A French Affair

by Susan Lewis

  When she had finished reading she continued to stare down at the words. She still couldn’t seem to connect them to Natalie, or even to make herself feel the way she probably ought – but something deep within her was responding, because tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks, and her chest was becoming too tight to let in air. ‘I’m sorry,’ she choked. ‘I didn’t expect . . .’

  Pulling her to him, he wrapped her in his arms, and she didn’t resist. There was so much relief flooding into her heart, and so much fear relaxing its grip, that she might have found it hard to stand alone.

  He held her for a long time, letting her tears soak into his shirt, while her body shuddered against him, until finally she lifted her head and looked up into his eyes. ‘You knew what I was thinking,’ she said, her voice husky with emotion. ‘You understood what I was afraid of?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Was I alone in thinking that way?’

  ‘I believe so, but when there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what’s happened, it’s natural to make your own – and more often than not it can take you to places that are very much worse than reality. So you had to find out for yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes moved off to the distance as she wished Charlie had understood that, or perhaps that she’d been more able to explain it. She turned around then and looked at the stairs, trying to get a sense of what she was feeling. ‘Do you think it was just the fact that she was about to fall that frightened her?’ she said, unsure of where her instincts were now. ‘Is that what I heard in her voice?’

  ‘It seems probable,’ he replied.

  Her gaze moved up to the top of the stairs. ‘So everyone else was right?’

  When he didn’t answer she turned to look at him.

  ‘I want them to be,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t help feeling . . .’ A lingering sob shook her breath. ‘Maybe I was too afraid to accept it was as simple as everyone was telling me. I needed to make it more, to blame someone, so I allowed all the years of bitterness and frustration I’ve felt towards my mother to cloud my judgement . . . That’s what everyone’s been saying, and now . . . Now, I think I’m much closer to believing they were right.’

  ‘So do you still want to speak to the paramedic?’

  She thought about it, and started to shake her head, but then she decided she probably did. ‘I know it must have been him who carried her to the sofa,’ she said, ‘but I need to hear him say it, and then I can thank him, because it could only have been kindness that would have made him move her. Officially he wouldn’t have been allowed to.’

  Luc’s eyes were tender as he looked down at her, and she found herself smiling as she looked back.

  ‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I have a rendezvous at the labs. Will you be OK?’

  She nodded and swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  His fingers moved under her chin, tilting her face upwards. ‘Let yourself relax for a while now,’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she responded.

  For several minutes after he’d gone she remained standing where she was, still feeling his fingers on her neck, and seeing the expression in his eyes as he looked at her. Then turning to pick up the report again, she read the vital words once more and this time, when she cried, her tears didn’t feel so fraught with the agony she’d known since that terrible day.

  It was almost midday before Charlie rang back, by which time she was experiencing so many new feelings that she could almost sense the pain unravelling inside her. Of course, there still remained a profound and immutable sadness at her core, which she knew would never leave her – but now her fears were being cleansed away by relief, it was almost as though she could feel herself breathing more freely.

  ‘I’ve seen the report from the Médecin Légiste,’ she told him, almost immediately.

  There was a momentary pause, before he said, ‘And?’ The stiffness in his voice might have irked her, were she not so concerned now about his inability to deal with his grief.

  ‘And everything happened the way they said. There were no other injuries, nothing to say she might have . . .’

  ‘You’re telling me something I already know,’ he cut in. ‘I just wish you hadn’t found it so hard to believe me.’

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you, I was just afraid you weren’t telling me everything, and if you weren’t, the only thing I could imagine you hiding was that she’d been abused in some way.’

  ‘Well now you know she wasn’t.’

  She blinked at the harshness of his tone. ‘Why are you still so angry?’

  With a sigh that was both lengthy and tired he said, ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m just finding it hard to come to terms with how you were thinking . . . I mean, I knew it, on one level . . . Anyway, the important thing is, do you feel able to move on now?’

  ‘More or less. I still think there’s a chance someone else might have been here, obviously not in the way . . .’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jessica, what is it going to take?’

  ‘I just need to talk to the paramedic,’ she said, ‘which should be done long before you or Harry arrive, so you don’t even have to think about it. Please understand, it’s something I have to do, then I will be able to let go completely, I’m sure of it.’

  Sighing again, he replied, ‘OK, have it your way, but whatever else you do, I think you should apologise to your mother for what you said.’

  ‘She told you about that?’

  ‘Maurice did. She was in a terrible state after you called, apparently. She couldn’t believe you’d think her capable of something like that, and frankly nor can I.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it, at least not in the way I said it. I just thought that she might have invited someone to stay and things got out of her control . . .’

  ‘Do you seriously think I’d have been defending her all this time if I’d had even the slightest indication there was anything like that?’ he demanded. ‘I saw the reports, every one of them, police, paramedics, autopsy . . . I told you what the results were, and there was never any mention of anyone else being there. It was all in your head . . .’

  ‘OK, let’s drop the subject now, because I don’t want us to fall out over this again. In fact, besides owing my mother an apology, I owe you one too, so I’m sorry, darling, for everything I’ve put you through.’

  There was a gentle gruffness in his voice as he said, ‘Apology accepted. And I’m sorry too, for not being more understanding.’

  Smiling, she carried the phone to the door and hugged it closer to her as she gazed out at the view. ‘So is it too soon to ask if you might be feeling a bit better about coming here now?’

  With a note of irony, he said, ‘Considering the way I’m being ganged up on . . . First you, then Harry, now Lilian . . .’

  ‘Lilian’s already called?’ She laughed. ‘You see how wanted you are.’

  ‘Mm,’ he responded sceptically, but she could tell Lilian’s call had helped. ‘She told me Luc’s making a sculpture of you for my birthday.’

  ‘Well, there goes the surprise,’ she replied humorously. ‘Maybe he can make one of you too and we can put them on the gateposts of our country mansion, when we get one.’

  With a laugh, he said, ‘Anything to please you, but I’m afraid I’m wanted in the studio now, so I’ll have to go. Nikki’s here though, and she wants a word.’

  ‘OK, ring me later, when you come off air.’

  ‘I will. And think about calling your mother.’

  Knowing the conversation with Nikki was likely to be a long one, Jessica went to take a Macon-Valennes from the cooler to accompany her lunch, and was just deciding what she might eat to go with it, when Nikki came on the line.

  ‘Hi Mum. Can’t stay long, but sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier this morning. Is everything all right with you? From the things Dad was saying, you sound pretty chilled. Everything is like totally cool here, but I’ve got a spot
on my boob that is like so humungous you wouldn’t believe it. On my boob! Can you believe it? Did you ever get them there? Anyway, Dad and Freddy are playing cricket this weekend, did Dad tell you? It’s like this celeb thing, for charity, and I’m kind of on the committee. Don’t ask me what that means, because no-one’s told me yet, but I guess I’ll find out. Oh yes, in answer to your question, I speak to Harry nearly every day, boring little twerp that he is, but you’ve got to love him. Actually, I really miss him, but I am so in love, Mum. It’s like better than anything. I miss you, though. The house isn’t the same without you, and Mrs Lentil is so crap when it comes to laundry. And I so hate not having you to go shopping with. You always know the best places to go. Anyway, they’re counting down to the headlines now, so I have to go. Love you Mum. Love you, love you, love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ Jessica responded, but the line might already have gone dead.

  Well, she thought wryly to herself, as she took her books and wine out to the table, at least her family seemed to be coping without her, in spite of Mrs Lendle’s shortcomings with the laundry – not to mention her own with the credit card. However, Charlie was right, she should call her mother to apologise, and she would, just as soon as she was one hundred per cent certain that it was the paramedic who had carried Natalie to the sofa.

  ‘So what do you think Charlie and Harry would like to do when they get here?’ Luc was asking later that afternoon, as he gave a critical eye to the sculpture he’d clearly done more work on since the day before.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she answered, with a dreamy sort of sigh. ‘I’ve hardly given it any thought yet, but it’s still over a week away, so plenty of time. For now, I’m just relieved Charlie’s agreeing to come.’ She fell to wondering if he’d got round to booking a flight yet, and how things might be between them when they saw one another again. Then, finding herself drawn into the music that was filling up the room, she let go of her thoughts so that her spirits could cascade and flow with the exquisite sound of a solo piano. ‘Is this Ravel’s Jeux d’eau?’ she asked, glancing at him. ‘Yes, I believe it is.’

  For a moment he seemed not to have heard, but then, with his attention still fixed on his work, he said, ‘It’s Yves, Claude’s brother, playing.’ He moved around the sculpture, narrowing his eyes as he looked her way. ‘Turn your face to the light a little more,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s it. Did you have wine with your lunch?’

  Curious, she said, ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Your eyelids are drooping. I think you are about to fall asleep.’

  She gave a splutter of laughter. ‘Actually, I was trying to look appealing in a seductive sort of way.’

  With a droll lift of one eyebrow he said, ‘You’re better at it when you don’t try.’

  Her eyes moved quickly to his, but he was focusing on the neck of the sculpture now, giving it tension and grace, drawing its length with the tender strokes of his fingers, and pressing down gently to create the flare of her shoulders. As she watched him she became aware of the strange thrill of being touched, and yet not, and felt her chin rise up a little, almost as though allowing him more access to the tendons and muscles beneath her skin.

  Realising he was becoming lost in his work again she drifted back into the music, loving the way it seemed to carry her along in its soothing and rushing waves, while the sun shone down through the skylights in white misty bands to pool all around her. Her shorts had ridden high over her thighs, and her neck and shoulders were bare, giving her the sensation of bathing in light. Her eyes closed as she savoured the feeling, until eventually she began looking around at the exhibition posters of Luc’s dramatic abstracts. There was a powerful elegance to their shapes, she thought, a kind of beauty that was both bold and bashful, not unlike the man himself. She knew she wasn’t alone in considering his work exceptional, because much of it was in galleries or museums now, or in some cases a few rich people’s gardens. She wanted to ask him how difficult it was to let his pieces go after spending so long creating them, but now wasn’t the time to interrupt, so she let her eyes wander on around the room, while her heart continued to float in the lightness she’d been feeling since reading the report that morning.

  ‘You need to turn to your left,’ Luc said.

  She did as she was told, and once he was satisfied she was at the right angle, she found her thoughts returning to Charlie and how it would be when she saw him again. She’d missed him in so many ways that she had no doubt she’d be pleased to see him, but for now she was perfectly happy to be spending another week alone. Already she was sensing how much it was going to nourish her simply to feel the pleasure of her surroundings now she was free of the dark thoughts she’d had before, and that would benefit them both. She also wanted to work on her book some more, take long walks in the countryside, read, explore and listen to music, so many small things that she could do for herself before allowing him and Harry to return to the centre of her world.

  Sighing gently to herself as the prospect of more solitude coasted warmly through her, she then fell to wondering if, when the time came, she and Charlie would celebrate their reunion by making love. She hoped they would, because sitting here now, basking in the fierce scrutiny of an attractive man, with the sun streaming down on her, and the music swirling and eddying through her, she was sensing her body in a way she hadn’t in so long. She could feel the arch of her back, the smoothness of her arms, the slender length of her legs, the angle of her shoulders . . .

  ‘Mmm,’ Luc murmured, standing back to inspect his work.

  She looked at him, and felt a small spread of heat in her cheeks. Had her inner pleasure somehow found its way into her expression?

  He continued to regard the sculpture. ‘There is something I am not capturing,’ he said, glancing her way.

  She only watched and waited as he tried to fathom out what it might be.

  ‘Perhaps that is enough for today,’ he said in the end.

  Feeling oddly let down, she was almost tempted to remain where she was, but understanding she couldn’t, she picked up her phone and started towards the door. ‘Shall I come again tomorrow?’ she asked, turning round.

  He was still looking at the sculpture. ‘Yes,’ he said distractedly. ‘Maybe in the morning. It is not so hot.’

  She nodded and started to walk on, then as she reached the door he said, ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’

  She paused for a moment, then turned back. ‘I was planning to do more research for my book,’ she replied. ‘Notes. Not actual writing. I’m not at that stage yet.’

  His back was still to her. ‘I have the French version of Suite Française,’ he reminded her. ‘Would you consider reading some chapters for my father after dinner? I think he’d like to hear you, instead of me. We both would.’

  She started to smile. ‘I’d love to,’ she told him, and picking up the straw hat she’d hung by the door, she put it on her head and left.

  As she walked back to the cottage she felt the urge to reach out her arms as though she could embrace the beauty of the pristine blue sky, along with the succulence of the fruits and stillness of the leaves. The sibilance of crickets was a continual, rhythmic sound, while jasmine and dust were elusive scents in the air.

  She rested a hand against her chest, and felt the swell of a nipple, pressing into her palm. Then keeping her hand there she inhaled gently, as though to take in the potency that was like a hypnotic essence all around her.

  When she got back to the cottage she spread a towel on the patio, then slipped into her briefest bikini. As she lay down she gazed up at the big empty sky, and the sense of freedom she felt was so exhilarating it was almost like wine. She closed her eyes as the merest whisper of air turned itself into a caress. She thought of nothing and nobody – for once not even of Natalie – all she knew was the exquisiteness of melting away from fear and blending with nature this way.

  That night she sat under the pergola with Fernand and Luc, a la
mp glowing on the book she was holding, while all around them the vines seemed to shimmer in silvery moonlight. As she read the chapters Luc had selected she thought her voice seemed lower, as though the meaning of the words was going to another depth now she was speaking them in French.

  The portrait of forbidden love between a middle-class Frenchwoman and a German officer had always resonated with her, for the words the author had used to describe it seemed to float as gently as dandelion clocks in the air, conveying all its fragility and ephemerality. Sitting here now, on this perfect summer’s night, not so far from where the story was set, it was as though its beauty and power might take her over completely.

  At first Lucile and her German barely even knew there was an attraction between them. It was as though their feelings were just another part of the strangeness that had come into their lives. They almost never touched, and yet they became aware of one another in ways that often made it feel as though they had, or perhaps it was in ways that were even more potent than touch. They knew no-one would ever understand, or accept how they felt. Maybe they didn’t either. They only knew that life was allowing them this brief, bittersweet spell to feel love at a depth most never reached, and perhaps to find out if they really had the will to resist it.

  The next morning when Jessica arrived at the studio Luc was already there. Neither of them mentioned her reading of the night before, or her refusal to let him walk her back through the vines afterwards. It was almost as though the evening hadn’t happened at all, for they merely picked up their conversation of yesterday, as though hardly any time had passed.

  ‘There is something about your face that I am not understanding,’ he told her, as she came to join him in front of the sculpture. ‘It is not the obvious features, because I think I have them. It’s something else.’

  As Jessica studied the clay replica of herself, the barely discernible slant of her eyes, the wide flare of her nostrils, and the full bow of her long upper lip, she could only feel awed by the way his hands had taken her beauty and turned it into something that was both her, yet not her, for there was a quality about this sculpture that was almost disturbingly transcendent.