The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (20 page)

Finally, it was Guy who spoke first. ‘Has that man been back? The one with the boy?’

‘No, thank goodness. Although—’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I’ve just been preoccupied by it, that’s all.’

‘Did you speak to the police?’

‘Yes, but what can they do? He hasn’t done anything, really.’

‘Well, just make sure you lock your doors when you’re home.’

‘I always do.’

She thought about what she had not told Guy. The other night, before packing a small suitcase to take to Suzanne’s, she had taken her rubbish out and thought she saw someone on the
driveway, watching her. It was absurd, but she’d thought for a moment that it was the boy, the silent one who had accompanied the man with the religious pamphlets. She had hurried back inside
and locked the door. When she’d looked out again, there was no one.

She must have imagined it. It had been so fleeting and so dark after all. A scaredy cat with an overactive imagination, her husband used to say. If she had told Guy he would have found her
silly.

Still, she had to admit she was scared. What if someone
was
watching her, waiting for an opportunity to rob or attack her? Who would protect her? She was alone, after all. These days
she didn’t even know her neighbours. On both sides over the past year new families had moved in with young children. There was no one her age who might understand her isolation.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Guy said.

Marie looked at him and wondered what he would be doing with the rest of his afternoon.

‘I think I might have another cup of this delicious tea,’ she said.

He seemed to perk up at her words. ‘Excellent idea, I think I might join you.’

Marie watched him walk up to the counter and place their order. On his way back he smiled at her. He looked relieved.

It was still early, but Maly was wide awake. Slowly, she got up. She looked over at Karl, who was still fast asleep. She pulled on a dressing-gown and left the room, closing
the door behind her. Karl would usually be the first one up, making coffee so he could bring it to her in bed. But he’d come in late from the airport. Knowing him, he would probably still go
into work, but he would allow himself an extra hour’s sleep.

Though she hated to admit it, she was glad he was still asleep. Mornings were better spent alone, greeting the new day in silence. She liked the empty space around her and the way her thoughts
drifted. Now she and Karl were living together there were fewer moments like these. She missed them.

She thought about her brother, who had left several messages on her phone. She should call him back but she knew Adèle had told him the news. For some reason she couldn’t bear to
hear him congratulate her, to have that inane conversation. He would say all the right things while thinking something quite different.

Her brother, the policeman. One of the rising stars of the Criminal Brigade, judging by the way his career had been progressing these past years. Maybe his career was what prevented him from
having a steady relationship. Though Maly knew better. Even if he were working regular hours at a Monoprix check-out counter he would struggle with commitment issues.

He probably thought she was making a big mistake getting married.

Tonight she and Karl would go out for dinner and celebrate a year’s anniversary of being together. A long time in her book, if not in his. They’d also celebrate the fact that they
were now engaged. Karl had wanted to set a date for the wedding, but she had said that could wait. One step at a time. Empty words, but he had taken them to heart. He was so sweet, and gorgeous
with those deep blue eyes and that crooked smile. And successful to boot, at least the sort of success that means something in the world of academia. Most women would be green with envy.

Most of all, he worshipped her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do. He was patient and kind. And there, Maly thought, was the crux of the issue.

What was wrong with her? She was always picking men who were too nice, too pliant. Men who wanted to make her happy and almost did.

At the other end of the flat she heard the alarm go off. With a sigh, she walked back to the bedroom.

Anne Dufour tiptoed back into the bedroom to turn off the alarm. Jacques would not want it to go off today. There was a good chance he would wake up in a foul temper.

She closed the door quietly and on padded feet headed down to the kitchen: her favourite room in this house, which otherwise held little attraction for her. Most of what was here had come from
her mother-in-law’s house. Little by little, Jacques had divested his mother of the pieces she had which he liked best. Anne didn’t know where her mother-in-law had found the things she
had filled her flat with, to replace the ones her son had pilfered.

There was a great deal she didn’t know or at least pretended to ignore. She had lived like this for so long that she had almost convinced herself that this was normal enough, that all
marriages had their share of nasty little secrets. Now her mother-in-law was dead. She’d died alone and frightened, with no one to love or comfort her.

She turned the electric kettle on and stood by the sink waiting for it to boil. It was getting light but the street was quiet still.

She watched the steam from the boiling water fog up the window. Gingerly, she touched her left hip. There’d be a bruise, but luckily no one would see it. Last time Margot had commented on
the red mark on her arm and she’d had to lie. She could see Margot didn’t believe her. It was strange, lying to her best friend. But the alternative was worse.

She hardly saw Margot these days. It was too difficult, pretending that all was well, having to meet her probing gaze with a casual smile. And Jacques hated Margot. The feeling was quite
mutual.

Last night she and Jacques had gone out for dinner. It was a celebration, Jacques said. He was in a particularly good mood, having been promoted to a position he’d coveted for months. It
meant more money and more travel. The money made little difference to Anne: ever since the beginning of their marriage, Jacques had kept her on a tight leash, handing out money at the beginning of
each week and demanding to know what it was being spent on. The travel meant he would be away for longer periods. For a start, the company wanted to send him to Shanghai and Beijing, to Seoul and
on to Tokyo, to meet with clients. All in all he would be away for three weeks. He was being trusted with an important task, a sign that his bosses were pleased with his work.

She had been pleased for him. But she thought about the three weeks where she would be alone in the big house with the furniture she hadn’t picked and where she had never felt quite at
home. She should have kept quiet, but she still hadn’t learned to keep her mouth shut.

‘It’s a long trip,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could join you somewhere along the way and we could spend a weekend together,’ she added, thinking that maybe it would please
him that she should miss him.

The brutality of his response had shaken her.

‘It isn’t a fucking holiday,’ he’d said. In his eyes was a look of such hatred that she flinched. If he’d slapped her it would have hurt less.

She had stopped right there, not wanting to end the evening with a fight. Over dessert and on the way home he was sullen. They’d finished a bottle of red wine. Neither of them was drunk
but she found his behaviour altered, strange to understand. When she tried to touch him, at home, he shoved her away. She lost her balance and fell against the corner of the dining table.

He’d gone to bed without saying a word. She’d debated whether to sleep in their son’s room but in the end she’d slid next to her husband. She hadn’t slept at
all.

It had been an accident. But Margot wouldn’t see it that way.

The phone rang. Anne ran to pick it up, worried that it might wake Jacques. It was the policeman, Morel.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered whether we might be able to have another chat with your husband sometime this week.’

‘He’s asleep right now,’ she said. She realized all of a sudden that she was whispering and she made an effort to speak up. ‘I can get him to give you a call when he
wakes up.’

‘That would be great, thank you. We just have a couple of questions. We’ll try to keep it short.’

‘OK.’ She thought of the female officer who had visited and tears sprung to her eyes, which she quickly brushed away.

As she hung up, she felt Jacques’s hands around her hips. He pressed himself against her and she felt the hardness of his erection against her lower back. She tried not to show how much
his hand hurt against her hip.

‘Who was that?’

‘The police. That man Morel. He has a few more questions to ask. He wants to know when he can come and talk to us.’

He laughed. ‘They probably just want to take another look at the house. I bet they don’t see many like ours in their daily rounds.’

She felt his hands move up her rib cage and find her breasts.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said.

‘So am I.’

‘Come back to bed.’

She didn’t feel like it. She wanted him to get ready and go to work. But he wasn’t in a hurry this morning.

‘Come on, baby,’ Jacques said.

She closed her eyes. He was pinching her nipples a little too hard, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she turned towards him and let his hand move down her stomach.

‘OK,’ she said.

Morel was lying against Solange, his head resting in the crook of her arm while she ran her hand through his hair. The palm of his hand brushed against her nipples, followed
the curve of her breasts. He was sweaty and sleepy, happily drained from lovemaking. Mildly triumphant, the way good sex can make you feel. Morel knew he could sleep like this, with her hand in his
hair and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers.

For a moment, he dozed off. But then his thoughts turned to Mathilde, and he found himself wide awake again. He moved away from Solange and got up.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Just to get a drink. I’ll be right back.’

He pulled on his trousers and tiptoed downstairs, hoping he wouldn’t run into Henri. But Solange’s husband had gone to bed hours ago. In the middle of the night like this the house
seemed pointlessly grand, full of unvisited spaces.

In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of orange juice and got a glass of sparkling water for Solange, knowing she would want one. He drank the juice and headed back up the stairs with
Solange’s drink.

When he lay down beside her she reached over and kissed his lips. She pressed her lips to his chest.

Morel closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh.

Ever since that time when he’d parked outside Mathilde’s home and seen her appear so close to him, he’d thought more frequently about her. Wondered whether to give her a call,
make it casual and suggest they catch up over coffee. But she would wonder how he’d found her. There’d be nothing casual about his contacting her.

He’d seen Mathilde for the first time at a bus stop. Twenty-five years ago. She wasn’t waiting for a bus. She was doing her laces up. She had obviously been running. Her face was
flushed and she’d loosened her hair. Thick and red and down to her waist, it was beautiful. She was small, with narrow, muscly legs. From the back she had seemed younger, so that when she
turned, he found himself gaping at her profile. He wanted to see her face better and moved closer, pretending to look at the bus schedule. He stood next to her, squinting at the information above
her head. When he finally looked at her he saw she wasn’t fooled for an instant. Her eyes were deep, of the darkest blue, the expression more informed than anything he’d been prepared
for in that snippet of a woman.

He found out soon after that she was addicted to running. That she liked having someone around who could make her laugh and that her laughter was unrestrained. That she didn’t like her
freckles and was self-conscious about her breasts, though the self-consciousness wore away quickly under his adoring gaze. That she could be sharp-tongued and unkind but also intensely loyal. He
was slogging his way through his first year of mathematics, feeling trapped, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to make it, while she worked her way through an architecture degree with
the same diligence she applied to her long-distance running. It didn’t take long for them to move in together. He took his cue from her, sitting down to his studies when she did, waiting for
the moment when she’d be done so they could be together. Neither of them had much money, Morel had not wanted to rely on his parents and worked in a bookshop during the day and in a bar three
nights a week to pay his way. In between studying and working they did a great deal of walking through the streets of Paris, stopping only when their feet grew sore for a cup of coffee in the
nearest cafe.

Morel collected the things he found out about her like a person collects unusual shells and smooth pieces of green and white glass in the sand, storing these in a private box of treasures.
Loving her revealed good things about himself. He found that he thrived in the burrowing closeness of their domesticity, that intimacy suited him.

And leaving that aside, the panting euphoria of first love! Wet tongues and breath and fingers, feeling and licking and groping, heading towards that delirious first fuck. The lead-up to it had
made them both ache with anticipation – they were so incredibly ready, desperate for it – till finally they had given in one afternoon on his bedroom floor, his fingers bruising the
flesh around her hips, her black tights hanging from one ankle as she held her legs high and wide around his body, her red hair spread across the carpet like a flood. Over the next twelve months
they had lived in a state of permanent hunger, undressing each other at every opportunity, drunk with a sexual happiness they felt certain no one else could know.

Sleeping with Solange was delightful too, of course, but it was tempered by knowledge and experience. With Mathilde, Morel had known nothing except the moment. He and Mathilde had loved and
lusted with blank, unwritten minds. Unselfconscious and free. After that, nothing could be taken out of context and lived as a thing apart from the rest.