Out of Sight (12 page)

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 the 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.

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,' said 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.

‘Do you think your grandmother knew who shot your grandfather?' she asked cautiously, one Sunday morning as they drank tea in bed.

‘No idea,' he answered. ‘Josette was always pretty tight-lipped about him. I idolised him when I was a kid. Used to read every wartime adventure story I could lay my hands on, and I imagined him sending radio signals to secret agents or going off with the
Maquis
to blow up railway lines. Used to pester her for stories about him … must've driven her nuts.'

‘Except that Thierry reckons local resistance was fairly passive,' explained Leonie. ‘Not much derring-do. If your
grandfather was a
résistant
, it was probably more a matter of passing around a few clandestine leaflets.'

‘Makes sense,' agreed Patrice.

‘But then why was he shot?'

‘Being shot doesn't automatically make him a hero.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Well, in retrospect, I'm not sure how much of a hero he really was. I mean, he could even have been a collaborator himself, for all we know.' Patrice made the suggestion with apparent nonchalance, pummelling his pillow to make himself more comfortable. ‘Not a
résistant
at all.'

‘That's a bit of a jump!'

‘It crossed my mind recently, that's all. Looking back and trying to make sense of why Josette seemed so unforgiving about his memory. The real hatred in her face that time she told me I was just like him.' His mouth pinched tight and he spoke reluctantly. ‘She didn't speak to me for a week afterwards.'

‘What?'

‘It was her way of punishing me. I had no one to play with, and she wouldn't speak. I'd go for days without a word to anyone.'

‘My God!'

‘Her way of dealing with things.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Don't remember. Eight or nine, maybe.'

‘That's horrible. I mean, okay, I can imagine her shock at being left a widow, eight months pregnant, the whole
world in chaos around her. But why take it out on a kid?'

‘Maman should never have given me his name.' He shook his head with a wry look. ‘Having a scandal to keep quiet about would go a long way to explain my mother's anxiety. Secrets perpetuate destructive miasms.'

‘But if he was shot for being a Nazi sympathiser, surely it could never have been kept under wraps in a place like this?'

‘You'd be surprised.'

‘But he'd have to have done something terrible to warrant being shot,' argued Leonie. ‘I mean, most people just went along with the Occupation, didn't they? I think very few probably dared voice open dissent, so most resistance was just quiet defiance. Didn't make them collaborators. Silence doesn't make people culpable.'

‘Doesn't it?' asked Patrice, looking at her strangely. ‘I hope that's true.'

‘Besides, people round here would never have stood for Josette claiming he was a hero if he wasn't!'

‘Maybe she didn't. Maybe she just never contradicted Maman's childish belief that he was. Anyway,' Patrice sighed wearily, ‘what does it matter? It's how it goes, isn't it? Maybe he was simply murdered by some jilted lover of Josette's. Or, in a provincial town like this, by the son of the man from whom my great-grandfather stole some land. Maybe it was the father of the girl to whom my great-great-grandfather sold a horse that threw and crippled her. It goes back and back. Generations of unforgiven
deeds. Whatever it was, I inherit all the injuries that were done.'