-like ecstasies that awaited her and Patrice later that night. At that very second, Patrice caught her eye, and she had to stop herself laughing aloud.

  As if he read her mind, his eyes narrowed as they did when he was aroused, and involuntarily she inhaled sharply. Distracted from her conversation, Gaby glanced over to check she was all right, and Leonie had to nod reassuringly and sip at her water to disguise the erotic images writhing inside her head. She caught a glimpse of Patrice over the glass, but he was talking once again with Sylviane. Leonie watched the older woman warming in unconscious response to his raised level of desire, and thought to herself hilariously, ‘If you only knew!’ She glowed with satisfaction at being the woman who – alive, full, trusted – Patrice had chosen as his lover, taking pleasure in the possession of such an identity.

  Over the cheese, Leonie overheard Catherine talking to Patrice again about his grandmother, and endeavoured to listen in as Catherine asked what his childhood with Josette had been like.

  ‘It didn’t help that my mother had abandoned her by marrying a foreigner,’ he replied. ‘And Agnès giving me her dead father’s name was a reminder of Josette’s earlier loss, as well.’

  ‘Yes, that was hard. And of course it all meant that Agnès was far too close to her mother, growing up.’

  Patrice nodded. ‘I expect that’s partly why Josette could never allow herself any real affection for me – in case she lost me, too. Which of course meant I never offered her any.’

  ‘Such a shame.’

  ‘Yes. She could be rather cold, but I do believe it wasn’t really a lack of emotion, just that she’d battened it all down so tightly. She can’t have been entirely without feeling.’

  ‘Not much comfort to you!’

  ‘She wasn’t able to offer a child much in the way of sympathy, but at least she was consistent. I appreciated that.’ He toyed with the crumbled cheese biscuit on his plate. ‘My parents moved around a lot.’

  Patrice’s arm rested on the table, his fingers touching the stem of his glass. Catherine reached out to pat his hand in friendly concern. Surprised by her touch, he jerked, knocking over the glass and spilling the wine. In the small commotion that followed – apologies, mopping up, refilling his glass – he looked over at Leonie, casting his eyes to heaven and shaking his head in self-mockery. She hoped her return gaze was eloquent of the love she felt for him, and was glad when he smiled back and, his shoulders dropping, seemed to relax a little.

  Suddenly the door-handle rattled and a child’s voice called out from the hallway. Gaby looked indulgently to Thierry, who got to his feet and went to open the door.

  ‘Our grandson. He’s sleeping here tonight to save our daughter a babysitter,’ Gaby explained. ‘He’s learnt how to climb over the side-bar we put up.’

  Thierry came back with the little boy cradled in his arms.

  ‘Didier! You should be asleep!’ Gaby reached up and tickled her fingers against the toddler’s rounded, sleepy body. Didier nestled down further into his grandfather’s embrace while covertly surveying the up-turned faces, shrewdly judging the limits of their fondness.

  ‘You have a son, don’t you?’

  Leonie looked around in confusion, then perceived with amazement that Catherine had addressed Patrice. ‘Me?’ He was wide-eyed, taken aback.

  ‘I was sure Agnès had written to tell me you’d had a baby, a little boy.’

  ‘I have no children.’ Patrice’s eyes flickered wildly towards the door.

  ‘Oh, my mistake. Excuse me. All our friends are so busy acquiring grandchildren these days, that I probably muddled up the messages in the Christmas cards.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave it too late,’ murmured Philippe. Though Leonie assumed that Philippe meant well, Patrice stared at him murderously.

  Didier held out his arms for Gaby, and Thierry set him down carefully on his feet. The pyjama-clad little figure lurched towards his grandmother, but landed up beside Patrice where, to keep his balance, he gripped Patrice’s thigh and held on tight, looking up into his face. Patrice froze, his nostrils flaring in distress, but everyone was concentrating on the child, laughing as Thierry scooped him back up.

  ‘Come along, little man, you don’t belong here,’ he joked. Didier, recognising defeat, put his thumb in his mouth, drawing exclamations from the women on his adorableness. ‘Let’s get you out of here right now!’

  Only then did Leonie notice how pale and clammy Patrice had become. He blanked her look, concentrating on getting his breathing back under control. She felt horribly afraid, but of what she couldn’t say.

  As Thierry went off with Didier, the party took the opportunity to break up. For the next ten minutes, the guests clustered in the hall waiting for Thierry to come downstairs so they could say goodnight to their host. As the women fetched handbags, wraps and coats, the men dug in their pockets for car keys, and thanks, kisses and promises to meet again soon were exchanged. Patrice managed to evade all eye-contact. Leonie worked her way around to stand beside him. Gingerly she stroked his arm. He turned to her and she was shocked by how his eyes were exhausted, drained, the eyes of a dead man.

  Outside in the dark, she was glad to find that her car had been blocked in by the other two. As if by tacit agreement, Patrice lingered beside her, going to retrieve his bike only once the others had driven off.

  ‘Are you sure you do
n’t want to come with me?’ she asked gently. ‘You don’t look well.’

  He shook his head, made sure his lights were working, and mounted the saddle.

  ‘You’ll come to my apartment?’

  ‘I don’t want you to have to wait up.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘If you’re sure you want me.’

  He looked so lost and dejected that she summoned up all her courage. ‘Patrice, do you have a son?’

  He was leaning forward, fiddling with the flickering front light, and she couldn’t make out whether he had heard her or not.

  ‘You don’t have children, do you?’ she repeated.

  He straightened up, and shook his head. ‘Before we married, Belinda always said she didn’t want to give up her work.’ He met her gaze quite calmly. ‘She’s a musician. It means a lot to her.’

  Leonie was flooded with relief. Her fear earlier at the table, that he had failed to tell her something so important, her terror that she might not know this man at all, melted away. He leant over and touched his lips to hers.

  ‘See you later.’

  He cycled away, and when her headlights picked him up later on the road, he raised a hand and waved as she drove past.

  It was five o’clock the following afternoon before she heard from him. He rang to say that he’d had a puncture and by the time he’d managed to mend it in the dark it had been too late to come to her apartment. He was tired, he said, and would see her later in the week.

  IV

  Leonie approached the office on Monday morning well aware that Gaby would be anticipating a full debrief on Saturday’s party. Even full-throttle, Gaby was seldom malicious, and in the past, whenever Leonie had socialised with her employer, she had thoroughly enjoyed these after-sessions. While part of her dreaded hearing Gaby’s observations on Patrice, she was also much in need of illumination. His failure to turn up, or even to call until so late on Sunday, had left her hurt and on edge, and she desperately wanted a trusted opinion to contribute answers to her questions about his behaviour.

  Usually in late October, with the new booking season open, there was not much leisure to chat, but this morning Gaby arrived ten minutes late bearing pains au chocolat, a sure sign that they would relax over their first coffee of the day. Gaby’s immediate verdict on Patrice was positive: ‘Gorgeous! Rather unusual, and I imagine pretty strong-minded, but a very beguiling man.’

  Leonie was relieved; reassured that, fundamentally, Gaby approved, she could afford to reveal some of her own current reservations. ‘What did Thierry make of him?’ she asked. ‘I realised on Saturday night how I’d never really seen Patrice in male company before.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with not being a man’s man. After all, a lot of men don’t actually like women. Certainly don’t always understand them! Can’t say I’d want Philippe as a husband, would you?’ she laughed. ‘Allows for why Catherine was so taken with Patrice! Much better to find a man who enjoys women.’

  Leonie relaxed a little more. ‘Patrice seemed to get on well with Sylviane, too.’

  ‘Yes. She’s taking little Lily to see him. Terrible eczema. Sylviane is convinced it’s food-related. So what did he say about all of us?’

  ‘Delighted by the evening. He’s sending you a note.’

  ‘Oh, I do like a man who writes his own thank-you letters! And maybe we’ll see more of him, now that he’s broken the ice.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Leonie wasn’t ready to face the leaden realisation that Patrice was unlikely ever again to accompany her socially. Wanting to escape having to explain her solitary Sunday, she ate the last of her pastry, reached for the plates and carried them through to the kitchenette. Safely out of Gaby’s line of sight, she called through the door, ‘Did Catherine say anything else?’

  ‘She did, sweetie.’

  Rinsing the plates, Leonie expected Gaby to continue as soon as she had turned off the noisy tap, but Gaby waited for her to come back and sit down. Their desks faced one another, computer screens back-to-back, and Leonie couldn’t avoid her serious expression.

  Gaby licked her lips before continuing. ‘Sweetie, Catherine says she really is pretty sure that Agnès did write to say that Patrice was married and had a son. Must have been a year or so before Madame Broyard’s death.’

  Leonie breathed again. ‘Oh, no. I asked him about that, and he never had children. Said his wife didn’t want them.’

  ‘But Catherine couldn’t fathom how else she’d have known he’d been married.’

  ‘Just because he was married doesn’t necessarily mean that Catherine knew he was married, if you get what I mean. She could still have muddled up the messages in her Christmas cards. I bet she gets loads.’

  Gaby nodded, but didn’t try to hide her lingering concern.

  ‘Why should he lie about having a son?’ persisted Leonie, laughing. ‘If he were going to lie about something, surely it would be about having an ex-wife? And he’s never tried to make a secret of that.’

  Gaby was still not convinced. ‘People lie for the most trivial reasons. Maybe it was an acrimonious divorce, and he doesn’t get to see the boy. Hurt pride.’

  ‘But look how freely he talked about his parents, and Josette. He’s always been perfectly candid about his past. Just—’ As Leonie searched for the appropriate word, she caught an uncomfortable glint of scrutiny in Gaby’s expression. ‘He’s private. And shy. That’s all.’

  Gaby shook her head, but backed off a little. ‘Well, I have to say that Thierry wasn’t a hundred per cent sure about him, either. But then any man who refuses to eat meat is always going to be a bit suspect in Thierry’s book!’

  Leonie was disappointed. She had wanted to discover whether Gaby had noticed Patrice’s odd reaction to little Didier’s appearance at the end of the evening and, if so, what she’d made of it. But Gaby’s residual resistance – her perhaps understandable solidarity with her own circle of friends – left Leonie unable to raise the subject. She decided to let it go. She had probably been a bit overwrought and imagined Patrice’s extreme tension. No one else appeared to have witnessed it and, for all she knew, it had been indigestion, and she was merely being over-sensitive about his attitude to children because she so wanted a child herself. She had asked him outright if he had a son, and he’d told her the truth, of that she was certain. Reminding herself to be more careful about projecting her own issues onto other people, she settled down to work.

  By the middle of the week, Patrice had still not phoned. At first Leonie took an almost warped pleasure in the novelty of being irritated by his wilfulness. It was a luxury to have a man to grumble about; it proved that their relationship was sufficiently taken for granted between them to admit the existence of minor faults. But as another evening passed in silence, and then another, her bravado trickled away. Late on Friday she called Stella.

  ‘Oh, Lennie. No one’s such a sensitive flower that they can’t go to a simple dinner party without freaking out,’ said Stella. ‘And Gaby’s so nice, I can’t believe she can have done anything dreadful to upset him.’

  ‘No, I know.’

  ‘Did anything happen?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘So why put up with this kind of behaviour? Is it worth it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Okay, so what’s going on with him?’

  ‘I was thinking … about his grandfather.’

  ‘His grandfather! Oh, for chrissakes, Lennie, there are many reasons a man fails to call, but a grandfather he never even knew is not one of them!’

  ‘No, listen. Because we’re English, we forget that the war was different here. This is a small community. The Duvals and their friends all grew up here, most of their grandparents, too.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what if Josette had known or suspected who it was in Riberac who shot her husband? Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t let Patrice play with other kids; or give his mother
much freedom either, by all accounts.’

  ‘You’re suggesting Patrice might believe that some relation of Gaby’s was a collaborator who shot his grandfather for being in the Resistance?’

  ‘I don’t necessarily mean someone in Gaby’s family, but someone in the town. Or maybe the shooting was revenge for something else, a settling of old scores. But Patrice definitely seems to think there was some mystery.’

  ‘If that were so, then why would Josette have chosen to stay put?’

  ‘What would’ve been different in the next town? Plus she was heavily pregnant.’

  ‘No reason why Patrice had to return to live and work there, though.’

  ‘True.’ Leonie fell silent.

  ‘And even if the past was that complicated, it all happened years ago, so why couldn’t he talk about it at dinner?’

  ‘I just thought maybe it would explain why he was so antsy that night, why he doesn’t mix.’

  ‘Okay, let’s say you’re right,’ said Stella even-handedly. ‘France was in chaos at the end of the Occupation, and all kinds of private vendettas must’ve been played out. Makes a great story but that’s not what’s going on here, is it?’

  Leonie sighed. ‘No. I guess not.’ The silence filled itself as Stella waited for her to say what was on her mind. ‘What if he seriously doesn’t like kids?’

  ‘Then that’s a tough one. Bit of a deal-breaker for you, I imagine.’

  ‘Gaby’s grandson came in while we were eating, and Patrice’s reaction was really strange. I’m afraid it’s a major part of why he’s not called me yet.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Nothing to tell. He just – didn’t want to be there. But he said it was his wife who never wanted children.’

  ‘So maybe it’s something else. Maybe she had an abortion? Maybe that’s what split them up? That she denied him a child?’ suggested Stella.

  ‘Maybe. But he told me before that he let her down. What would that mean?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I wonder if there was another woman involved.’

  ‘Someone he’s not told you about?’