‘I do hope she returns safely, if that’s what she wants,’ Conor had said, signalling that the meeting was at an end. ‘But sometimes people feel the need to move on.’
‘I’d hardly call walking out on the one person who ever loved her moving on,’ Vince said. ‘If you hear anything at all from her, I expect you to let me know.’
‘If she gives her permission,’ said Conor. ‘But I doubt she’ll call me.’
‘She still hasn’t called me either,’ Shona told him later that evening. ‘But I wish she bloody well would.’
Vince had phoned her and asked her to meet him. They were now in an alcove in the local lounge bar, where, despite it being early in the week, quite a few people from the housing estate were sitting down to the burger-and-beer special. Vince had ordered the special for himself, but Shona had contented herself with a glass of wine and a packet of peanuts.
Vince outlined his plan to go to France as soon as possible.
‘I can’t afford a PI,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged to take some time off work and find her myself. It can’t be that hard. Everyone says it’s impossible to disappear these days.’
‘Maybe if the government is tracking you it is,’ agreed Shona. ‘But you’re going as a private individual with no access to any sources of information. How on earth will you manage?’
‘By being methodical,’ said Vince. ‘By knowing when I’ve unearthed useful information. Something always comes up, and when it does, I’ll find her and bring her home.’
‘What if she doesn’t want to come?’ asked Shona.
‘She does,’ said Vince. ‘She just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘And what happens then?’
He looked at her pensively. ‘What d’you mean, what happens?’
‘Well she obviously had her reasons for leaving you.’
‘I told you, she was upset. The baby and everything. You know.’
‘It must be more than that,’ said Shona. ‘Disappearing without a word is an over-the-top reaction to not being pregnant. Something else must have caused it.’
‘You know Imogen.’ Vince gave a dismissive shrug. ‘She’s impulsive. She does stupid things.’
‘I wouldn’t call Imogen impulsive at all,’ said Shona. ‘She always seems very thoughtful to me.’
‘You only see one side of her,’ Vince said. ‘She was a mess before she married me. She’ll be a mess again without me.’
Shona ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass without speaking. She wasn’t quite sure what to say.
‘I promise you,’ said Vince. ‘By the time I catch up with her, she’ll want to come home.’
‘Listen to me, Vince.’ Shona pushed the glass of wine away. ‘Imogen left because she was unhappy. I’m not blaming you, but you must have contributed to it in some way.’
Vince’s eyes sparked with anger. ‘I did nothing to cause this! Nothing at all! You know that, Shona. I’ve never been anything but loving and caring to Imogen. I’ve tried to be the best husband possible. Why do women always blame men when there’s a problem?’
‘I’m not blaming you as a man,’ said Shona. ‘But … you were the one in the relationship with her.’
‘I thought you were on my side,’ said Vince.
‘I’m not on anyone’s side,’ said Shona. ‘All I want is for her to be OK.’
‘And that’s all I want too.’ Vince stood up. ‘I’m going home. I need to make arrangements for my trip.’
‘OK,’ said Shona. ‘I’ll stay here a little longer. I need to finish my drink.’
‘Ring me.’ Vince turned before he walked out the door. ‘She calls you – you ring me. Clear?’
‘Of course.’ Shona nodded. She knew Vince was upset. She understood that. But there was a part of her that was beginning to see why Imogen might have left. And she wondered if her coming back would be such a good idea after all.
Vince made a list. He was good at lists. They were the mainstay of his working life and they were a big part of his personal life too. He wrote down everything he remembered Imogen telling him about her time in France. There hadn’t been much, because she’d still been a kid when she left. He wrote down what she’d told him about her college years, and afterwards when she’d worked for two professors before getting the job at Chandon Leclerc. He recalled her talking about the research she’d done, but it was hard to remember anything very specific, as he hadn’t listened very closely. It had been boring stuff. He did remember her saying that she felt ashamed that the professor she was working for had known more about the country where she’d spent her early years than she did herself.
He got up and checked the bookshelf. Although the books were arranged in alphabetical order, he couldn’t remember the man’s name, so it took a while before he saw one written by a Professor J. M. Julien. He opened it and read the acknowledgement that Professor Julien had made to Imogen, thanking her for her hard work. According to the biography of the author, he currently lectured at Trinity College. Vince looked up the number and called him.
He was surprised when he was put through to an extension that was answered straight away.
‘Professor Julien?’ asked Vince.
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
‘My name is Vince Naughton. My wife, Imogen, was a research assistant to you a few years ago.’
‘Imogen … Imogen …’
‘She would have been Imogen Weir back then.’
‘Oh yes, Imogen. I remember her well. Lovely girl. Great worker. Very intelligent.’
‘Indeed she is. Um, Professor, I’m ringing to ask if you could tell me exactly where Imogen lived when she was in France. I know it was Provence, but could you narrow it down for me?’
‘How on earth should I know?’ The professor sounded tetchy. ‘Can’t you ask her yourself?
‘Yes, but that would spoil the surprise,’ said Vince. ‘I’m organising a trip for our wedding anniversary.’
‘The last of the great romantics, eh?’ This time his tone was more jovial.
‘Something like that,’ said Vince. ‘I wanted to bring her back to where she was brought up as a kid. Trouble is, I’m not sure where it actually was. I’m contacting some of her friends to see if they can help.’
‘I wish I could,’ said Professor Julien. ‘But it was a good few years ago and it’s not something I even remember her telling me.’
‘If you could try, that’d be great.’
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then Professor Julien spoke, although his tone was doubtful.
‘Near Marseille, I think,’ he said. ‘She talked about the soap, how it was supposed to be very good for you, and that her mother used to buy it even in Dublin. But I’m quite sure that no matter where in Provence you go, she’d enjoy herself. It’s a lovely part of the country.’
‘I’m sure she would. I’m just trying to be precise.’
‘Isn’t there someone else who could be more helpful? Imogen’s mother, perhaps? Oh, but she died, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Vince.
‘And her father was killed before she was born, I remember now. A tragic situation. But Imogen was a positive girl. Very helpful, very enthusiastic.’
‘She’s had it tough,’ agreed Vince. ‘That’s why I want to do something nice for her. It would be lovely to be able to surprise her by staying near her childhood home.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ said Professor Julien. ‘Although …’
‘Yes?’
‘Didn’t she live in a guest house? I think I recall her telling me that.’
‘Do you remember the name of it?’
‘That’s something I’m sure you can find out from her without her guessing what you’re up to,’ said Professor Julien.
Vince gritted his teeth. ‘You’re right. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Not really,’ said the professor. ‘Well, good luck with your— Oh.’
‘Oh?’
/> ‘The guest house was called the Maison Lavande,’ said Professor Julien triumphantly. ‘I’ve just remembered because it’s the same name as a bar in Lyon that was a centre of resistance during the Second World War. It’s not far from Montluc prison, where Jean Moulin was incarcerated. Lots of interesting history there, and—’
Vince wasn’t interested in the history of a French prison, and he interrupted the professor before he could say any more. ‘This bar – Lyon isn’t in Provence, is it?’
‘No, no, but the guest house is, or was, I presume. It’s the coincidence of them having the same name that reminded me. The bar was accidentally bombed by the Allies in 1944. But they’ve rebuilt it since. Worth a visit if you’re in Lyon.’
‘I won’t be in Lyon,’ said Vince.
‘You should go,’ the professor told him. ‘When you and Imogen visit Marseille. She’ll love it, I promise you. It’s only an hour and a half or so by train. Imogen was very interested in the Resistance and the stories of people overcoming adversity. Not that the war was mere adversity, of course. But the individual stories, that’s what she liked. I remember—’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Professor.’ Vince interrupted him again. ‘I’m sure I can incorporate the bar into our trip. You said “when you and Imogen visit Marseille”. Can you recall if she lived in the town itself?’
‘Well, no,’ said the professor. ‘But I think … not far outside, I’m sure.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vince. ‘That’s very helpful.’
‘Surely you’ve talked to her about this before?’
‘Not that much.’ Vince wasn’t going to admit that he hadn’t even known that Imogen had lived close to Marseille in the first place. ‘She might have told me at some point but I’d forgotten, and it doesn’t do to tell your wife you’ve forgotten anything.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted with whatever you arrange,’ said Professor Julien. ‘Do please tell her I said hello, and pass on my best wishes.’
‘Will do,’ said Vince, and ended the call.
Then he opened his laptop and began a search.
Chapter 22
‘Do you want to come to a boules tournament on Thursday evening?’ asked René when Imogen arrived at the agency after the weekend. Simply walking into the office had made her feel better after her sudden bout of vulnerability following Vince and Cheyenne’s emails, but she tensed up again at René’s question.
‘I’m flattered you’ve asked me, but I told you before that it’s not a good idea for me to go out with you,’ she said.
‘No, no.’ René held up his hands. ‘I have totally accepted your harsh rejection of me. This is completely different. It’s not a date.’
‘What is it, then?’ asked Imogen with relief.
‘It’s a charity event,’ said René. ‘A number of local businesses, including us, are taking part. I thought you might like to be on our team.’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ said Imogen, although she’d played the game before, on the beach with the Delissandes, with a set of brightly coloured plastic boules.
‘It’s a little like English bowls, except we throw the balls instead of rolling them,’ explained René. ‘See.’ He reached beneath his desk and took out a small carrying case in which nestled six silver-coloured balls each the size of an orange.
‘I wouldn’t be any good at it.’ Which was the truth, she thought. She’d never won a game against the boys. ‘I’d let you all down.’
‘Nonsense,’ said René. ‘It’s throwing at a target. It’s easy. Lots of people come out to support the evening by betting on us, and all the money goes to very deserving local charities.’
‘Stop playing the charity card!’ cried Imogen. ‘Honestly, René, I’d be a liability.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ said René. ‘None of us is an expert. The team so far is me, Angelique and Raoul. We need one more.’
Raoul was the sales manager. He was an affable married man from Bayonne whom Imogen had met a couple of times in the office.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
She’d absolutely no intention of competing in the tournament, charitable or not, but that evening, when she was having her noisette at the café, Céline asked her to be on a team too.
‘Oh, I can’t,’ she said, in surprise. ‘René’s asked me already.’
‘He has?’ Céline shook her head and the curls of her topknot bounced. ‘Merde. I should’ve asked you sooner myself.’
‘You’re not losing out on anything,’ said Imogen. ‘I won’t be taking part, Céline. I’m terrible at throwing things. You’re better off without me.’
‘Nobody’s any good,’ she said. ‘That’s half the fun.’
‘That’s what René tried to tell me. But he has his own set of boules! And he said that people bet on you and everything.’
‘Everyone around here has their own set,’ said Céline. ‘And as for the betting, it’s just for fun. For the charity.’
Imogen looked doubtful.
‘It’s a great day,’ Céline said. ‘Honestly it is. And I agree that you can’t play for me as René has asked you first, but you’d enjoy it.’
‘Well …’
‘You’ll enjoy it,’ repeated Céline. ‘I promise.’
‘OK. OK.’ Imogen held up her hands in good-natured surrender. ‘You’ve convinced me. It’s for fun and for charity. I won’t take it too seriously. I’ll tell René the bad news tomorrow.’
René was delighted when she said she’d play, and offered to give her a little advance training.
‘Training!’ she cried, a note of panic in her voice. ‘You said it would be easy. And both you and Céline promised it was for fun. Training doesn’t sound like fun.’
‘It’s most definitely fun,’ he assured her. ‘But a little practice wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ she said, and he shrugged and told her that the competition would start at eight on Thursday evening. It was taking place in the boules area of the Jazkiel camping site.
‘I’ll be there.’ Despite herself, Imogen was starting to get a little excited at the idea of a night out. With the exception of the evening she’d spent with Gerry and Samantha, she’d been on her own every night since she’d left Vince, and although she enjoyed the peace and serenity, it was sometimes lonely. Besides, going to the tournament would be like picking up the threads of her life again. A life that didn’t have to be only about work and sitting on the balcony by herself, watching the sun go down.
She arrived at the campsite exactly on time, wearing a plain white top, pink shorts and a pair of floral espadrilles that she’d bought at a shop near the seafront.
‘You look très chic,’ said Céline when she saw her.
‘Chic? Compared to you, I don’t think so,’ said Imogen. ‘How do French women always manage to look so … together?’
Céline grinned. ‘I’m wearing an old T-shirt and capri pants. It’s hardly the height of sophistication.’
‘And yet you look fantastic in them.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘It’s genetic, isn’t it? You’re all born with it.’
‘If you say so,’ said Céline. ‘But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I’ve never seen you looking better, Imogen.’
Perhaps it was because she was feeling good, thought Imogen. Maybe it was showing in her face.
Coloured lights had been erected around the sandy area designated for the tournament, and painted wooden kiosks were selling soft drinks, ice cream and food. A brass band was playing, and in front of them a group of giggling children marched back and forwards, swinging their arms in time with the beat. There was a bar at one end of the arena, where a cluster of people, including René, were gathered.
‘I should check in with my team manager,’ Imogen told Céline when René spotted her and waved.
‘Indeed. From this moment we are bitter rivals.’ Céline tried to look competitive, but the merriment shone from her eyes.
‘I will see you later.’
‘See you later.’ Imogen walked towards the bar and was suddenly assailed by a memory of another time and another place where boules had been played. The image was of Agnes and Berthe roaring with laughter as they threw the silver balls on a court marked out on the beach. She remembered Carol laughing too. It must have been the beach close to the Maison Lavande. Her memory was vague – of biscuit-coloured sand and azure water and the clink of metal on metal as the boules collided.
A stronger memory came to her when René offered her a shot of pastis. The aniseed-flavoured drink had been a favourite at the Maison Lavande. Berthe’s mother had kept a decanter full on the table in the hallway and had offered it to guests for free. Imogen had believed it was lemonade until the day Madame Fournier had allowed her the tiniest sip. She’d made a face at the sickly-sweet smell and gasped as the fiery liquid burned her throat. Carol had been annoyed at the older woman for giving alcohol to a four-year-old, but Madame Fournier had sniffed and said it was important that Imogen knew the drink wasn’t lemonade, and that she’d given her nothing more than a taste.
It was the smell she recalled now as she took a tentative sip.
‘Ugh.’ She made a face and put the shot glass back on the table.
‘This should be like home to you, Madame Provençal,’ he teased. ‘Pétanque and pastis – or boules and booze if you prefer! Everything you need to make you feel like you’re in the south of France again.’
‘I was a small child when I left.’ She took another sip of the pastis and wrinkled her nose. ‘I certainly didn’t play boules or drink this stuff.’
‘You’ll get a taste for it,’ René assured her.
‘I’m kind of hoping not.’ She drained the shot glass and asked for a sparkling water.
René gave her a good-natured smile, then stood up as two people approached them.
The Missing Wife Page 21
