Chapter 3
Vince was more annoyed than worried that Imogen hadn’t texted him the previous night as he’d asked her to. He’d checked the airline’s app on his phone and discovered that her flight had been delayed and so hadn’t arrived into Dublin until after midnight. He assumed she’d gone home, and, in the thoughtless fashion he’d tried so hard to cure her of, had stuck her mobile on the charger downstairs before heading straight to bed. He’d called her even though it was nearly 1 a.m. at that point, but it had gone straight to her voicemail. The message had annoyed him too: ‘Hi, this is Imogen. I’m currently away at a business exhibition. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you on my return.’ It made her sound as though she was some high-flying executive instead of simply Conor Foley’s dogsbody. And it wasn’t as though washing machines and fridge freezers were very high-flying either. But he knew she liked to think of herself as an essential cog in the wheel of Chandon Leclerc, and she’d been excited about going to Paris even though he’d told her that business trips weren’t all they were cracked up to be. He’d warned her that she’d be cooped up in the exhibition hall and wouldn’t have time to visit her old haunts. But she hadn’t cared. She’d been fizzing with anticipation, though she’d calmed down quite a lot as the visit drew closer and had actually seemed nervous getting out of the car at the airport. Perhaps she’d learned her lesson, he thought, and wouldn’t be looking to accompany her boss anywhere else in the future.
The same annoying voicemail had kicked in that morning when he phoned from the hotel in Cork before the 7 a.m. conference session. He hadn’t bothered leaving a message, as she’d see his missed call. But she hadn’t returned it. When he phoned her yet again on his way back to Dublin, he was diverted to her voicemail once more, although that wasn’t entirely surprising, as the Chandon Leclerc offices and warehouse were in the middle of a mobile blackspot. Imogen often complained that it was bad business for them to be in a location where clients couldn’t use their mobiles.
He tried again now as he turned on to the motorway and flicked the cruise control on his car to a steady 110 kph. The same irritating message played over the speakers and he cut it off in annoyance. She really is walking on thin ice, he thought. Pushing me to the limits of my patience. She’s being thoughtless and inconsiderate. As usual.
Vince’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. That’s the problem with Imogen, he fumed. Thoughtless and inconsiderate. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to turn her into someone a little more sensible by introducing some rules and routines into our lives, she can always be relied upon to mess it up sooner or later.
She always apologised afterwards, he acknowledged to himself. She’d say she was doing her best. And then she’d try to persuade him that it wasn’t thoughtlessness or a lack of consideration on her part but innate ditziness that made her do such stupid things.
He’d had warning of it, of course. He’d met her because of her combination of thoughtlessness and misplaced optimism; in a city centre pub, an unusual location for both of them as it turned out, neither of them being big drinkers or frequent pubgoers. Imogen had come inside to shelter from a heavy downpour. She’d hurried through the doors on the heels of others with the same idea, and stood there shaking raindrops from her gleaming dark hair.
‘A bit damp out?’ he’d remarked, and she’d looked at him in surprise.
‘A bit damp?’ he repeated as he folded the newspaper in his hand.
‘Slightly.’ She smiled. ‘To tell you the truth – torrentially damp.’
‘It was forecast,’ he told her. ‘Bright spells mixed with heavy showers. You should have brought an umbrella with you.’
She gave him a wry smile, which made two dimples appear in her cheeks.
‘I never look at the weather forecast in Ireland – it’s either sunny with a chance of rain, or rainy with outbreaks of sun.’
‘In which case you definitely should bring an umbrella with you.’
‘I’m an optimist.’ This time her smile was bright. ‘I like to think that I’m outdoors in the sunny intervals.’
‘Hope over experience,’ he said. ‘Not the way I approach it.’
‘Sometimes my optimism is misplaced,’ she acknowledged.
‘Plan for the worst, hope for the best,’ he said, then asked her if he could get her a drink.
‘Oh, no thanks. I’m only here until it blows over.’
‘How about a coffee to warm you up?’
She hesitated.
‘No ulterior motive,’ he assured her. ‘Just coffee.’
‘I couldn’t …’
‘I’m getting one for myself.’
‘I really don’t …’
‘It’s only coffee. Cappuccino all right for you?’ He ordered two from a passing lounge boy, then made space for her at the table by moving the folded newspaper.
‘I don’t often sit in pubs on my own doing the crossword,’ he told her. ‘But my central heating packed in and won’t be fixed till tomorrow, so I thought being here this evening was a better option.’
‘Sure is.’
The lounge boy put the coffees in front of them and Vince paid immediately.
‘Vince Naughton,’ he said to her.
‘Imogen Weir.’
‘Nice to meet you, Imogen.’
‘You too. Thank you for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She was very pretty, he thought. He liked the Mediterranean vibe she had going – slightly olive skin, dark eyes, dark hair, rosebud mouth.
‘What d’you do, Imogen?’ he asked.
‘At the moment I’m between jobs,’ she told him, her manner relaxing a little as she cupped her hands around the mug of coffee. ‘I was doing some research work for a professor of European history, but my contract ended last month. I’m hoping to get something soon, but you know how it is at the moment, the economy is all over the place. Still, fingers crossed.’
‘European history.’ He sounded impressed. ‘Are you an academic yourself?’
‘God, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m – I’m nothing really. Like I said, I’m job-hunting. I was at an interview today.’
‘For something exciting, I hope.’
‘Not very,’ she admitted. ‘A distribution centre for a French manufacturing company looking for admin staff. Not exactly the glittering career I was hoping for, but needs must and all that.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Not very exciting. But you never know.’
‘It’ll help keep the wolf from the door at least,’ she said. ‘And what about you? What do you do?’
‘I work in life insurance,’ he said.
‘Someone’s got to,’ she joked.
‘Life insurance is very important,’ he told her. ‘People should look after their dependants.’
‘You’re right.’ Her cheeks dimpled again and he wondered if she was laughing at him. But he didn’t mind. Everyone laughed at life insurance. Until they needed it.
‘Would you like another coffee?’ he asked, as she drained her cup.
‘No thanks. I think it’s eased off a bit out there. I should get going.’
‘Do you have far to go? Have you a car parked nearby, or are you getting public transport?’
‘The bus,’ she said. ‘But the stop’s just round the corner.’
‘I listen to the weather forecast, so I have an umbrella. I’ll walk you.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’
‘I should get going myself. I don’t want to spend all night in the pub.’
They left together. The rain was continuing to fall, but not as heavily as before. Vince put up the umbrella, which was stamped with the insurance company’s logo. He held it over both their heads as they walked to the bus stop.
‘Five minutes to the next one,’ Imogen said as she looked at the information display.
‘I’ll wait with you.’
‘It’s very nice of you, but there’s no need.’
‘Don’t want you getting soaked.’
They stood in silence beneath the umbrella, looking down the street in the direction from which the bus would come.
‘Here it is,’ said Imogen as it appeared in the distance.
‘Do you have far to walk afterwards?’
‘Not really. A few minutes, that’s all.’
‘Take the umbrella.’
‘I can’t possibly …’
‘Please, Imogen. I’d like you to.’
‘But then you’ll be the one to get soaked.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. You can return it to me sometime.’
‘I …’
‘I’d like to meet you for coffee again,’ he said, taking his phone out of his pocket. ‘Let’s share numbers.’
‘Well …’
‘No strings, honestly. If it doesn’t work out, no problem.’
She hesitated for a moment before giving him her number. He put it into his phone, then sent her a confirming text.
‘I’ll call you,’ he promised as the bus arrived at the stop.
She climbed on board and he watched while she settled into a seat. As the bus pulled away, he waved at her. When she waved back, he smiled.
Chapter 4
As with her overnight stay in Bayonne, Imogen had used her phone before she’d left Paris to check out the budget accommodation possibilities, although she hadn’t booked anything because she didn’t want to leave any details of who she was on the internet. (More paranoia, she realised. Vince might be right about her after all.) Most of the really cheap places were a little out of town, but she needed to be closer to the centre of things so that she could try to organise herself with something more permanent. Or at least somewhere less temporary. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be staying in Hendaye. The Plan was vague on that point.
She began to walk from the bus stop. The small hotel she’d chosen was in a residential part of the town, about fifteen minutes away. She hadn’t realised when she’d picked it online that the street it was on was quite so steep, and she was breathless by the time she stopped outside. Once again she was gripped with the sudden fear that he’d outsmarted her and was waiting for her within. She wished now that she’d kept the phone and simply disabled the location services. At least that way she’d have seen any texts he’d sent. But would he have known she’d seen them? Would he be able to use them to trace her anyway? She never was certain on that point. She stood on the pavement indecisively as she watched people walking in and out of the hotel. After a few minutes, when she realised that some of them were looking at her curiously, she walked up the short pathway and went inside.
The Atlantique was a three-storey whitewashed building with the typical red-painted wooden shutters and balconies of the area. Inside, the walls were whitewashed too and the floor was terracotta. It was bigger and brighter than the Hostel Auberge, with a more relaxed atmosphere. Two black and white cats sashayed languidly across the reception area, where a friendly girl told Imogen that they could offer her a basic room for five days. Imogen said that five days would suit her perfectly and insisted on paying cash in advance, much to the bewilderment of the receptionist, who handled the banknotes as though she didn’t quite know what they were. Once she’d checked Imogen in, she handed her an old-fashioned brass key to a room on the top floor.
The room was more spacious than the one in the Hostel Auberge, and overlooked a small swimming pool set in a garden full of flowering shrubs and trees. In the distance, over the ubiquitous terracotta rooftops, Imogen could make out the blue of the sea. There was no air-conditioning, but the breeze through the open windows was cool. She turned back into the room and began to unpack her bag. As she hung her navy suit in the wardrobe, she began to panic about her financial situation.
You can’t seriously think you’ll be able to find a job and somewhere to live in under a week.
She whirled around. It was as though he was standing right behind her.
For God’s sake, Imogen, it’s about time you came to your senses. You’re being incredibly silly.
Maybe she was. She sat down abruptly in the old leather armchair in the corner of the room. Everything she’d done until now, she’d done in a kind of controlled frenzy. The Plan had been something to focus on. Now she was here and suddenly it all seemed impossibly ridiculous. He’d laugh at her if he knew.
Running away doesn’t solve anything.
This time it was her mother’s voice again. Imogen remembered when she’d said those words to her. Not here, in Hendaye, but in Ireland after they’d left. She’d been feeling miserable in the grey dampness of the Irish winter and had had a row with everyone before stalking up to her room, declaring that she was leaving them all for ever.
She’d been nine years old.
She’d got as far as packing half a dozen T-shirts and a pair of pink trousers in her Barbie case when Carol came into the room.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Hendaye,’ replied Imogen.
‘Why?’
‘Because I hate it here.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Yes. It’s different. Everyone’s different. They’re mean to me.’
‘Agnes and Berthe aren’t mean to you.’
‘No, they’re lovely. But everyone else. At school.’
‘You’ll make friends, don’t worry,’ said Carol.
‘I hate them all,’ said Imogen. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Sweetheart, this is home.’
‘No it’s not,’ she said. ‘Home’s at the Villa Martine.’
‘The Villa Martine wasn’t our home.’ Carol put her arms around her and hugged her. ‘You know quite well it belonged to Monsieur and Madame Delissandes.’
‘But we were living there by ourselves for a long time!’ cried Imogen. ‘And then you had the indiscretion and ruined everything.’
Now Imogen remembered the pained expression that had crossed her mother’s face at her words, and she winced. She’d been cruel in the way that children can be cruel, not caring about Carol’s feelings, only that she herself hated everything about her new life in a place she didn’t want to be.
I was a horrible child, she thought, as she drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. The only person I thought about was myself. It’s no wonder it all turned out the way it did. And maybe it’s because I’m still horrible that things are the way they are now.
She stayed nestled in the leather chair for about fifteen minutes, her arms wrapped around her legs as she rocked gently backwards and forwards. She’d made a mistake. She knew she had. She couldn’t carry on without him. She needed him. He loved her and she loved him. They were a perfect couple. Everyone said so. If something had gone wrong, it was her fault. Like twenty-odd years ago when she’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time. If she’d kept her mouth shut back then, everything might have turned out differently.
She lifted her head again and reached for her bag. Then she remembered that the phone wasn’t in her bag and that she couldn’t call him, couldn’t ask him to come and get her. Instead, she took out the piece of paper and read it.
The most difficult thing is the decision to act, she read. The rest is merely tenacity.
It was a quote from the American aviator Amelia Earhart. In addition to her store of clichés, Carol had a trove of inspirational quotes she used on a daily basis. That one was Imogen’s favourite. She’d written it on the hotel stationery in Paris before she’d checked out, because she’d known that at some point she’d panic like she was panicking now and that sooner or later she’d lose confidence in herself. She stared at the words for another minute, then took a deep breath and stood up again. She’d already acted. Now all she had to do was be tenacious. To stick with the Plan.
She went into the bathroom, splashed some water on her face, redid her minimal make-up and then brushed her hair, still getting used to the shorter style. After that, she went downstairs again and loo
ked around her.
‘Do you need any information about the area?’ The receptionist was bright and cheerful.
Imogen had been about to say no, she could manage, when she realised that a map would be useful, because despite the past, she didn’t really know the town.
‘Here you go.’ The receptionist handed one to her. ‘This is where we are. And here’s the town centre. There’s a tourist information office here …’ She circled a point on the map. ‘And if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.’
‘You’re very kind, thank you,’ said Imogen.
She took the map and went outside. She was feeling calmer now, her anxiety levels of earlier receding, and she looked around her carefully.
She didn’t recognise any of the nearby streets, but she hadn’t expected to. When she’d lived here, she hadn’t ventured much beyond the Villa Martine and its immediate vicinity. All she remembered about the house was that it had been in one of the most spectacular locations in the town, perched on a hillside facing over the beach and the sea. She wasn’t sure exactly where that was, but she was confident that she could find the general area. There were things she could remember clearly, like the bridge over the railway line that she loved to peer over, and a big camping park further along the road. She’d checked them on Google Maps while she was in Paris, and she was sure that she’d found the right location. But although she’d spent a lot of time looking at various street views, she couldn’t locate the Villa Martine.
The house wasn’t the reason she’d come to Hendaye. But she wanted to see it all the same. She wanted to remind herself that when they’d lived there, she’d been the Imogen who ran along the beach in her bare feet with her hair blowing in the wind. The Imogen who was swept into her mother’s arms when she could run no further and twirled in the air as she shrieked with laughter. She wanted to reconnect with the young girl who’d been full of confidence, who’d had total belief in herself and the world around her.
The Missing Wife Page 3
