Out of Sight

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘Maybe. Or his wife got pregnant by another man.’

  ‘Jesus, Lennie! Stop groping about in the dark and ask him!’ When Leonie didn’t reply, Stella went on. ‘This is crazy. You have to sort this stuff out before your imagination spirals out of control altogether.’

  ‘How? I can’t just ask, please can I have your babies one day? It’s way too soon for that conversation.’

  ‘Well, you must have talked about contraception at least. How relaxed is he about that?’

  ‘It’s no secret I use a cap.’

  ‘Why can’t you just ask him why he reacted so weirdly?’

  Leonie had no answer.

  ‘Look. Call him. Right now. See him this weekend, and ask him a few questions. Nothing heavy, but get a few things straight in your own mind.’

  Leonie dared not voice her worst fear, that she wouldn’t see Patrice this weekend.

  ‘Call him,’ repeated Stella kindly. ‘If the boat’s on fire, you’re not going to put out the flames by doing nothing.’

  ‘No, I know,’ said Leonie humbly.

  ‘Call me straight back, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. Bye.’

  Taking a deep breath and instructing herself not to be ridiculous, Leonie pressed in Patrice’s number. He answered after a couple of rings.

  ‘Hello. How are you?’ He sounded guarded, but nonetheless pleased to hear from her.

  ‘Oh, had a busy week. Wondered how you are.’

  ‘Rushed off my feet. Your friend Sylviane came to see me. She’s a nice woman. Brought her granddaughter Lily.’

  ‘I’ve only met Sylviane a few times, but yes, she is nice. You know she’s Thierry’s sister?’ When he didn’t answer, she took the plunge and pressed on. ‘I was afraid you hadn’t enjoyed the evening at Gaby’s.’

  ‘I told you I’m no good at dinner parties.’

  Forcing down a rising sensation of panic, Leonie refused to acknowledge how false his cheeriness sounded. ‘Look, I was just running a bath,’ he went on. ‘Don’t want it to overflow, but see you soon.’ And he was gone.

  Rather than call Stella back, and hear her friend suggest that the burning boat might be sinking with all hands on deck, she texted her to say that she’d been unable to get hold of Patrice – a fib that would give her time tonight to sob privately into her pillow.

  On Monday morning, Gaby took one look at Leonie’s wan expression. ‘Are you all right, sweetie?’

  Leonie nodded. ‘Patrice is being a bit unavailable, that’s all.’

  Gaby frowned, shaking her head. ‘Men can be such cowards!’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m sure there’ll be some good reason. Last time I thought I might not hear from him again, everything turned out absolutely fine.’

  Gaby pursed her lips, but said no more. Inwardly, the dull monologue that had tormented Leonie all weekend went on beating its sombre drum: what if it was over, and it was her fault? She should never have made him go to Gaby’s dinner. There had been no need to shove him out of his comfort zone. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready. She had taken too much for granted. She should never have driven off afterwards like that and left him to cycle back alone. She should have gone with him. It could have been fun, bundled up against the cold, pedalling along in the dark together. No wonder he felt separated and apart. Whatever demons had been unleashed in him that evening, she had made it worse by abandoning him yet again, shutting him out like so many other people in his past.

  She cursed Josette for the toll her malign legacy was taking on Patrice; and, like a contagious disease, on her. What the hell had gone on in that family to make such a kind, sweet-natured man so evasive, so tightly hidden inside himself? Was it to do with his parents? His grandparents? What was it that he couldn’t speak to her about? How she longed to lead him out into the sunshine where he could be his best and fullest self, for she was intuitively sure it was what Patrice himself most wanted, however deeply buried that wish might be right now.

  A second week went by, and still he did not call. Almost as a penance, Leonie took to using her bicycle. Although it was often inconvenient not to drive, the physical exercise calmed her and she felt somehow closer to him whilst riding it. She barely admitted to herself the illicit hope that their paths might cross, that if he happened to spy her riding past then her use of the bicycle he’d refurbished would signal her fidelity. As the days passed, her estimation of the hurt and damage with which this good and endearing man must be grappling increased. She did not believe that his continuing silence was bad faith towards her. The image of the wild creature, fearful of human contact, came to her repeatedly.

  It was easy for Gaby or even Stella to advise her to walk away and abandon him, but they couldn’t see how Patrice was struggling. She took on board Stella’s wisdom about those adopted children for whom no amount of love and attention was ever enough to undo the abuse they had suffered, and heard Gaby’s well-intentioned warnings about why loners might be friendless, but she comprehended the difficulties of love; however hopeless their bond might look right now, she was still prepared to go the distance. She understood his need to test how far she would tolerate the necessity for caution, to be sure that he could trust her to wait patiently, and intended that, when he felt ready and able to contact her again, she would be there, as serenely as she knew how.

  At lunchtimes, saying she wanted to stretch her legs, she would refuse Gaby’s offer of hot soup and buy a baguette to eat while sitting well wrapped up on the chilly bench by the church. Rather than depressing her, the contrast of the early November vista to that July day when Patrice had first brought her here gave her courage. Love has its seasons, she reminded herself, forcing herself to swallow the crusty bread despite feeling no hunger. Regeneration is painful. Winter has to come first, a time of inwardness and hibernation. All would be well. These nearly leafless trees would measure her love while she waited for spring. July would come and they would sit here or walk by the river again. But first she had to allow him time to heal. Even to herself she sounded silly and over-romantic, but there had to be more to existence than the stuff in which Gaby and her friends around the dinner table apparently found contentment. These brief months with Patrice had made her fully human, and she refused now to settle for less than the bliss that she was lucky enough to have glimpsed with him.

  Then one day Leonie skidded on wet leaves and came off the bike, tumbling painfully and twisting her ankle in a vain attempt to prevent her face smashing into the greasy stone of the square. Her knee, hand and cheekbone were grazed and bleeding, and, unable to put any weight on her ankle, she could just about hop. People came running, solicitous and unbearably kind. Someone retrieved the bike and another person her bag and other possessions, while a woman her own age helped her into the brightly lit pharmacy where the assistant in her spotless white tunic pulled out a chair for her. Leonie wasn’t aware of crying, but the assistant handed her a box of tissues to dry her face.

  They patched her up and phoned Gaby, who came straight over and drove her to her house, where she insisted Leonie spend the night with them. In a borrowed dressing gown, her face bruised and swollen, her bandaged ankle up on a stool, Leonie felt foolish and humiliated. She felt even worse when Thierry returned home, and, through the open doorway to the hall, Leonie overheard an exchange between husband and wife.

  ‘What was she doing on a bike in such weather? Is there a problem with the car?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘No, the car’s fine.’ Gaby lowered her voice. ‘He gave her the bike. Patrice Hinde. She’s still yearning after him.’

  Leonie heard Thierry’s exasperated exclamation. ‘Surely she realises she can do better than that? All that self-dramatising he goes in for, being vegetarian and making out it’s romantic to hide away in that dilapidated old house the way he does. Just attention-seeking. Afraid he won’t shape up in the real world.’

  It brought a lump to Leonie’s throat to hear herself so championed, and she couldn’t help appreciating t
he unasked-for support.

  ‘Afraid of being ordinary, if you ask me,’ Thierry went on, evidently ignoring Gaby’s attempts to shush him. ‘Selfish, expecting everyone else to fit in around him and his faddy ideas.’

  Leonie felt a sneaking disloyalty and quickly reassured herself that even Gaby had admitted that Thierry, dear though he was, would never understand a man like Patrice.

  There was some further murmured conversation, then Thierry came into the sitting room, where, studying her with manifest concern, he greeted her fondly.

  ‘Been in the wars, I see.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Well, you stay here with us as long as you like.’

  She did her best to smile her thanks.

  ‘Let someone take proper care of you for a change. Time to put yourself first.’

  Try as she might, Leonie couldn’t stop the rising emotion. She began to sob and could not stop. Thierry sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him as he must have done many times with his own grown-up daughters. He allowed her to weep against his chest, damping his cashmere pullover with her tears. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘There, there.’

  *

  After two nights with the Duvals, Leonie insisted she would manage fine with her twisted ankle back at her own apartment. Brooking no argument, Gaby went first to the supermarket for her to stock up on provisions, then announced that until such time as Leonie could drive again she would come every morning to pick her up for work. It was on Leonie’s second evening alone at home that she answered the ringing phone expecting it to be Gaby keeping tabs on her and heard Patrice’s voice.

  ‘Hello, it’s me. I heard you’d had an accident. Sylviane told me you’ve been staying with Gaby.’

  ‘Yes. It was stupid. I fell off the bike.’

  ‘Did something go wrong? A loose pedal? A brake pad come unstuck?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I haven’t checked. It was wet and I slipped over, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you all right? I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt and it was my fault.’

  She laughed, experiencing a rush of gaiety as a weight slid off her shoulders. ‘I look a sight, but I’m not badly hurt,’ she promised him. ‘Honestly. A twisted ankle, bit of a black eye. I’ll mend.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ She could hear the rush of relief in his voice. So he did care about her! She had been right to be patient! ‘May I come and see you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, please!’

  Patrice arrived twenty-five minutes later, bringing in the autumn chill on his clothes, and sporting a bedraggled bunch of chrysanthemums and a bottle of red wine. They greeted one another lightly with a kiss on the lips, laughing as she hopped about trying to hold the flowers while closing the door behind him. They went into the tiny kitchen, where she sat at the counter so he could open the wine, remembering without hesitation where to find the glasses and corkscrew.

  Rather shyly he also produced several small phials which he placed in front of her. ‘I’ve brought some remedies for you. Arnica, obviously, though you should really have had that straight away. And Calendula cream. This is Bellis Perennis, and also Hypericum, though they may not be necessary.’

  Leonie was touched. ‘Thank you. I’m sure they’ll help, since they come from you.’ She leant over and tugged his sleeve, pulling him to her to offer a thank-you kiss. He came diligently, without resistance, but barely returned the kiss.

  ‘Put the Calendula on your grazes,’ he said, lightly touching the side of her nose. ‘Hypericum is in case any nerves were squashed or compressed, but you may not need it. And Bellis Perennis will help the muscles and deep tissues. Though Arnica is really the best, even for your ankle. I couldn’t be sure what to prescribe ’til I’d seen you.’

  As he spoke, she only half-listened; all she really wanted was to drink in his familiar presence, to gaze at his beloved features – his rather too-thin lips, the lines around his eyes, the soft skin of his neck above the shirt collar and the smooth forearms and square, capable hands revealed by his rolled-back sleeves – hands that had touched and held her with such delight.

  ‘Looking at you, I think maybe just Arnica and Calendula,’ he finished earnestly.

  She smiled gratefully, floating on the cloud of his concern. ‘I’ve missed you,’ was all she said.

  He nodded, serious, not meeting her eyes. ‘I’m glad the bike wasn’t at fault. I’ll check it over before you ride it again.’

  Again she smiled her thanks, asking, ‘Have you been all right?’

  He bit at his lip, but seemed reassured by what he read in her tone. ‘I needed a bit of time to myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She laughed happily.

  ‘You can ask me anything,’ he said in a rush. ‘If there’s anything you want to know about me, I will tell you.’

  Leonie was slightly taken aback. His breathing was shallow, his expression sincere. In his face she read an appeal for forgiveness that made little sense to her. ‘I will,’ she answered. ‘Though I can’t imagine there’s anything vital I need to ask right now. Is there?’

  He stepped closer, took her bruised face between his hands and kissed her. It was wonderful to feel his lips again, to have his hands touch her skin, his tongue search out hers. She slipped off the kitchen stool and, balancing on one foot, pressed herself against him. He groaned, and, his mouth still on hers, bent himself away from her so he could reach to unfasten her jeans. Awkwardly, she tried to unzip him, but fell against him, laughing.

  Patrice had never been so urgent in pursuit, as if he could not wait for the feel of his flesh and bones against hers. He made love to her with a trance-like, slow insistence, pausing to gaze at her breasts, her limbs, even her toes, on and on throughout the night, as if he had returned from a long journey and could not believe that he was here beside her once more. Leonie was entranced, more in love than she had ever felt it possible to be. At last they rolled apart and fell seamlessly into sleep.

  She awoke in darkness and confusion. Patrice was struggling with the sheets, calling, beseeching, wailing. As her own dream world dropped away, she realised he was having a nightmare. She shook him awake, and the dreadful keening sound he was making stopped, though it was several minutes before he became aware of his real surroundings. He refused her offer of a hot drink, didn’t want her to turn on the light, or read a book to him for a little while. Instead, turning his back on her, he curled into a ball, his head in his hands, and pretended to be asleep. She lay mutely beside him, stroking his hunched shoulder, wishing she knew what could cause him such distress.

  Patrice went off in the morning, jaunty and crowing, apparently with no memory whatsoever of her waking him from a nightmare. Later, when Leonie was at the office, absently stirring a mug of coffee while secretly savouring the still lingering physical sensations of the night before, she recalled with a pang of guilt – accompanied by soaring hope – that she had never given a moment’s thought to any contraceptive precautions.

  V

  Leonie felt her conscience scratching as she rang Stella to let her know that she wouldn’t be coming to England for Christmas as they had planned. ‘It’s Patrice’s fortieth birthday a couple of weeks beforehand,’ she explained. ‘I’m trying to persuade him to celebrate, so, if we have a party, maybe you’ll come over here instead?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Stella, a little stiffly. ‘Though it’s not easy to get the extra time off around Christmas. We get a wee bit busy, with everyone’s dreams of reuniting long-lost family.’

  ‘Well, he’s yet to give in and agree to anything, so I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You don’t really mind, do you, if I don’t come to London?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘I guess I can make other plans.’

  ‘I’m sorry to let you down. But do see if you can get the time off to come here. You know how much I’d love to see you.’

  ‘You sound happy,’ sa
id Stella neutrally.

  ‘I am. Things have really shifted between us. He seems, I don’t know, lighter, somehow. We’re clearing one of the other bedrooms, getting a new mattress for the bed in there.’ Leonie chatted on, instinctively offering Stella time to recover from, and forgive, her offence. ‘He’s said he wants us to spend Christmas together. He’s had the chimney swept in the salon and we’ve started having log fires.’

  ‘How nauseating.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  Stella laughed more naturally. ‘You bet!’

  Leonie was relieved. ‘Good! Speak soon.’

  ‘Bye. Oh, Lennie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I really am happy for you. You know that.’

  Leonie hung up the phone, smiling to herself – she had never known Stella be ungenerous or unfair – and went to empty the washing machine. It was one of her increasingly rare evenings at home in her apartment. Over the past two or three weeks she had spent four or five nights a week at Patrice’s house. It had begun with him wanting to take care of her while her ankle was still sore, and had now slipped into a routine.

  Though he remained stubborn about all sorts of things – probably always would – their relationship had become far more teasing and pliable, and she felt more relaxed in his company. He continued to resist her hints about throwing a birthday party, however small, but, unprompted, he revived her suggestion of colonising a spare bedroom to give themselves more space, and ordered the new mattress after discovering that long-dead mice had nested in the existing one.

  Sometimes, retrieving forgotten objects from bookshelves or cupboards, he told her snippets about his childhood. Taking him at his word, she asked many more questions about the past, which he was usually happy to answer, and eventually she confessed how she’d questioned Gaby and Thierry about anything they’d heard as children that might shed more light on the fate of Patrice’s grandfather. Far from minding, Patrice had been curious to know more about a subject which, as he told her, his mother had rarely discussed and in any case appeared to know as little about as he did.