‘Are you sure you’re all right about leaving him? Because we can go back to the hotel if—’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Samantha interrupted her. ‘This is only our second night out without him in four months, and I have to tell you it’s a total pleasure to eat out without a hyperactive six-year-old in tow.’
‘I feel like I might be in the way,’ Imogen said.
‘Meeting people is half the fun of holidays,’ Gerry said. ‘It’s great to have you along.’
Vince wouldn’t have agreed with him, she knew. Although he liked talking to people at poolside bars during the day, he never accepted invitations to join other holidaymakers for dinner. He said it was a waste of precious holiday time to spend it with people you didn’t know and weren’t likely to meet again. Imogen knew that he had a point, even though there had been times when his abrupt turning-down of invitations embarrassed her.
‘Here we are.’ Gerry indicated the restaurant, which was brightly lit with coloured fairy lights strung around the windows. ‘We’ve been looking forward to coming here. It’s got some great reviews on TripAdvisor.’
A waiter greeted them and settled them at a table near the window, where they began to study the menu. Although Imogen’s choices were mainly influenced by price, she liked being able to try dishes she normally didn’t have the opportunity to eat, and happily ordered a main course of txangurro, which the waiter told her was a type of crab.
‘So how long do you plan to stay here?’ asked Gerry.
‘A few months,’ she replied, and then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t as though they’d ever meet Vince, she knew, but she was supposed to be keeping a low profile and not talking about herself. It would have been better to stay non-committal about her plans.
But being non-committal was difficult because Samantha kept peppering her with questions about herself until Gerry told his wife that Imogen wasn’t getting any time to eat.
‘Sorry.’ Samantha grinned. ‘I can’t help it. I’m a reporter.’
‘Reporter?’ exclaimed Imogen, dropping her fork on to her plate.
‘More of a blogger, to be honest,’ admitted Samantha. ‘I blog about sports and the local sports centre, but a few of my pieces were picked up and I’ve been asked by a couple of papers to do some stuff for them from time to time, which is very exciting. So I feel entitled to call myself a reporter too.’
‘Nothing as glam as that for me,’ said Imogen, her heart rate returning to normal as she picked up her fork again. ‘I’m an admin person, that’s all.’
‘Smile!’ Samantha picked up her phone and took a photo of Imogen and Gerry as the waiter cleared their table at the end of the meal. ‘You’re on your holidays!’
‘Oh God, I hate photos,’ said Imogen. ‘Please don’t keep it!’
‘It’s lovely.’ Samantha showed it to her. ‘D’you want me to forward it to you?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I’m not a photo person.’
‘I used not to be,’ Samantha said. ‘But when I started up the blog, I got a lot more into it. And of course people love seeing themselves online.’
‘Not me,’ said Imogen.
‘I agree with you completely,’ said Gerry. ‘I hate having my photo taken. But Sam has a talent for it. She took some great pictures at the kayaking earlier. Especially of me managing to capsize, which was totally embarrassing.’
Samantha gave him a teasing smile. Gerry signalled for the bill and waved away Imogen’s efforts to pay for her share.
‘You can buy us a nightcap in the bar down the road,’ he told her.
So even though Imogen was already fuzzy from two glasses of wine and the shot of brandy that had been brought at the end of the meal, she accompanied them to the bar. She and Samantha sat at an outside table while Gerry got into conversation with one of the people they’d met kayaking earlier.
‘Is everything OK with you?’ asked Samantha after they’d clinked their glasses of Baileys and toasted holiday fun.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ asked Imogen.
‘It’s only … well I don’t want to offend you, but for someone who’s about to take the summer off, you seem to be a little distracted,’ said Samantha.
‘Oh, I’m not taking it off completely,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m going to work for a while.’
‘Really!’ Samantha’s eyes widened. ‘What will you do?’
Another mistake, thought Imogen. She shouldn’t have said anything about working in France. Perhaps it was the alcohol that was causing her to be so careless. In an effort to retrieve the situation, and remembering Henri, the student she’d met on the bus, she told Samantha that she planned to spend some time at a vineyard.
‘That sounds so romantic.’
‘I’m sure it’s more backbreaking than anything else,’ said Imogen, feeling guilty about lying to her.
‘You’ll have to keep in touch with us,’ Samantha said. ‘Here’s my card. It’s got all my details on it.’
‘Thank you.’ Imogen put it in her bag.
‘Same again?’ asked Samantha as she drained her glass.
‘I might just go for water this time,’ said Imogen.
‘Oh, live a little.’ Samantha winked at her. ‘You’re only young once.’ She waved at her husband. ‘Bring the cocktail menu, Gerry,’ she called. ‘We’re just getting going over here!’
Chapter 11
The following morning Imogen woke up with the first hangover she’d had in years. Whenever she went out with Vince, she limited herself to a single glass of wine. But she’d drunk more the night before than in the previous six months put together. She wasn’t entirely sure it had been worth it, but it had definitely been fun.
She got up and fished in her handbag for a couple of paracetamol tablets, taking them with the remains of the litre bottle of water she’d bought the previous day. I hope it’s not a bad omen, she thought as she showered and dressed, to have got blotto on the day before I start a new job! Vince would be right to despair of me if that was the case.
Her headache had disappeared by the time she arrived at the agency an hour later, although she was conscious that she was feeling a certain tension about the job. Which she decided was utterly ridiculous. After all, she told herself as she watched René park in the space outside the building, I have a university degree, I’ve translated important technical documents, I’ve negotiated with trade suppliers on behalf of Conor Foley – I can’t be worried about being a cleaner.
And yet she was.
The light rain that René had forecast began to fall as he stepped out of his car, a massive bundle of keys in his hands.
‘Ah, bon, you’re here already,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You look a bit pale. I don’t want you fainting on the job.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure about doing it?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
‘Follow me.’
He raised the shutters and unlocked the glass door. They both went inside the office, where he switched on the lights and started up his computer. Then he printed out a document and handed it to her.
‘This is your schedule for today. They are all apartments to start you off. It looks like a lot, but they should take you no more than half an hour each, as they are holiday lets and all you need to do is dust, sweep and mop. You will bring this sheet back to me, signed by you, at the end of the day, along with the keys to the properties.’
‘OK,’ said Imogen. She looked at the addresses and then at René. ‘I’ll need a proper map. The one I have only shows the main streets.’
‘Google,’ he said. ‘On your phone. With driving directions to each one.’
‘I don’t have a car,’ she reminded him.
‘I didn’t think of that.’ He frowned. ‘Without a car you will be doing a great deal of walking back and forwards and lose a lot of time. And you will get wet today too,’
he added as he looked out of the window at the darkening sky.
‘I don’t mind walking,’ said Imogen, fearful that he’d change his mind. ‘I walk quickly, I don’t stroll. As for the rain, I’m used to it. I’m Irish, after all.’
‘Walking is not efficient,’ said René. ‘Wait a moment.’
He disappeared through a door and a few minutes later returned pushing an old-fashioned ladies’ bicycle. It was painted in pastel pink, with yellow and white flower decals stuck to the frame. There was a cane basket attached to the handlebars.
‘It belonged to my wife,’ said René. ‘When she left me, she left the bike. So you can have it while you are working for us.’
‘It’s like a prop from a romantic movie,’ said Imogen. ‘I feel as though I should be wearing a floaty dress and a cashmere cardigan instead of this.’ She glanced down at the rain jacket she’d put on over a T-shirt and leggings that morning, and made a face. She didn’t know what had possessed her to include a rain jacket in her packing, but she was glad she had.
‘Hmm, well it didn’t help the romance in our relationship,’ said René. ‘The most important thing is it will get you where you need to go. Also …’ He reached beneath the desk and took out a telescopic umbrella. ‘This might come in handy.’
‘Cleaning products?’ Imogen looked at him questioningly.
‘There are some things in the back,’ said René. ‘Take what you need.’
Imogen propped the bike against a wall and went through the door, which led to a storage area. She selected a bottle of disinfectant and a couple of cleaning sprays, as well as a few cloths, hoping that every apartment already had a mop and bucket and a brush.
She put the cleaning fluids and cloths in the basket and set off, glad that she’d paid the extra for the smartphone so that she could use Google Maps as René had suggested to guide her. It took her nearly twenty minutes to reach her first location, although she reckoned she could shave at least five off that in future, especially if it wasn’t raining. She slid from the bike and pushed it up the narrow pathway that led to the unexpectedly modern block.
She tapped on the door of the apartment, but there was no reply. She put the key in the lock and let herself in. Then she grimaced.
A pile of breakfast dishes had been left on the kitchen table, and the draining board was covered in used cups and glasses. In the two bedrooms, the unmade beds were a tangle of sheets, while the used towels had been abandoned on the bathroom floor. It had been a long time since she’d seen anything so messy. Vince didn’t allow mess. He didn’t like disorder. Dishes never went unwashed. Beds never went unmade. Everything in Bellwood Park had a place, and it was her job to know exactly where that place was.
She took a deep breath. She’d left Bellwood Park precisely because of that. She should be glad to find disorder everywhere, although she had to admit that she was a tidy person at heart – and that was probably Carol’s legacy.
The other apartments on the list were less work, but she was behind schedule by the time she finished and worried that René would have left before she got back to the agency. However, when she freewheeled down the hill and stopped outside the building, she saw that the halogen lights over the photos in the window were still on and he was sitting behind his desk.
‘Will I have to bring the page and keys back to you every evening?’ she asked as she handed him the signed sheet. ‘Because there may be days when I won’t be finished before you close.’
‘We don’t close until eight p.m. in the summer,’ he told her. ‘You’ve plenty of time. But if you’re delayed for any reason, you can post the keys and the paper into the box on the wall, where they’ll be secure.’
She nodded.
‘Are you happy with what you did today?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Although I’m a bit tired,’ she admitted. ‘It’s been a while since I had so much running around to do.’
‘Are you sure this is for you?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
He looked at her doubtfully.
‘It truly isn’t a problem,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve done cleaning work before.’
‘You said that, but …’
‘My mother was a housekeeper.’
It wasn’t quite the same thing, Imogen knew. But Carol had been good at keeping the Villa Martine spick and span. Until the day of the indiscretion, Lucie Delissandes had always said that she was the best housekeeper in the world and that she wanted to keep her for ever. She’d said that she’d never find anyone as good as Carol again. Imogen wondered if eventually she had.
‘Ah, I understand,’ said René. ‘It’s in the family. D’accord. I will see you tomorrow at the same time.’
‘See you then.’ She left the bicycle propped up against the wall, but René called after her.
‘You can take it with you,’ he said. ‘It’s not exactly what I use for getting around town.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She got on the bike and started pedalling again. When she arrived back at her own apartment, the first thing she did was turn on the shower. She hoped the warm water would help her aching muscles. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worked so hard.
After a few days, she began to find a rhythm. Although the houses and apartments she was given were different every day, she was getting more familiar with the town, and was quicker at travelling between each destination. She’d also streamlined her dust, sweep and mop routine and found it satisfying to see order come from the chaos that often awaited her. Nevertheless, on the day that she realised she’d arranged a selection of towels in colour-coordinated piles in the airing cupboard, she immediately took them out and replaced them in a random rainbow display. Enjoying her job was one thing. Being as obsessive as Vince was something else.
As the cleaning took up most of her day, she didn’t have much time for anything else, but she found a couple of hours to buy some summer tops and skirts, as well as doing some food shopping and filling her small fridge with juices, vegetables and cold meats. She also detoured into the small wine shop on the corner of her street and bought herself a couple of bottles of local Muscadelle.
She’d moved the furniture in the apartment so that the small table was beside the window, and she sat at it with her salad and wine, allowing her aching body to relax. In addition to Becky and Nellie, with whom she usually exchanged a few cheery words every day, she’d started to recognise other occupants of the building, although she was aware that most of them were short-stay holidaymakers. It was a pity, she thought, that despite the convenience factor, René hadn’t yet offered her the chance of cleaning the apartments in her own building.
She was beginning to disassociate herself from her Dublin self, with the Imogen who’d been married to Vince, the Imogen who’d burned her bridges with her family and who’d allowed most of her friends to slide out of her life. She was also beginning to feel the shreds of her lost confidence returning. She’d forgotten how to be confident in Dublin. She blamed herself for that. She should have known what was happening. She wasn’t a stupid person. And yet she’d allowed herself to do some very stupid things. She didn’t know why. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t think anyone else would understand it either.
Without wanting to, she thought about Vince. She wondered what he was doing now, whether he’d set about finding out where she was. The reason she’d rung the Missing Family Foundation was so that he couldn’t mobilise some kind of official force to track her. But she was quite sure he’d think of other ways, if that was what he wanted. It was hard to know how he would take it. Would he try to find her, or pretend that she’d never even existed? The thing is, she thought, he’s better off without me. He must know that really. But she knew that wasn’t the point. And that sooner or later she was going to have to find out.
She took a deep breath, then picked up the phone in front of her. She opened the browser, and hesitated. Then, for the first time
since she’d left Ireland, she logged in to her email account.
Imogen’s emails were normally mostly from the gym advising her of new classes, Amazon recommending new reads, and a beauty site from which she’d once bought a moisturiser bombarding her with the latest products designed to deal with every beauty crisis she could possibly think of. But today the first one she saw was from Vince.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: WTF????
What the hell do you think you’re playing at? I got home and there was no sign of you and I was worried sick. I tried calling and calling. In the end I went to your office and GUESS WHAT, Imogen, you’d resigned. Your boss told me – I’m sure he was laughing his head off looking at me. The poor sap husband who’s the last to know that his wife has run away – with another man, Imogen? Is that it? Is that what you’ve done? Because if it is, I will come and find him and tear him limb from limb. What has happened to you? You’re clearly not right in the head.
I love you and forgive you.
Vince
The second email was shorter.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I Am Very Worried
Imogen, I realise that you have problems. I understand that. I know that you’re not yourself. Come home. We can sort it out.
I love you and forgive you.
Vince
The third had no subject.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You rang a **ing missing persons helpline but you didn’t ring me!!! Is Shona involved in this, Imogen? Is she? What the hell is going on? You need help. You know you do.
I love you and forgive you.
Vince
There were emails from Shona, too.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Where Are You?
The Missing Wife Page 9
