‘What? See sense? Give up? Live on the move, from day to day, from place to place, like you and the other river rats?’
‘I’d rather be a rat than a bird in a cage.’
He was getting angry, I thought. His voice was still soft, but his Midi accent had become more pronounced, as it often does when his temper is roused. It struck me that perhaps I wanted to make him angry, to force him into a confrontation that would leave neither of us with any choice. It hurt to think it, but perhaps it was true. And perhaps he sensed it too, because he looked at me then, and shot me a grin.
‘What if I told you I’d changed?’ he said.
‘You haven’t changed.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Oh, but I do. And it hurts my heart to see him so very much the same. But I have changed. My children have changed me. I can’t just do what I want any more. And what I want is—
‘Roux,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to see you. I’m glad you came. But it’s too late. I’m with Thierry. And he’s really nice when you get to know him. He’s done so much for Anouk and Rosette—’
‘And do you love him?’
‘Roux, please—’
‘I said, do you love him?’
‘Of course I do.’
Again, that shrug of deliberate contempt. ‘Congratulations, Vianne,’ he said.
I let him go. What else could I do? He’ll be back, I thought. He’ll have to come back. But so far he hasn’t; leaving nothing, not an address, not a phone number – though it would surprise me if Roux had a phone. As far as I know, he has never even had a television set, preferring to watch the sky, he says, a spectacle that never bores him, and that never runs repeats.
I wonder where he’s staying now. On a boat, he told Anouk. A barge, I thought, was the most likely, carrying cargo up the Seine. Or perhaps another river-boat, assuming he’d managed to find one cheap. A hulk, perhaps; a derelict; working on it between jobs, patching it up, making it his. Roux has endless patience with boats. With people, however—
‘Will Roux be back today, Maman?’ said Anouk over breakfast.
She’d waited until morning to speak. But then Anouk rarely speaks impulsively; she broods, she reflects, and then she speaks, in that solemn, rather guarded way, like a TV detective just getting to the truth.
‘I don’t know,’ I told her. ‘It’s up to him.’
‘Would you like him to come back?’ Persistence has always been one of Anouk’s most enduring characteristics.
I sighed. ‘It’s difficult.’
‘Why? Don’t you like him any more?’ I heard the challenge in her voice.
‘No, Anouk. That’s not why.’
‘Then why is it?’
I almost laughed. She makes it all sound so very straightforward; as if our lives were not a house of cards, every decision, every choice carefully balanced against a multitude of other choices and decisions, precariously stacked against each other and leaning, tilting with every breath—
‘Listen, Nanou. I know you like Roux. So do I. I like him a lot. But you have to remember—’ I searched for the words. ‘Roux does what he wants, he always has. Never stays in the same place for long. And that’s OK, because he’s alone. But the three of us need more than that.’
‘If we lived with Roux, he wouldn’t be alone,’ said Anouk reasonably.
I had to laugh, though my heart was aching. Roux and Anouk are so strangely alike. Both of them think in absolutes. Both stubborn, secretive and frighteningly resentful.
I tried to explain. ‘He likes being alone. He lives on the river all year round, he sleeps outside, he’s not even comfortable in a house. We couldn’t live like that, Nanou. He knows that. And so do you.’
She gave me a dark, appraising look. ‘Thierry hates him. I can tell.’
Well, after last night, I don’t suppose anyone could fail to see that. His booming, trollish cheeriness; his open contempt; his jealousy. But that’s not Thierry, I told myself. Something must have upset him. The little scene at La Maison Rose?
‘Thierry doesn’t know him, Nou.’
‘Thierry doesn’t know any of us.’
She went back upstairs with a croissant in each hand and a look that promised further discussion at a later time. I went into the kitchen; made chocolate; sat down and watched it go cold. Thought of February in Lansquenet, with the mimosa in bloom on the banks of the Tannes and the river-gypsies with their long narrow boats, so many and so closely packed that you could almost have walked to the other side—
And one man sitting there on his own, watching the river from the roof of his boat. Not so different from the rest of them, and yet somehow I’d known almost straight away. Some people shine. He’s one of them. And even now, after all this time, I can feel myself drawn to that flame again. If it hadn’t been for Anouk and Rosette I might have followed him last night. After all, there are worse things than poverty. But I owe my children something more. That’s why I’m here. And I can’t go back to being Vianne Rocher, to Lansquenet. Not even for Roux. Not even for me.
I was still sitting there when Thierry came in. It was nine o’clock and still quite dark; outside I could hear the distant, dampened sounds of traffic and the chiming of the bells from the little church on Place du Tertre.
He sat down in silence opposite me; from his overcoat I could smell cigar-smoke and Paris fog. He sat there for thirty seconds in silence, then reached out a hand to cover mine.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said.
I picked up my cup and looked inside. I must have let the milk boil; there was a puckered skin over the cold chocolate. Careless of me, I thought to myself.
‘Yanne,’ said Thierry.
I looked at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was under stress. I wanted everything to be perfect for you. I was going to take us all out to lunch, then I was going to tell you about the flat, and how I’ve managed to get us a wedding slot – get this – at the very same church my parents were married in—’
‘What?’ I said.
He squeezed my hand. ‘Notre-Dame des Apôtres. Seven weeks’ time. There was a cancellation, and I know the priest – I did some work for him some time back—’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘You bully my children, you’re rude to my friend, you walk off without a word, and then you expect me to get all excited about flats and wedding arrangements?’
Thierry gave a rueful grin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to laugh, but – you really haven’t got used to that phone yet, have you?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Just turn on your phone.’
I did, and found a new text message, sent by Thierry at eight-thirty the previous night.
Love you to distraction. My only excuse.
See you tomorrow at 9.
Thierry. xx
‘Oh,’ I said.
He took my hand. ‘I’m really sorry about last night. That friend of yours—’
‘Roux,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I know how ridiculous it must sound. But seeing him with you and Annie – talking as if he’d known you for years – it reminded me of all the things I don’t know about you. All the people in your past, the men you’ve loved—’
I looked at him in some surprise. As far as my previous life is concerned, Thierry has always shown a remarkable lack of concern. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about him. His lack of curiosity.
‘He’s sweet on you. Even I could tell that.’
I sighed. It always comes to this. The questions; the enquiries; kindly meant but laden with suspicion.
Where are you from? Where are you heading? Are you visiting relatives here?
Thierry and I had a deal, I thought. I don’t mention his divorce; he doesn’t talk about my past. It works – or it did, until yesterday.
Nice timing, Roux, I thought bitterly. But then again, that’s what he’s like. And now his voice in my mind is like
that of the wind. Don’t fool yourself, Vianne. You can’t settle here. You think you’re safe in your little house. But like the wolf in the fairytale, I know better.
I went into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of chocolate. Thierry followed me, clumsy in his big overcoat among Zozie’s little tables and chairs.
‘You want to know about Roux?’ I said, grating chocolate into the pan. ‘Well, I knew him when I lived in the South. For a while I ran a chocolaterie in a village near the Garonne. He lived on a river-boat, moving between towns, doing casual work. Carpentry, roofing, picking fruit. He did a couple of jobs for me. I haven’t seen him for over four years. Satisfied?’
He looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, Yanne. I’m ridiculous. And I certainly didn’t mean to interrogate you. I promise I won’t do it again.’
‘I never thought you’d be jealous,’ I said, adding a vanilla pod and a pinch of nutmeg to the hot chocolate.
‘I’m not,’ said Thierry. ‘And to prove it to you—’ He put both hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. ‘Listen, Yanne. He’s a friend of yours. He obviously needs the cash. And given that I really want the flat finished by Christmas, and you know how hard it is trying to get any one at this time of year, I’ve offered him the job.’
I stared at him. ‘You have?’
He smiled. ‘Call it a penance,’ he said. ‘My way of proving to you that the jealous guy you met last night isn’t the real me. And there’s something else.’ He reached into his overcoat pocket. ‘I got you a little something,’ he said. ‘It was going to be an engagement present, but . . .’
Thierry’s little somethings are always lavish. Four dozen roses at a time; jewellery from Bond Street; scarves from Hermès. A little too conventional, maybe – but that’s Thierry. Predictable to the core.
‘Well?’
It was a slim package, barely thicker than a padded envelope. I opened it, and found a leather travel wallet containing four first-class plane tickets to New York, dated 28th December.
I stared at them.
‘You’ll love it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place to bring in the New Year. I’ve booked us into a great hotel – the kids’ll love it – there’ll be snow – music – fireworks . . .’ He gave me an exuberant hug. ‘Oh, Yanne, I can’t wait to show you New York.’
As a matter of fact, I’ve been there before. My mother died there, on a busy street, in front of an Italian deli on Independence Day. It was hot and sunny then. In December it will be cold. People die of the cold in New York in December.
‘But I don’t have a passport,’ I said slowly. ‘At least, I did – but—’
‘Out of date? I’ll see to that.’
Well, in fact it’s more than out of date. It’s in the wrong name – that of Vianne Rocher – and how could I tell him that, I thought, that the woman he loves is someone else?
But how could I hide it now? Last night’s scene has taught me this; that Thierry is not quite as predictable as I had assumed. Deceit is an invasive weed, which if not dealt with early enough, forces its tendrils into everything, gnawing, spreading, stifling until at last there’s nothing left but a tangle of lies—
He was standing very close, his blue eyes bright – with anxiety, perhaps. He smelt of something vaguely comforting, like cut grass or old books or pine sap or bread. He came a little closer, and now his arms were around me, my head on his shoulder (though where was that little hollow, I thought, that seemed to be made for me alone?) and it felt so familiar, so very safe – and yet this time there was a tension, too. I could feel it, like live wires about to touch—
His lips found mine. That charge again. Like static between us, half-pleasure, half-not. I found myself thinking of Roux. Damn you. Not now. That lingering kiss. I pulled away.
‘Listen, Thierry. I need to explain.’
He looked at me. ‘Explain what?’
‘The name on my passport – the name I’ll have to give at the registry office—’ I took a breath. ‘It’s not the name I’m using now. I changed it. It’s a long story. I should have told you before, but—’
Thierry interrupted me. ‘It doesn’t matter. No need to explain. We all have things we’d rather not talk about. What do I care if you changed your name? It’s who you are that interests me, not whether you’re a Francine or a Marie-Claude or even, God help us, even a Cunégonde.’
I smiled. ‘You don’t mind?’
He shook his head. ‘I promised I wouldn’t interrogate you. The past is the past. I don’t need to know. Unless you’re about to tell me you used to be a man, or something . . .’
I laughed at that. ‘You’re safe enough.’
‘I suppose I could check. Just to be sure.’ His hands locked in the small of my back. His kiss was harder, more demanding. Thierry never makes demands. His old-fashioned courtesy is one of the things that has always appealed to me, but today he is slightly different – there’s a hint of passions long contained; impatience; a thirst for something more. For a moment I am submerged in it; his hands move to my waist, my breasts. There is something almost childishly greedy in the way he kisses my mouth, my face, as if he’s trying to lay claim to as much of me as possible, and all the time he is whispering – I love you, Yanne, I want you, Yanne . . .
Half laughing, I came up for air. ‘Not here. It’s past nine-thirty—’
He gave a comic bear’s growl. ‘You think I’m going to wait seven weeks?’ And now his arms were bearish too, holding me in a close lock, and he smelt of musk sweat and stale cigars, and all at once and for the first time in our long friendship I could imagine us making love, naked and sweating between the sheets, and I felt a jolt of sudden surprise at the sense of revolt the thought provoked—
I pushed my hands against his chest. ‘Thierry, please—’
He showed his teeth.
‘Zozie’s going to be here in a minute—’
‘Then let’s go upstairs before she does.’
Already I was gasping for breath. The reek of sweat intensified, mingled with the scent of cold coffee, raw wool and last night’s beer. No longer such a comforting scent, it calls up images of crowded bars and narrow escapes and drunken strangers in the night. Thierry’s hands are slablike and eager, spattered with age spots, tufted with hair.
I found myself thinking of Roux’s hands. His deft pickpocket’s fingers; machine oil under the fingernails.
‘Come on, Yanne.’
He was pulling me across the room. His eyes were bright with anticipation. Suddenly I wanted to protest, but it’s too late. I’ve made my choice. There can be no going back, I thought. I followed him towards the stairs—
A lightbulb blew with a sound like a firecracker going off.
Pulverized glass showered us.
A sound from upstairs. Rosette was awake. Relief made me tremble.
Thierry swore.
‘I have to see to Rosette,’ I said.
He made a sound that was not quite laughter. A final kiss – but the moment had passed. From the corner of my eye I could see a golden something gleaming in the shadows – sunlight, perhaps, or some kind of reflection—
‘I have to see to Rosette, Thierry.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
I know you do.
It was ten o’clock and Thierry had just left when Zozie came in, wrapped up in an overcoat, wearing purple platform boots and carrying a large cardboard box in both hands. It looked heavy, and Zozie was a little flushed as she put it down carefully on the floor.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘This stuff is heavy.’
‘What is it?’ I said.
Zozie grinned. She went to the window display and took out the red shoes that had been sitting there for the past couple of weeks.
‘I’ve been thinking we’re due for a bit of a change. How about a new display? I mean, this was never meant to be a permanent thing, and to be honest, I miss these shoes.’
I smiled at that. ‘Of course,’ I said.
‘So I picked up this stuff from the marché aux puces.’ She indicated the cardboard box. ‘I’ve got an idea I’d like to try out.’
I looked at the box, then at Zozie. Still reeling from Thierry’s visit, Roux’s reappearance and the complications that I knew it would bring, the unexpected kindness of the simple gesture left me suddenly close to tears.
‘You didn’t have to do that, Zozie.’
‘Don’t be silly. I like it.’ She looked at me closely. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s Thierry.’ I tried to smile. ‘He’s been acting strangely these past few days.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘You’re doing well. Business is good. At last things are looking up for you.’
I frowned at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I mean,’ said Zozie patiently, ‘is that Thierry still wants to be Santa Claus and Prince Charming and Good King Wenceslas all rolled into one. It was fine while you were struggling – he bought you dinner, dressed you up, showered you with presents – but you’re different now. You don’t need saving any more. Someone took away his Cinderella doll and put a real live girl there instead, and he’s having trouble coping with it.’
‘Thierry’s not like that,’ I said.
‘Isn’t he?’
‘Well . . .’ I grinned. ‘Maybe a bit.’
She laughed at that, and I laughed with her, though I couldn’t help feeling a little abashed. Zozie is very observant, of course. But shouldn’t I have seen those things myself?
Zozie opened the cardboard box.
‘Why not take it easy today? Have a lie-down. Play with Rosette. Don’t worry. If he comes, I’ll call.’
That startled me. ‘If who comes?’ I said.
‘Oh, really, Vianne—’
‘Don’t call me that!’
She grinned. ‘Well, Roux, of course. Who did you think I meant, the Pope?’
I gave a wan smile. ‘He won’t come today.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
So I told her what Thierry had said: about the flat, and how determined he was to see us there by Christmas, and about the plane tickets to New York, and how he’d offered Roux a job at Rue de la Croix—
The Lollipop Shoes Page 20
