“Oh, I’m sure it is no hardship for Madame Gibson to enjoy a few more days in Paris, especially in your company, Nathan. But remember, Lana, there is so much available to see in this city. Don’t waste your time on what is not meant for your eyes.”
What exactly had he said? Where were her documents?
“Monsieur, are you allowing the American lady to catch her flight?”
“Don’t worry yourself about this, Ferdinand. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”
And he turned away. Ferdie now knew for certain that Vallette would not be dumped. Without pleasure, he spoke to his master’s back.
“Monsieur Fournier. I have downloaded the material. I still have a copy of the interview.”
9 PM
Nathan leans in to whisper, but Lana nods to say she’s got it. There are a few exchanges between the little fellow and Fournier, and even though his answers consist pretty well entirely of “Oui” and “Non,” it is clear that his boss is getting nowhere. Fournier shrugs and looks at her.
“It seems that the man you assaulted has become your champion, Lana.”
He goes to Vallette, who looks like he has clearly had enough and intends to deal with things his way. But Fournier grips his arm and Lana sees in that moment some secret message pass between them that has little to do with the present crisis: something under the skin of this relationship, the servant, the master, the who and the why of it. All she recognizes is that a complex subtext with a long, turbulent history exists between this pair.
Like a marriage, Lana Gibson thinks.
Vallette backs off. It’s impossible to read what Fournier is feeling. Those restless brows quite still for once. It occurs to Lana that, even at such a critical moment, it could be that he’s not thinking about this situation at all. He might be preoccupied with something much more fundamentally important to him, like the prospect of banishing the most loyal of old friends, the potential hacking off of a limb. All at the behest of his unattractive little pimp of a chauffeur. The torment of that.
Vallette takes a bulky envelope from an inside pocket. Fournier returns and places the envelope on the table in front of Lana. Inside are her passport, ticket, and phone. She is whole again. And almost at liberty.
Fournier stared at Ferdie as if a little disappointed in him.
“Are you satisfied, Ferdinand?”
“Thank you. Just to be clear, sir: I am anxious for everything to be as it was between us.”
“Then we should work very hard to make sure that happens, Ferdinand. Good night.”
Ferdie couldn’t help but admire how, as Monsieur Fournier returned to Vallette and the others, he was already smiling and gesturing and his whole body radiated genial authority, as if he had just spent a few useful minutes swinging skeptical voters his way. He motioned the others to follow him and sauntered off. Most satisfyingly for Ferdie, Vallette turned his stony gaze directly at him. It was hard to resist taunting him with a little finger wave. He had begun to convince himself—almost—that he had won. The American woman stood and smiled at him.
“Well. We have to go. And . . . I really mean this. Thank you. Merci très bien.”
Without standing Ferdie took her offered hand. Well, why not? They’d never see each other again. She even squeezed it a little, which felt nice. They left and as Ferdie waited for Didi to return, he thought about how hard it was to feel just one way about something. There was elation, sure, no doubt about that. He was ending the day a lot better than he started it, that was certain. But he also guessed that his greatest wish would not, could not be granted. After what had happened, things could not go back to the simple perfect life he once had with Monsieur Fournier and his DS21. That had been shattered. And he had the feeling that whatever was to come would not be as satisfactory.
LANA DECIDES NATHAN DESERVES A PROPER GOODBYE THIS TIME SO THEY walk together quickly to the shuttle that will take him to the RER station.
“You’re incredible, Lana Turner, you know that?”
“Nice of you to say so, but no. I’m just out of control and I have to do something about it.”
It being Paris, the little driverless shuttle is of course waiting, doors open in welcome. The warning beep starts. Nathan steps aboard.
“Well, when you have . . . when you’re feeling calmer . . . why don’t you come back to Paris and—”
“No. Nathan. This is a good ending, don’t you think?”
“Well, not quite the atmosphere of Brief Encounter but—”
The automatic doors start to close.
“—it’s a lot better than—”
They hiss shut and she barely hears, “—last time.”
His grin and wave are tinged with something like regret or sorrow; found and lost and found and lost again. The shuttle rolls smoothly silent, into the darkness. Suddenly, heavily, Lana craves sleep. Can it be the meds kicking in already or is it just collapse, like at the end of an exhausting workout? “Ice bath time,” Brian would always say after watching some particularly bruising football game.
By the time she arrives at the tube that will take her to the gate and is holding out her passport and online boarding pass to a surprisingly friendly-looking official, Lana is already looking forward to returning to Paris. But this time with Brian. They will have that holiday they’d missed out on. Even better if they can make it a Gibson family holiday, she and Brian and a baby. Yes, how about that?
A hand clamps on her wrist. Curiously, it’s a female hand.
Pauline and Odette, standing side by side, offer the brightest of bright smiles. Lana notes how amazingly well Odette seems to have recovered from her interrogation ordeal.
“Lana. So you have your passport.”
“You are free. Wonderful.”
They each take a wrist. Surprisingly, Pauline’s slim, frail, blue-nailed hand coils more painfully. This is awkward. Lana knows from those big, big smiles that they know everything and figure, from her expression of petrified shock, that she knows they know. In a millisecond Pauline’s face dissolves from welcoming delight into a pout.
“You know Claude is in the hospital. And Guillaume also now. Is so terrible.”
Panic shoots up Lana’s spine, a thermometer line in a heat wave.
“Poor Claude, he ask Odette, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, but my flight, you see . . .”
“Stay one more day.”
“Fournier’s men . . . we lose everything.”
“Please. Guillaume ask. He say you ah . . .”
Odette gets to the point.
“Make again the interview.”
It’s a request that plays like an instruction. Not so far away, at the other end of the angled tube, through bored passport control, after the long, long, dipping, climbing, moving walkway, past the posters of the girl with the Eiffel Tower hat on her head, beyond the tedious security circus, Lana knows there is a line of lovely ordinary people boarding a plane. Second by second that line is getting shorter. Any moment now she might hear that announcement in French, the one in which the name La-na Gib-son will scream at her and she’ll know her time is up.
“Okay, sounds good.”
The grips of the women do not relax. It’s not going to be that simple. They begin to lead her away.
Lana looks directly at Pauline and speaks slowly. “Oh, one thing, Pauline. Remember last night? You. Dans l’Hotel Chevalier? Vous avez cherché . . . pour Vallette or any of his gang. Yeah?”
Pauline nods brightly, and Lana feels the hold on her hand relax a fraction.
“And you said. Vous ah . . . dîtes à Guillaume. You remember what you said? If anyone tried to interfere with you, you would scream. Scream your little butt off . . . yeah? Non? Vous ne comprenez pas? Scream?”
Pauline seems genuinely mystified, but Lana guesses Odette is merely pretending not to understand. Lana opens her mouth and mimes screaming. “Remember?”
Ah! Now Pauline nods and explains very enthusiastically to
Odette, her hilarious idea that screaming her head off in a respectable public place like the Chevalier would scare away any nasty who might interfere with her. Odette smiles with forced amusement. Lana knows there is no more time.
“So, Pauline . . . Pauline. I guess, what I wanted to figure out was, does your idea work?”
And she opens her mouth and screams.
The initial shock makes both Pauline and Odette step back as she drops to her knees shrieking. It’s scary how easily this unearthly howl of despair has erupted. Everyone on the concourse stops to look, but no one comes any closer. Pauline and Odette are frozen. Lana is about to make a run for it when men in uniform appear from several points, armed with what look like very high-powered weapons. She stops screaming and, in the sudden silence, one of the armed men barks at her. It sounds both commanding and threatening. She has to defuse the situation very quickly.
“Oh, oh. Here it is.” Having dropped everything when she began screaming, Lana now picks up her passport and lifts it very slowly for the armed men to see. “I’m so sorry. I thought I lost it. My passport. Oh. My. God. What have I done? I panicked. Ah, je panique? Is that right, ah? . . . Hysteria . . . désolée, I am so désolée.”
The armed men look completely bewildered. The one in charge lowers his weapon and, motioning the others to do the same, approaches. Slowly. Lana stands, gathering everything, keeping an eye on the two women. Pauline has lost her smile.
“Do I understand you, Madame? You are all right?”
“Me? Oh yes, I’m fine. I am so sorry. I totally, like . . . overreacted. I thought I lost my passport, you see . . . my passport? Mon passeport?”
“I understand. Your passport. Is this all the problem?”
“Well, I’m running late for my flight and it’s been a really stressful day and I . . .” Lana is beginning to enjoy playing the stressed-out middle-class American lady tourist. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you? I mean I’m so désolée, Monsieur.”
The man looks at the boarding pass Lana holds toward him. He motions with his weapon.
“Go now. Before it is too late.”
“Really, can I? Thank you so much.”
She moves quickly and hands over her boarding pass. There’s a moment of tension as the nervous official scans it and everyone, soldiers, casual observers, Odette and Pauline, Lana herself wait for something to go very wrong. Then comes the relieving beep. She steps into the tube, onto the moving walkway that will carry her to the plane.
She turns back to Pauline and mouths, “Thank you. It works.”
Because the last few passengers are still shuffling on board when she arrives at the departure gate, Lana turns on her cell and is surprised to find no messages from Brian, and even more surprised to realize that she doesn’t feel relieved and pleased that, for once, he had followed her instructions and let her be. In fact, she’s a little disappointed. More than a little. After all she’d been through since they spoke last night, it would have been comforting to know that he cared enough to ignore her instructions and send a steady stream of anxious texts. She’d have kind of liked to hear his voice again too.
But the most extraordinary and disconcerting thing of all is that when she dials, Brian doesn’t answer. Instead his slappy-happy voicemail invites the caller to leave a message. A few seconds pass before she remembers to speak.
“Hi, Brian, sorry I’m late calling you. Just getting on the flight now. Ah . . . okay. See you at arrivals, I guess.”
But now, despite assuring herself that it’s the craziest idea, she’s not so certain that he’ll be there. This slightly unsettling possibility cannot prevent Lana’s eyes from closing a few minutes after takeoff and even the landing bumps don’t rouse her from a restoring, dreamless sleep. Someone is shaking her shoulder. When she opens her eyes, Jean-Luc Fournier is standing over her.
Before the scream comes, she hears him say, “Paris nightlife a bit too much for you, was it?”
Fluent English speaker though Fournier is, he doesn’t have a strong Irish accent or such a kind smile. The genial blue-eyed, silver-haired man in the window seat just wants to get past her.
11 PM
At passport control the man smiles and she returns it sleepily. It feels so relaxed and casual until, handing over her passport, her smiling Lana Gibson photograph reminds her that she isn’t wearing her wedding band. She hurries through, pulls her bag into a corner, and, not caring how strange it looks, falls to her knees and searches frantically. She has pulled almost everything from the bag when she spots a little glint of gold as something falls from the back pocket of her jeans and it’s such a relief; confirmation that finally, everything really is going to be all right.
Brian is waiting. Of course. As he’d said he would be. It’s the best, deepest, most heartfelt kiss they have exchanged in a long time. She senses his shock in the first couple of seconds, then feels him go with the heat of it.
“Sorry I didn’t answer when you called, baby, but would you believe I still hadn’t left the office. I had to break the speed limit to get here on time. So . . . how are you? Would you believe just after we spoke last night I got a call to come back in? Code red. An all-nighter. So while you’ve been chilling at art exhibitions and fine dining in luxury hotels and shopping—speaking of which, where are all the bags? Where are Gaultier and Gucci and all those dudes?”
“Oh. I guess I didn’t bother in the end.”
Again Brian looks surprised, but pleased too. He squeezes her waist. They have arrived at the parking lot elevator. Lana stares, then turns away abruptly.
“Let’s walk down. I wouldn’t mind the exercise.”
“Sure. So anyway, I’ve been taking meetings and calls for basically the last twenty-four hours straight. Have you eaten, by the way? I’m starving.”
“So am I.”
“Great. Oh Jesus, Lana, there was so much bullshit. Some of these guys, I tell you, you learn about people you know? Way out of line. I’m totally drained.”
Lana squeezes closer to him. “Poor baby.”
“Sorry, I know, I know. This work crap is boring. So, what about your trip?”
“Oh, nothing to tell. Your crap sounds exciting.”
“You know, it was, actually. I’ve been kinda buzzing with it all, to be honest.”
“Well then, I want to hear about it.”
And all the way home she lets him talk, lets him enjoy recounting every detail of his crisis. She’s too exhausted to think of making love tonight. But maybe in the morning? Definitely in the next day or so she’ll start reaching out again. No pressure. Just do it, enjoy it.
Back at the house, after they grab a sandwich and milk, Brian says he’s hitting the sack. She says she’ll follow him in a few minutes, but needs some fresh air first. When he’s in the bedroom she retrieves her cigarettes from her purse and goes outside. The rain spits and it’s windy. No sign of the moon. Her thoughts dance about, but the weirdest thing is that, after all that has happened, what’s mostly on her mind isn’t anything to do with Vallette, or Fournier, or Nathan, or Claude or Guillaume and Pauline, or being trapped in the private elevator, or nearly drowning, but it’s the young English brat on her hands and knees throwing up and those drunken friends lurching around in their ridiculous heels and microminis. Lana finds herself thinking, poor thing, and realizes what that means: she must be feeling better. What a relief it is not to be that young anymore. Thirty-five is fine, it’s good; maybe it’s the best time. A woman of thirty-five can handle a lot. She flicks away the unpuffed cigarette and goes to the trash. It feels quite easy to dump the pack.
Brian is sitting up in bed with the Hopper catalog. Lana is surprised to see his eyes are moist. She lies next to him. He’s staring at Second Story Sunlight. The girl in the 1950s bikini sitting, brazen, on the edge of a sun-filled balcony of some Cape Cod summer home.
“Have you been crying?”
“What? No! . . . I don’t know, looking at some of these I . . . I didn�
�t cry. But I guess maybe I teared up a little. Very weird.”
“Any idea why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I miss home.”
A little to her surprise, Lana understands exactly what he means.
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *
About the author
* * *
Meet Gerard Stembridge
About the book
* * *
The Origins of What She Saw
Read on
* * *
Have You Read? Gerard Stembridge’s Favorite Kind of Thriller
About the author
Meet Gerard Stembridge
There was a time when the only thing a reader knew about an author was his or her name, sometimes not even that. Crime and thriller writing in particular has a tradition of authors with (sometimes multiple) pseudonyms. It was not unknown to have a team of anonymous writers lurking behind the beloved name on the book cover. As a twelve-year-old I used to wonder what Franklin W. Dixon of Hardy Boys fame looked like. Nowadays readers are as curious about the person who wrote the book as they are about the book itself. Does this add significance to the name on the cover?
In Limerick when I was growing up, that full first name the reader of my books sees was rarely spoken: never Gerard, always Ger, pronounced “Jur.” A second syllable was perhaps just too much effort. This was typical. Michael was always Mick; Thomas, Tom; Patrick, Pat. And as Mick, Ger, Pat, and Tom accounted for most of the Irish male population, this made social interaction very economical. An uncle who lived most of his life in Canada called me Gerald. I never knew why. Never asked. I liked the sound of it, though.
What She Saw Page 24
