‘Ah, Provence,’ he said dismissively.
‘It may not be the Pays Basque, but it’s still France,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘C’est vrai. Anyway, let me see what I can do for you on the price.’
He took out his phone, dialled a number and started talking quickly and urgently.
Imogen caught enough of the rapid-fire conversation to realise that he was asking for a discount for a long-term rental for a charming woman from Provence – yes, Provence, but what can you do? – who wanted to enjoy the delights of Hendaye for a few months. The conversation continued fast and furious for a while, but eventually he ended the call and told her that he had obtained a discount of thirty euros on the monthly price, which he thought was fair and generous. Because, he said, this might not be Paris, but it was infinitely superior to Paris. Did Paris have the sea? Or mountains? Or the people?
Imogen couldn’t help laughing as she said that she’d be delighted to take the apartment for three months at that price.
‘When would you like to move in?’ asked René as they went back to the car.
‘I’m staying at the Atlantique,’ she replied. ‘I’ve booked till next week, but if I can leave sooner, I will.’
‘The apartment will be ready for you on Monday,’ he said. ‘I have to arrange for it to be cleaned, but we are a little short-staffed at the moment so I cannot do it today.’
‘It seemed perfectly OK to me.’
‘We always clean our properties before they are let,’ René said. ‘It’s in the paperwork. Now, come back to the office with me and we can organise it.’
Imogen struggled to shut out the voice in her head telling her that she was paying far too much for an unsuitable apartment in a poor location, as she filled in the forms and then signed them, somewhat cautiously, as Imogen Weir. It was five years since she’d used her maiden name, even though it was still on her passport and driver’s licence. Vince had wanted her to change everything immediately after they’d married, but when he realised that was as expensive as getting new ones, he told her to wait until the renewal date. A total rip-off, he’d said. We’re not giving the government money for nothing. She’d been surprised at his sudden stinginess back then. Now she was grateful for it.
‘All that remains, Madame Weir, is for you to pay the first month’s rental in advance,’ said René. ‘Do you wish to do that by credit card or debit card?’
‘Cash,’ she said as she opened her bag.
He looked startled. ‘We do not have the facility to take cash.’
‘There’s a problem with my card at the moment,’ she told him, although the truth was that she didn’t yet want to use the one from her new bank account. ‘I thought that as cash might be an inconvenience for you, I could pay you the full amount in advance.’
‘That is not our normal procedure,’ he said.
‘I realise that.’ Imogen nodded. ‘I’m not a money launderer or anything if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
René sighed. ‘I suppose as it’s only for three months …’
Imogen took an envelope from her bag and opened it, then began counting out the euros in front of him. ‘You have a copy of my passport,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘It’s not safe to walk around with that much cash in your bag,’ he told her.
‘I know.’ She smiled at him. ‘But now that I’ve given most of it to you, I don’t have to worry.’
René smiled in return.
‘Monday,’ he said. ‘Any time after nine o’clock I will have the keys for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘A bientôt, Madame Weir.’ He extended his hand and she shook it.
‘Au revoir,’ she said.
She felt exhilarated as she walked back to the Hotel Atlantique. In the last few days, she’d left home, travelled through France on her own, found places to stay and now somewhere to live. And she’d done it by herself, despite the constant nagging in her head. She wasn’t hopeless. She wasn’t useless. She was perfectly capable of living her life on her own. Without rules. Or routines. Or Vince.
She started to sing beneath her breath. The song that Berthe used to sing to her when she was very small. The one to put her to sleep.
‘Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse tous en rond.’
Chapter 9
Vince had forgotten to buy milk on his way home from work and so there wasn’t any for the cup of coffee he’d just made himself. He swore loudly and threw the black coffee down the sink, then walked out of the house and down the road. The pub was about fifteen minutes away on foot, and he spent every one of them in a hot rage. At the bar he ordered a pint – coffee wasn’t going to cut it for him any more. He also asked for a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, even though Friday evenings were supposed to be takeaway nights. He hated that Imogen had disrupted his entire week. No football training yesterday because he’d been at the garda station. No takeaway tonight. The shift in his routine was nearly as unsettling as her inexplicable disappearance.
He sat in one of the corner booths, where nobody could disturb him, and checked his phone. Obviously there had been no calls from Imogen, but there was nothing from Shona either. Vince had encouraged Imogen’s friendship with Shona, but he sometimes worried that they were too close. He didn’t want Imogen depending on someone other than him for emotional support. He didn’t think she confided too much in Shona, but he couldn’t be certain that she didn’t know something about what was going on. However, if she didn’t, he couldn’t believe that Imogen wouldn’t get in touch with her. Women might walk out on men, but not on other women. The important thing was that if and when Imogen did make contact, Shona would tell him about it. He hoped she was convinced enough of Imogen’s mental fragility to discount whatever story his wife spun her about her reasons for running away.
He wanted to know the reasons himself. Because from where he was sitting, he couldn’t see any. He was a perfect husband. He was good to his wife. He’d been unswervingly faithful to her. He remembered her birthday and their anniversary, and sometimes he came home with flowers for no reason at all. She was lucky to have him and she’d no right to walk out with no explanation.
He realised that he was clenching his fist again and he relaxed it. He wasn’t a violent man. He’d never lifted a finger in anger towards Imogen, not even when her thoughtlessness was at its most annoying. He despised men who were violent in their own homes. They disgusted him. On the very rare occasions when he and Imogen quarrelled, he would use the force of his arguments, not his fist, to prove his points. Not that they quarrelled much. They agreed on most things. He had no idea what it was that had made her resign her job and not come home. If she was trying to punish him for something, she should have told him what was upsetting her, and if he really had made some silly mistake, he’d have apologised. But if (more likely in his opinion) she’d simply got into a dark mood about something, he’d have talked her out of it, because he knew how to do that.
He picked up his phone again and checked the Find My Friends app for the hundredth time. Imogen’s location was still unavailable. He grunted as he recalled her texts telling him that she was on the way to the airport. She’d lied to him. Quite brazenly. It was as though she didn’t care any more. Didn’t it bother her that when they found out, the neighbours would think she was crazy? It sure as hell bothered him. Even more, it bothered him that they would be asking each other if it was his fault she’d done this insane thing. Yet he’d no reason to blame himself. He’d always put her first. Always. He opened his email. Still nothing from her. He thought for a moment and then sent another, tossing the phone to the table when he’d finished.
He sipped his pint and his anger abated a little. Then he thought about his wife’s situation. The money she’d taken from the current account wouldn’t last very long. And without money, she was going
to have to come home. The question was, how would he play it when she did? Would he be forgiving or furious? Would he have to come up with some new rules for her behaviour? He rather thought he would.
He switched to the Facebook app. Her account was still deactivated, of course. Then he had another thought. He went back to the email log-in page and this time logged on as Imogen. She didn’t know that he knew her username and password, but he’d found them out ages ago, and every so often he checked her emails. He liked to keep an eye on her, to see what she might be up to. The last message in her inbox was the one he’d just sent. It was still unread. She hadn’t read the previous one either.
He felt the anger bubble up within him again. He wasn’t worried about her any more. But nobody could blame him for being angry. He had every right to be bloody furious! He did love her, though, he reminded himself. He would always love her. She knew that. She knew she belonged with him.
And always would.
Shona Egan was having a fruit smoothie in the gym’s café and thinking about Imogen. It was clear to her that her friend had deliberately vanished, and she was both hurt and worried by the fact that Imogen hadn’t said anything to her about it. In fact she hadn’t had the slightest idea of what was going through Imogen’s head, and that disturbed her. They’d known each other since their college days and become friends after Imogen had joined the gym before she’d got married (in order, she’d said, to look good in her white dress). Shona had believed they were close. She’d shared some of her innermost secrets with Imogen: stories of her break-ups and make-ups; her preferences in bed – and things like the fact that her previous boyfriend had liked her dressing up as a librarian and saying ‘Quiet, please’ whenever he cried out. Imogen had asked what exactly dressing up as a librarian meant, because Tess Harte, who lived on their estate, worked in the local library and usually wore jeans and a T-shirt to work. Shona had admitted that Jeff had liked the whole grey cardigan and glasses look, and that he probably had some serious issues but it had been fun at the time. They’d had a light-hearted and fun discussion on the lengths women went to to keep men happy. Imogen had certainly given no indication that she was anything other than ecstatically happy with Vince. Shona had told her on more than one occasion how lucky she was to have him, and Imogen had nodded and said that he was definitely the sort of man other women dreamed of.
So why, Shona wondered, had Imogen upped and left without a word to anyone? Even though she could be a bit quirky from time to time, she was usually dependable. And the quirkiness Shona had always put down to the fact that Imogen had spent her early years in France, which had given her a slightly different way of looking at things. It was also probably partly because Imogen’s family was such a fractured mess. Shona knew that after a rather eclectic upbringing, her friend craved love and stability, and she’d thought that was what she had with Vince. As well as a man who seemed to be totally devoted to her. A little too much, Shona thought sometimes, because when she and Imogen were out together, Vince would usually text at some point to check that everything was OK and ask if they needed a lift home. Still, she thought, at least he cared, which was more than a lot of men. And it was always nice to be picked up after a night in the pub, even if they could have made it home themselves.
Was it the baby thing? she wondered. Perhaps, despite what Vince had said, there had been a disagreement between them about it. Maybe Imogen was feeling pressured into getting pregnant. Shona felt sure that she would have talked about her plans, because they did sometimes have deep discussions about biological clocks and freezing eggs and the whole fertility issue. As far as Shona could remember, Imogen’s view was that she was far too flaky to bring a baby into the world right now. Shona had told her there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have her flaky moments, and the two of them had clinked their wine glasses in agreement.
Could it possibly be another man? Shona couldn’t believe that was something Imogen would have kept from her, but clearly her friend had hidden depths. Vince had said that it was nothing to do with her boss (Shona could have told him that!), but what if Imogen had become romantically entangled with someone else at the company where she worked? Someone in France? Someone she’d met while she was at the exhibition and run off with in a mad frenzy of lust and passion? Although, knowing Imogen, that was highly unlikely. Then again, her disappearing was highly unlikely too.
Nevertheless, why keep it all a secret? Imogen must have known that Shona wouldn’t have been judgemental. Shocked, yes. But they were friends. Shona would have talked it through with her, helped her make the right decision. And if the right decision was running away with a lover, she still wouldn’t have judged her, much as she would have sympathised with Vince.
Her phone rang and she grabbed it straight away, hoping it would be her friend, although she didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello,’ she said cautiously.
‘Hello. Am I speaking with Shona Egan?’
‘Yes,’ said Shona.
‘My name is Ellie. I’m from the Missing Family Foundation,’ said the caller.
Shona felt her heart beat faster.
‘Yes?’
‘I have a message for you from Imogen Weir, also known as Imogen Naughton.’
The first thought that went through Shona’s head was that Imogen was using her maiden name again.
‘Imogen is safe and well,’ said Ellie. ‘She’s decided to make a new life for herself. She doesn’t want anyone looking for her.’
A new life! Shona was dumbstruck. Why on earth would Imogen need a new life? What was wrong with the one she already had?
‘You could be anyone,’ she told the caller. ‘You could be her kidnapper, for all I know.’ In fact, Shona thought, Imogen being kidnapped sounded far more likely than Imogen running away to make a new life.
Ellie acknowledged Shona’s concerns. She gave her a website address to check out and told her to call her back when she was ready. Shona hung up and immediately looked up the website. She was shocked to see so many missing people on it, although many cases went back a long way. She dialled the number on the site and asked to speak to Ellie.
‘Hello again,’ said Ellie.
‘You need to tell me something that nobody but Imogen would know,’ said Shona.
‘After your Pilates class last week, you shared a bar of chocolate,’ said Ellie. ‘Imogen didn’t finish hers, and she put the last three squares into the side pocket of your kit bag when you weren’t looking.’
Shona hung up. She went to her pink and white kit bag and opened the side pocket.
The three squares of chocolate were squashed and melted.
Chapter 10
On Monday morning, Imogen arrived at the estate agency a few minutes before it opened. While she waited for René to show up, she studied the photos of the houses for sale. With their whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs and wooden balconies, they were very different to the house she and Vince had bought in Dublin. They’d both agreed that Bellwood Park was a bargain: a three-bedroomed home reduced in price for a quick sale on a small housing development around a green area. Vince had said they’d be mad not to buy, and so they’d gone to the bank and put themselves through the tortuous mortgage application procedure, made a little easier by the fact that Vince was very well paid, and that Imogen’s mother had left her enough money for a sizeable deposit. A month after the bank had cleared them for the loan, they’d moved in.
It had been an exciting time. Imogen couldn’t wait to turn the suburban house into a warm, welcoming home, although in the end, it was only in the kitchen that she felt she’d truly succeeded. Even though it took some time before the morning sun reached the room, it was always bright and cheerful thanks to the light décor, which had been inspired by the kitchens of both the Maison Lavande and the Villa Martine. They’d been warm and welcoming places, filled with the enticing scents of herbs and flowers. Imogen always had flowers in the kitchen, and grew her own herbs on the wind
ow ledge. Vince’s view was that the whole thing was a bit flouncy, but Imogen stood firm. It wasn’t flouncy, it was evocative, she insisted. He’d laughed at that and told her that times had changed and kitchens should be sleek and modern.
‘However, I’ll live with it because I can compromise,’ he said.
‘So can I.’
Her compromise was a minimalist living room with a black leather suite and a sixty-inch wall-mounted TV. It was very stylish, she agreed. But she’d never felt truly comfortable there. She sighed. Vince had probably never felt comfortable in the kitchen, either.
‘Bonjour, Madame Weir.’ René arrived, a beaming smile on his face, and dragged her thoughts away from Dublin. ‘Ça va?’
‘Très bien,’ she replied. ‘Another glorious day.’
‘But of course.’ He smiled again. ‘We are in summer. Although,’ he added, ‘there is some rain forecast from the Atlantic tomorrow.’
‘Oh no.’
‘But by then you will be happily in your new home, I hope.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘I have the keys,’ said René. ‘We will go and inspect the property together, OK?’
She nodded and got into the car with him. I’m going to be living on my own again, she thought. I was good at living on my own. I liked it.
A short time later, they stopped outside the apartment.
‘If you have visitors, or if you hire a car, you may park in space number six,’ René told her as they got out.
‘Thanks,’ said Imogen. She followed him into the building and up the stairs.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed René when he’d unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment. ‘It has not been cleaned. I thought …’ He took out his phone and punched numbers on the keypad. Then he started talking heatedly to whoever had answered. Meanwhile Imogen went over to the windows and opened them.
The Missing Wife Page 7
