Out of Sight (11 page)

‘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?'

‘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.'