‘Would you like to come in for a cuppa?’ suggested Pete. ‘Seeing as all four of us are in the same place at the same time?’
‘I’ll just check my post, and then, yes, why not,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got half an hour before I need to think about making Lila’s dinner.’ Unlocking my letterbox, I winced as I caught sight of an envelope marked Electricité de France. Pete didn’t seem to be enchanted with the contents of his letterbox either. One letter, addressed to him in loopy French handwriting, appeared to be so unwelcome that he dropped it – as though it had burned his fingertips – and slammed the metal door closed, leaving it trapped inside.
It never ceased to amaze me how different two apartments within the same building could look, and Pete’s was no exception to this rule. Whereas mine and Lila’s had been recently renovated by its owner, who had opted for the white walls and varnished oak floorboards so typical of Parisian rentals, Pete’s home was like the apartment time forgot. ‘I gather it belonged to an old dear who was living in a nursing home,’ Pete explained when he caught me staring at the orange and brown patterned wallpaper in the hallway. ‘I know it could do with some work, but I’m renting, so I don’t really see the point of redecorating at my own expense.’
‘Well,’ I said, scrabbling around for something positive to say, ‘I hear wallpaper with seventies motifs is making a comeback at the moment.’ But stepping through into the next room, I did a double take: I hadn’t realized Pete’s place was a studio. The single room – which obviously served as bedroom, living room and dining room – was starved of natural light and pitifully furnished. There was a futon, a coffee table and a tiny portable TV with a radio aerial. A single mattress, wedged upright into the space between the sofa and the wall, served as a spare bed, when Ethan was staying. In front of the fireplace was a cardboard box filled with toys, but most looked as though they’d belonged to a much younger Ethan and had long since been outgrown.
‘Can I have my Game Boy, Dad?’ Ethan asked in a wheedling voice before we’d even had a chance to remove our damp coats. Pete retrieved the hand-held console from the mantelpiece and Ethan snatched it from him without a word of thanks, shrugging off his coat and sinking on to the futon sofa. Lila took Ethan’s lead, casting aside her own wet coat and taking a seat by his side, peering over his shoulder at whatever he was playing. I was none too impressed with the boy’s manners now that he was on his home turf but, on the other hand, what else was there for him to do when he came to stay here? I couldn’t bear the idea of living in such cramped quarters with Lila: we’d be climbing the walls in no time. As it was, we’d only been here five minutes, and I was already hankering after the sanctuary of my own home. But I’d been invited in for tea, and it would be rude to leave before the kettle had even boiled. So, reluctantly, I left Lila to her own devices and followed Pete along the corridor.
In the kitchen, the geometric motifs gave way to brown tiles with white flecks. A low-slung, old-fashioned enamel kitchen sink took up the lion’s share of the room and, other than that, there was a tiny Formica table, two folding chairs and an ancient-looking fridge topped with a free-standing, two-ring electric hob. Like many Bellevillois, Pete must use one of the local laundrettes. Judging by the underpopulated shelves, the room served for little other than tea-making and warming up cheap canned ravioli.
‘I realize it’s not exactly a palace,’ Pete said, in what was surely the understatement of the year, ‘but money’s a bit tight … I came off worst from the split with Ethan’s mum. I work as a techie on film shoots, but the work’s intermittent, you see, and I managed to mess up my paperwork last year, so I’m having to jump through all sorts of hoops to try to get the benefits I’m meant to be entitled to between jobs …’
‘What happened between you and Ethan’s mum?’ I said, watching as Pete filled a plastic kettle, its element caked with limescale. ‘I mean, if it’s not too personal a question. I don’t mean to pry …’
‘Oh, the bitch shacked up with her boss,’ Pete retorted, the vicious emphasis he placed on the word ‘bitch’ causing me to recoil inwardly. ‘It was all very romantic being involved with a guy like me when it was just the two of us, you know?’ he continued, placing sachets of Lipton yellow tea into two chipped mugs. ‘But when Ethan came along, she got this bee in her bonnet about security and responsibility and, all of a sudden, nothing about me was good enough for her any more. Now she’s got her house in the suburbs and her Renault Espace, and here I am, living like a student.’
The more Pete talked, the faster my desire to get to know him better evaporated. Becoming his confidante held no attraction for me whatsoever. Regardless of what he seemed to think, I didn’t consider myself a kindred spirit. I undoubtedly had baggage of my own, but I’d never speak of Lila’s father with such venom in my voice. I found Pete’s negativity – his determination to blame his every misfortune on his ex, as though he were a helpless victim – utterly repellent. This wasn’t an attitude I wanted to be around. It was time to get myself, and Lila, out of there.
‘Damn! I’ve just remembered a friend of mine is popping by this evening,’ I said, clapping my palm to my forehead as the kettle began to boil. ‘Do you mind if we do this some other time, Pete? I need to get Lila home.’
‘Oh, okay. Another time, then.’ Pete looked disappointed, but whether this was because we were leaving, or because he’d seen through my feeble excuse, it was impossible to tell. Tearing a rather subdued Lila away from Ethan and his Game Boy, I gathered up her damp coat and let myself out, turning to wave at Pete, who stood nursing his tea in the kitchen doorway.
So much for having a friend in the building, I thought to myself as the lift doors folded shut behind us. Instead, I was likely to have my work cut out avoiding Pete for a while, as I politely refused any further advances. What a mistake it had been to assume that our Britishness, coupled with the fact that we were both single parents, would automatically make Pete an ally, a friend, or maybe even something more.
With first Matthias out of the picture, and now Pete, I reflected, suddenly there was an awful lot riding on my date tomorrow evening. Jérémy, I thought to myself grimly, had better not disappoint me.
26
My bedside clock read 1.42 a.m. when I was awoken from a heavy, dreamless sleep by Lila’s ‘Muuummmy?’ From the day she’d been born, it was as though I’d been reprogrammed to stir at her faintest whimper or cough, and the baby monitor Nico’s parents bought for us had never left its original packaging. My built-in sensor was far superior to any electronic device.
Hurrying to my daughter’s bedside, I found her sitting bolt upright and, even before I’d switched on the night light on her bedside table, I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. ‘What’s the matter, my love?’ I whispered, taking a seat on the bed and gathering her clammy body into my arms. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’
Lila nodded, burrowing her wet face into the cavity between my cheek and my shoulder. I held her tightly until her hiccupping sobs subsided, planting tiny kisses in her hair and making soothing noises. ‘I did have a cauchemar,’ she confirmed, looking up at me through damp eyelashes. ‘It was about that boy Ethan and the nasty things he did say.’
‘Ethan said nasty things to you? Oh, honey, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I had no idea!’ I cursed myself for not having noticed something was amiss. Lila had been downcast when we’d returned home from Pete’s place, but I’d chalked that up to nothing more than disappointment at having her playdate cut short.
‘When you were in the kitchen,’ Lila said in a small voice, ‘Ethan did say that his mummy doesn’t love his daddy any more. His mummy calls his daddy bad things in French, like a paresseux and a connard and a bon à rien.’ Lila paused, and I sensed she was coming to the part which had upset her most. ‘And he did say that my daddy must be the same because my mummy doesn’t live with him any more.’
If I could have laid my hands on Ethan – or either of Ethan’s parents for that matter – I would gladl
y have throttled one or all of them, just then, for putting such hateful thoughts into my daughter’s head. ‘Lila,’ I said, tilting her chin gently upwards with my hand so that I could look deep into her eyes as I spoke. ‘What Ethan said wasn’t true. Your daddy isn’t any of those things.’
‘So why can’t we go back to live with him, then?’ said Lila, quick to exploit what she saw as a gaping hole in my logic.
‘Honey, Albane lives with your daddy now,’ I replied. ‘You can visit whenever you like, but I can’t go back to live there …’
‘But what if we ask Albane to go away?’ Lila said, undeterred. ‘Then there’d be enough space for me and you. I could help you pack up my toys.’
I sighed. It was plain to see that Lila’s apparent acceptance of the new status quo had been masking a multitude of misunderstandings. She had no concept of the permanence of the situation, and refused to believe it was irreversible. At risk of being labelled as the villain of the piece, my duty was to disabuse her of these fantasies; to extinguish these futile hopes. ‘Lila, your daddy will always be a very good friend of mine,’ I explained. ‘But we’re both happy not living in the same house. You need to understand that I won’t be going back to live with Daddy. Not ever. Daddy lives with Albane now and, one day, I hope I’ll meet somebody nice that I can be with, too.’
Lila considered what I’d said for a moment. Her mouth trembled and turned down at the corners, but she gave a tiny nod. ‘Somebody nice like the man who did bring you flowers?’ she said, managing a wan smile. ‘Or maybe like the prince that saves the Little Mermaid from the wicked witch …’
‘Yes, a man like that,’ I said, picturing Jérémy crossing the threshold of my apartment with a huge bouquet. ‘Now, how about we have a big cuddle and then we’ll both go back to sleep?’
The next time I opened my eyes, it was morning and, as the purple walls came into focus, I realized I’d fallen asleep by Lila’s side. She lay with her back to me now, the curve of her buttocks pressed into my tummy, the soles of her feet cool against my calves. Her breath whistled in her nose, and when I raised myself up on one elbow to look down at her sleeping face, I could see her eyes darting about behind her eyelids.
Easing myself gingerly out of bed so as not to wake her, I slipped out of Lila’s room and fetched my dressing gown. Resting my elbows on the kitchen countertop next to Matthias’s flowers, I debated whether to pick up the telephone and dial Nico’s number. We really ought to discuss the events of the previous night while Lila was out of earshot, I decided. But when I called Nico’s mobile, I was transferred straight through to voicemail. Moments later, Lila emerged from her bedroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes and clamouring for breakfast as though nothing were amiss. I’d have to wait until I took her over there at eleven. Maybe Albane could be prevailed upon to occupy Lila for a few minutes while I hijacked Nico and had a quiet word in his ear.
When I rang the doorbell a couple of hours later, however, we were greeted not by Nico or Albane, but by a deeply tanned Catherine. ‘Mamie!’ cried Lila, launching herself into Catherine’s arms, delighted to see her grandma. ‘Je savais pas que tu étais là!’
‘This is indeed a surprise.’ I smiled shyly, conscious that we hadn’t laid eyes on each other since that curious afternoon in November when Catherine had confided in me about her husband’s infidelity. ‘Vous allez bien? Did you and Philippe have a good holiday in Mauritius?’
‘Marvellous, thank you,’ Catherine replied, hugging Lila, then suggesting she might like to go and hunt for her papy who, she informed us with a wink, had last been sighted smoking a cigarette at the kitchen window.
‘Is Nico here?’ I asked, shooting a cautious look along the corridor. ‘There was something I needed to speak to him about.’
‘Il est sous la douche,’ Catherine replied, rolling her eyes in exasperation. ‘He was still in his pyjamas when we arrived … But why don’t you come in? I’m sure he’ll only be a few minutes.’
‘I don’t know whether I should …’ I bit my lip, reluctant to cross the threshold. But Catherine, who’d guessed the root cause of my reticence, was quick to reassure me. Albane, she disclosed, was out at the hairdresser’s. She’d be back for lunch but, for now, the coast was clear.
‘I take it you’ve met her then.’ I stepped into the front hallway and closed the door behind me. I made a supreme effort to keep my voice neutral, aware that it would be politically incorrect to allow myself to be drawn into comparing notes on Nico’s new flame with my ex mother-in-law.
Catherine shook her head. ‘Not yet. Which is part of the reason why we invited ourselves over today, if the truth be told,’ she added, in a stage whisper. ‘When Sophie told me Albane was living here, I thought it was about time Nicolas introduced us.’
As though his ears were burning – or whistling, as the French say – Nico chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom, looking suitably surprised to see me chatting to his mother in the hallway. In honour of his parents’ visit, he was clean-shaven and wore a white shirt and a smart jacket and trousers. No doubt the five of them would be eating out somewhere chic, and I was secretly glad Lila had insisted on wearing a dress that morning.
‘Sally tells me she needs to have a word with you in private,’ Catherine said, apparently unconcerned that Nico might have heard the mention of Albane’s name. ‘Maybe Philippe and I could take Lila out for a walk and give the two of you some space?’
‘Or we could nip downstairs for a coffee,’ I suggested, realizing I’d prefer to transpose our chat on to more neutral territory. Perching on the edge of my old sofa, in my old living room, while Nico settled into his favourite leather armchair would be too uncomfortable. I hadn’t set foot in that room for almost a year.
The proprietor of the café which occupied the ground floor of Nico’s apartment block had begun setting his tables for lunch, covering them with blue tablecloths and yellow paper placemats and laying out cutlery and glassware. We managed to find a small table he hadn’t reached yet, in a quiet corner, away from the handful of customers standing at the bar. Nico ordered a double espresso, joking that he’d need at least three more before he was ready to face lunch with Catherine and Philippe, and I ordered a grand crème and – out of solidarity with Catherine – refrained from making any snide comments about his parents.
‘I thought you ought to know that Lila got a bit upset last night.’ I launched into an abridged explanation of how the neighbour’s son had said some unforgivable things to Lila while my back was turned, and how they had come back to haunt Lila once night had fallen, in the guise of a nightmare. ‘For the record,’ I insisted once I’d finished my account, ‘I have no intention of seeing either the father or the son ever again. Meeting them both made me realize how grateful I am that we’ve managed to keep things civil.’
‘I tried to tell you, back in November, that Lila hadn’t fully understood the situation, didn’t I?’ Nico spoke without rancour, as though he was wary of getting my back up. ‘As I recall,’ he added wryly, ‘you gave me a lecture about how nightmares were normal at her age and children can adapt to new situations without any outside intervention.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I replied. ‘I still don’t think Lila needs therapy. She asked her questions, and I answered them, and she’ll understand what it all means, in time. I just wanted you to be aware of what was said yesterday. So that we can be consistent. And in case she repeated anything that horrible little boy said to her.’ I smirked. ‘I didn’t want you thinking I’d called you a connard or a bon à rien, or anything like that …’
‘One day,’ Nico said gravely, ‘when Lila’s old enough, I do intend to tell her that it was my fault her mother felt she had to leave.’ I was so surprised to hear him say this that I let my mouth drop open. ‘I mean it,’ Nico said, noting my reaction. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing, protecting my image, trying not to portray me in a bad light, but I don’t think I deserve to be seen as blameless, and I certainly don�
��t want Lila to blame you for walking away.’
‘That’s, um, awfully big of you,’ I said, not quite able to believe what I was hearing. This was the closest thing to an apology or an admission of guilt I’d ever heard cross Nico’s lips.
‘I just don’t want you to think that I learned nothing from my mistakes.’ Nico swilled the dregs of his coffee around in his cup to capture any remaining grains of sugar, then poured the liquid down his throat and set his cup down on its saucer with a clink. ‘I know what I did derailed me and you and, even if it’s far too late to fix that, I don’t intend to let history repeat itself.’
I paused for a moment, my eyes fixed on Nico’s saucer. If I prodded him, it seemed likely that he was ready and willing to give me some sort of explanation for his behaviour. Maybe he’d managed to rationalize why he’d given in to the urge to take what Mathilde offered. Did I want to hear what he had to say? I wondered. Was it time to seek closure, so that I could turn the page and move on?
‘Well, I suppose that’s all good news as far as Albane’s concerned,’ I said a moment later, rejecting my brief impulse to rake over the cold embers. Whether it was indeed too late, or I was afraid I might find I hadn’t healed quite as thoroughly as I’d led myself to believe, I wasn’t sure. ‘I’d better get going,’ I added, glancing at my watch and rising from my chair. ‘I’ve got a million things to do today …’ Nico remained seated, signalling to the owner behind the bar with his cup to indicate he was in need of a refill.
As I turned and left, I was conscious of Nico’s gaze following me across the café, all the way to the door.
My heart sank when I walked into La Patache – an unassuming bar in rue de Lancry with yellowing walls covered in a multitude of posters, a stone’s throw from Chez Prune – a little after ten o’clock that evening. Jérémy stood at the bar with his back to me, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand, hemmed in by a group of people he clearly knew well. One I even recognized: Elsa, the actress we’d seen performing on stage; the woman who had spirited him away from me the last time we’d met.
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