The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ She picked up the laundry basket. ‘That was then, this is now. Things have changed, Oliver. I have to get on with my work.’

  ‘How have they changed so that you’re back here working for René Bastarache?’ he asked. ‘And why did you leave us so suddenly in the first place?’

  ‘Your parents didn’t say anything to you?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he replied. ‘All I remember is that one day you were here and the next you were gone. I was terribly upset. So was Charles.’

  Imogen blinked back the tears that had unexpectedly pricked her eyes. She hadn’t thought of Oliver and Charles being upset at her disappearance. She’d always supposed they’d been annoyed at her for letting them down over the camp-out in the garden.

  ‘I don’t know why you’d be upset,’ she said. ‘After all, as you told me so many times, I was only a girl.’

  ‘We were teasing you, you must know that!’ exclaimed Oliver. ‘We were devastated when you went. We’d had such good fun together.’

  ‘We did, didn’t we?’

  ‘You were game for anything,’ he said. ‘Not every girl would have walked that plank, you know.’

  ‘You didn’t give me a choice.’ But her voice bubbled with laughter.

  ‘Have a drink with me,’ said Oliver. ‘Let’s talk. Please?’

  It seemed rude not to, although she was very conscious, as she sat on one of the cushioned chairs, that she had a different status in the house to him.

  ‘So why did you leave so abruptly?’ he asked, when he’d poured her a citron pressé from the fridge (he’d offered wine, but she told him she didn’t want to be drunk in charge of a bicycle, at which he’d snorted and said that it was probably the best way to be in charge of a bicycle, and she’d said yes, someone who drives an Evoque would probably think that, which made him laugh).

  ‘You really don’t know?’ she said. ‘Nobody talked about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Maman said you had to go back to Ireland, that was all.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver …’ She said nothing for a moment. ‘How are your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘My parents?’ He was surprised at the question. ‘They’re OK.’

  ‘Is your maman still working as an editor? Your dad in the bank?’

  ‘You remember that much?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re still in the same industries, although they’ve moved on. From each other as well,’ he added.

  ‘They’re separated? Divorced?’

  ‘Divorced. A few years after you and your mother left us.’

  Imogen grimaced. Carol’s affair with Denis had had an impact after all. Oh Mum, she thought. You should never have got involved with him.

  ‘Giles would have been pretty young at the time,’ she said.

  ‘Four or five.’ Oliver shrugged. ‘But it was amicable.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They didn’t love each other any more.’

  ‘That was the only reason?’

  ‘A pretty good reason, I’d’ve thought.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ she said. ‘Have they remarried or anything?’

  ‘Maman is in a relationship with a man she’s known for the last four years.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Very,’ said Oliver. ‘The publishing company she worked with was bought by a larger company, and she’s now an editorial director. She sits on the board.’

  ‘Wow.’ Imogen was surprised. ‘I never would have thought that, to be honest. She always seemed so dreamy and creative to me. I can’t imagine her in an office laying down the law.’

  ‘She does it very well,’ said Oliver. ‘I should know. I work for the same company.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘In a different division,’ he said. ‘I don’t deal directly with her. But I hear the talk. Firm but fair is what they say.’

  ‘I’m glad she’s doing well. And your dad?’

  ‘My dear papa is on his third marriage,’ said Oliver, a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘We hope this one might last, but we’re not terribly confident.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My father has always taken the view that there is an inherent difference between a wife and a mistress, and that having one shouldn’t impact on the other.’ Oliver shrugged. ‘He’s a believer in the cinq à sept. You know this?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. The time after work when French men are supposed to have their extramarital trysts.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘A bit of a cliché, but sadly true as far as my father is concerned. Unfortunately neither my mother nor his second wife was too keen on the idea, although I think Maman was more accepting than Elodie.’

  ‘Your father had a cinq à sept when he was married to your mother?’

  ‘More than one, I suspect,’ said Oliver.

  Imogen moistened her lips with a sip of the lemon drink.

  ‘And not just cinq à sept,’ she said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, Oliver.’ She put the glass on the table. ‘I’m so, so sorry about it, but my mother and your father had an affair. That’s why we left.’

  He said nothing for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  ‘I should’ve guessed. But I was only twelve at the time, and probably a young twelve at that. I didn’t think … You don’t, do you, when you’re a kid? I wouldn’t have even considered your mother and my father …’

  ‘I didn’t realise for a long while afterwards,’ admitted Imogen. ‘I always believed that my mother had been blamed for something that had happened in the house, and your dad had got off scot free. I thought it was horribly unfair.’

  ‘Oh, Genie.’ Oliver gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘I know it sounds daft,’ she said. ‘Whenever I thought about it, I didn’t think of it as an affair, just as something for which Mum had been punished. All the same, she was in the wrong and I spent a lot of time wanting to come back and apologise.’

  ‘You? Apologise? What for?’

  ‘Causing trouble between your mum and your dad.’

  ‘She wasn’t the first, or the last.’ Oliver’s tone was dismissive.

  ‘But your mother was devastated,’ said Imogen.

  ‘I’m sure she was angry,’ agreed Oliver. ‘Devastated … I don’t know.’

  ‘It was my fault she found out,’ said Imogen. ‘I told her that your dad had been rubbing my mum’s feet. I realised later that that was what had given them away. She must have been so angry and hurt! I don’t blame her in the slightest for throwing us out straight away. This was her home. It’s not quite the same as having a secret assignation in a hotel.’

  ‘True. But you and your mum suffered the consequences too. That must have been hard.’

  ‘I was very upset,’ she admitted. ‘It took me a long time to settle in Ireland. For all that Mum kept calling it home, it wasn’t home to me.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Oliver. ‘But everything was OK in the end?’

  Imogen told him about Kevin, about Carol’s illness and about the eventual move to the UK.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘That must have been tough.’

  ‘Losing Mum was hard. Moving was hard. But Kevin is … a decent guy.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘I spent a while not liking him,’ said Imogen. ‘But for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘And now?’ he asked.

  ‘Now I’m here.’ She’d skipped over her marriage. She didn’t want to talk about Vince.

  ‘But you must have done something else between school and coming to Hendaye.’

  ‘Stuff,’ she said. ‘Not worth mentioning. Anyway, it’s been lovely talking to you, Oliver.’ She finished the lemon. ‘But I really have to go. I have to report back to René.’

  ‘Can we meet again when you’re not busy?’ said Oliver. ‘It would be great to talk a little more. You’re like family, Genie.’

  Hearing him use her childhood name so c
asually was both strange and familiar.

  ‘I’m not family,’ she told him. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘A distant cousin, perhaps.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Someone we don’t see any more. But also a person who was a part of our lives. It would be nice to catch up properly.’

  She didn’t think so. They were worlds apart now. They always had been. But she smiled warmly as she stood up.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again,’ she said.

  ‘I hope so.’ He got up too and walked with her to the front of the house, where she’d propped the pink bicycle against the wall. ‘Love the bike.’

  She smiled and explained about it being Céline’s.

  ‘Is divorce really more civilised in France?’ she asked as she got ready to cycle away. ‘Or does everyone just think it is?’

  ‘Thankfully I’ve yet to be divorced,’ said Oliver. ‘So I can’t tell.’

  ‘You’re the married one?’ she asked.

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Marriage and divorce are experiences that have been closed to me so far.’

  ‘But girlfriends?’ She didn’t think he was gay, but it was always possible.

  ‘Of course girlfriends!’ He sounded slightly affronted. ‘None right now, though, which suits me as I’m too busy for them.’

  ‘At this publishing company with your mother?’

  ‘I’m an editor,’ he said. ‘I came here for some peace and quiet while I work on a complicated novel. Also I’ll be meeting a new author who lives in San Sebastian and who’s written a brilliant book about life in the Basque country sixty years ago. It’s going to be a massive seller. So better to be free of entanglements.’ He grinned. ‘Unless an opportunity presents itself to me. I’m my father’s son after all.’

  She looked slightly shocked. ‘You’d have an affair?’

  ‘I’ve only ever had one,’ he told her. ‘And it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I prefer not to skulk around in the shadows. No, ma petite, I meant if while I was at the Villa Martine I met a beautiful girl, then I might be persuaded to put the work away for an afternoon.’

  ‘There are plenty of beautiful girls on the beach,’ she acknowledged as, with a quick au revoir, she swung herself on to the saddle and pedalled away.

  She brought her schedule and the keys back to René, who glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘Any problems?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oliver Delissandes delayed me. We were talking for a while.’

  ‘He is happy with our service?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Imogen.

  ‘I’m always anxious when we have a long-term client and they see that the cleaner is different from year to year,’ said René. ‘I don’t want them to worry about the security of their homes.’

  ‘Oliver … Monsieur Delissandes didn’t say anything about being worried,’ Imogen told him.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll be off,’ she said. ‘Have a nice weekend.’

  ‘Are you coming to the beach barbecue on Sunday?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t know about it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s part of the summer festival,’ he said. ‘Open to everyone, but you must buy a ticket for food. You can get one at any of the shops.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ She put her bag over her shoulder. ‘If not, I’ll see you Monday.’

  ‘A bientôt,’ said René.

  She left the bike at the office and strolled back to the apartment. There was a spring in her step and a lightness about her spirit that she hadn’t known for a long time; she could feel it almost as if a physical weight had been lifted from her. Perhaps it was because she’d apologised to Oliver. It wasn’t quite the scenario she’d imagined when she’d envisaged coming back with Carol, but it had been cathartic all the same. Yet she couldn’t help thinking that over the years she’d built it into something far bigger than it actually was. ‘Drama queen,’ she murmured as she let herself into her apartment. Shona was probably right about that.

  She changed into her swimsuit and did a few lengths of the pool before stretching out on one of the sun loungers. Max Gasquet, the young intern whom she’d spoken to previously but hadn’t seen since, arrived a few minutes later and began doing lengths too.

  ‘Are you going to the barbecue at the beach on Sunday?’ he asked as he towelled dry afterwards.

  ‘You’re the second person who’s mentioned it to me,’ she said. ‘Is it a big deal?’

  ‘Lots of people go,’ he replied. ‘It’s fun.’

  ‘I like the idea of fun,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll see you there.’ He gave her a brief smile and walked back to the apartment building.

  She was ready to have fun, she thought. She’d already started on it by playing in the boules tournament. And by ignoring all the rules that had dominated her life over the past five years. With each passing day she was beginning to see how tightly they’d bound her, and she was becoming more and more horrified at how long she’d accepted them. She wished she understood how it was that Vince had managed to control her like that. It seemed extraordinary to her now that she hadn’t seen it happening, hadn’t reacted sooner. How following the line of least resistance had seemed normal.

  ‘I’m so glad I made the Plan,’ she said out loud. ‘And even gladder that I followed it.’

  She got up from the lounger and went inside. She poured herself a glass of wine and curled up on the small sofa. She felt at home. And after talking to Oliver Delissandes, she felt liberated too. Denis had been serially unfaithful, so his affair with Carol hadn’t been the sole problem in a marriage that Imogen had always thought was idyllic. It hadn’t helped, of course, but her mother wasn’t totally to blame for later events.

  Marriages, she thought, as she sipped the wine and stared into the distance. Far more complicated than anyone outside them would ever know. And maybe far more trouble than they were worth.

  Chapter 26

  When Vince returned to the hotel, he set about finding out if any of the staff remembered Imogen and knew where she’d planned to go after checking out. In the movies, it was a relatively simple task to accost a receptionist or bellboy and get information, but real life was different. Everyone refused to talk to him until finally the duty manager came to meet him.

  ‘She’s my wife,’ Vince told the sceptical man, who towered over him. ‘She’s missing.’

  ‘The police have not been here about a missing woman,’ said the manager.

  ‘It’s not a police matter.’ Vince wasn’t going to go into explanations. ‘Nevertheless, I need to find her.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you.’

  ‘Yes you damn well can.’ Vince thrust his phone with Imogen’s photo in front of him and told him the dates she’d stayed. ‘All I want is to check your reservations and talk to your staff and see if she said anything about where she was going after she left.’

  ‘There would be no record of her movements after she left the hotel.’ Despite himself, the manager was looking at the photograph. ‘She is very pretty, your wife.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Could it be …’ the manager gave an imperceptible shrug, ‘an affair of the heart?’

  ‘No,’ said Vince. ‘It isn’t. Now are you going to help me or not?’

  The manager sighed and began tapping at one of the computer terminals.

  ‘We do not have a reservation for Madame Naughton,’ he said.

  ‘Try her company,’ suggested Vince. ‘Chandon Leclerc.’

  The manager tapped at the keyboard again.

  ‘We have a Monsieur Foley and a Madame Weir,’ he said.

  ‘Of course she would have used her own name.’ Vince nodded slowly. ‘She hadn’t changed it on her passport.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the manager. ‘I have no further information for you other than that she checked out on the morning of her departure.’

  ‘Did she come back here later th
at day?’ asked Vince.

  ‘There is no way for us to tell.’

  ‘Are any of the staff who were there that day here now? They might remember.’

  The manager looked around and his eyes stopped at the concierge. He waved him over and explained the situation to him.

  ‘I remember her,’ said the concierge. ‘Hard to forget a face like that. Although I think she was wearing her hair differently.’

  ‘Differently how?’ demanded Vince.

  ‘A little shorter.’

  ‘And did she ask you for any information? About other hotels? Other cities?’

  The concierge frowned at Vince’s abrupt tone.

  ‘I cannot say, Monsieur.’

  ‘You can’t say or you won’t say?’ asked Vince.

  ‘There’s no need to be aggressive with me,’ said the concierge.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Vince took a deep breath. ‘I’m worried, that’s all.’

  The concierge looked at him intently.

  ‘Madame took a bus,’ he said after a moment. ‘There is a stop nearby.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘There are a number of destinations,’ said the concierge. ‘But I believe she said something about Montpellier.’

  ‘Montpellier? Where the hell is that?’

  ‘It is in the Languedoc region,’ said the manager.

  ‘That means nothing to me,’ said Vince. ‘Is it near Marseille, by any chance?’

  ‘A couple of hours along the coast,’ replied the concierge.

  ‘How long to get to Montpellier from here?’ asked Vince.

  ‘Driving or by train?’

  ‘Train.’

  The concierge took out an iPad and began searching.

  ‘There is a train in half an hour,’ he said. ‘It leaves from the Gare de Lyon and takes approximately three and a half hours.’

  ‘Where’s the Gare de Lyon?’

  ‘Not far. Ten minutes in the Métro. Or we can call a cab for you.’

  ‘A cab,’ said Vince. ‘It seems I’ll be spending enough time already on public transport. Did my wife mention anything about where she’d be in Montpellier?’