A Good Woman

by Lisa Appignanesi

  He starts rubbing his temples in that way he’s had of late and I say softly, ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘No. It would be pointless.’

  I wait and then say, ‘You know I think Marie-Françoise is named for both my mother and me.’

  ‘Beatrice chose the name. I thought it would make her happy to. And I know, I found out on my birthday.’

  ‘And you know that the Françoise, the teacher in the case notes, is probably my mother? It was 1979 wasn’t it? The fire, the trial.’

  He nods.

  ‘My mother died the year before. I remember, when we went to visit her grave together, Beatrice was very keen to get the precise date. Now I know why. I guess she must have written to my mother and thought she had given her up. I didn’t leave any forwarding address when I went to the States.’

  ‘You’re good at getting up and going, aren’t you?’ he surveys me reflectively.

  ‘Not so good as I used to be, I suspect. Or I’d probably have gone by now.’ I laugh and he grips my arm tightly.

  We are nearing Paris. The massed ranks of suburban apartments are at our window and the train slows.

  ‘Will you come out to dinner with me, Maria? Beatrice isn’t there and I really don’t know what to do with myself after all this? He smiles. ‘That’s a plea.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘Better not. I want to be by myself a little. Think.’

  ‘Think about what?’

  ‘You. Beatrice. Me.’

  ‘You can think with me.’

  ‘We can share a taxi.’ I smile. ‘Same address.’

  I go home and stand in the shower and think. I think about Beatrice and how awful it must be to be in her body and be afraid when a man comes into the room. I think about her lying in bed at night and being afraid and waiting for Paul to come home and being afraid again. I think about her broken leg in childhood and her bruises and think how much she has made of herself despite it all and how Paul must have helped even in the less obvious ways. I think conversely what a beast I was to her and how I tried to steal my mother back from her and how I inadvertently all but stole her husband. Then I think of Nicolas and I say to myself that I must stop making Beatrice into a saintly victim, for she too has done harm, like the rest of us. And I think of Paul and I think that it hasn’t exactly all been roses for him either. And I wonder why he has bothered to tell me about his limp dick and I laugh. Then I wonder about it more seriously and think that it is an awfully long way to go just to prove to me that he wasn’t lying about his relations with Beatrice. And then I have this prickling sensation in my spine again and I realise that there are pieces of the story that are still missing.

  After that I go and sit on the sofa and sip water and I see the light on opposite. He is pacing. I can see his silhouette clearly and I think how handsome he is and how he has given me his confidence, gambled on me, and in a sense I’ve betrayed him again, taken his pain lightly. Which is something he never did to me. Perhaps once, on his birthday. And I still don’t understand why that once. But never otherwise. And he didn’t leave me to stew in my misery and say thanks for that bit of your life chap, I’m going home to think it over. And I find the telephone in my hand and I’m ringing him and I say, ‘Is a lady allowed to change her mind?’

  We go to the Brasserie Lipp on the St Germain, because it’s close and because it’s big enough to be private in. He’s carrying a big canvas sac and I wonder for a moment whether he’s made arrangements to go and sleep elsewhere tonight because he doesn’t want to be alone with his dredged up memories. And because I’m like that, the thought crosses my mind that there might be another other woman and I don’t like that thought, so I rub it out.

  We sit and we eat salad and lamb and gratin potatoes and drink a good bottle of Bordeaux. I’m feeling shy again, perhaps because of that bag under the table, or because I know too much. But I don’t quite know enough, so I ask him, after my first sip of wine, ‘And Beatrice’s sister? What happened to her?’

  ‘She went into care. It was strange that. Beatrice never wanted to see her after the case was over. I used to ask her from time to time, and she would just say, no, it’s better not. I went to visit her a few times while we still lived in Clermont Ferrand. She was a sad child, furtive. Not at all like Beatrice. Perhaps they didn’t have the same father. I never worked it out. Beatrice wouldn’t talk. And then after we went to Paris, I wrote to her from time to time. Then I lost track. Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘No. I never went to Beatrice’s house. Well, not into it.’ I flush as I remember the time Rachel and I secretly followed her home and I don’t tell him that we thought her mother was a prostitute. Instead I ask, ‘And her brother?’

  ‘I didn’t know she had one.’

  ‘I think she did.’

  ‘Well he must have left home by the time I met her. You can ask her.’

  I shake my head, too vigorously. ‘If you say she doesn’t want to remember, it’s better not.’

  ‘She remembers you and your mother very well though. Tell me about it.’

  I tell him, a little hesitantly to begin with, but then it begins to flow and I find I’m telling him the things I don’t altogether reminisce about accurately with Beatrice, because I’m ashamed of my little girl treachery, of my jealousy too. I laugh when I finish, ‘So you see, I was a bitch, even then. And my mother preferred her. My mother’s better daughter, I think of her as. And if I had been a little less of a horror, maybe none of it would ever have happened.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he is stern. ‘All children are cruel from time to time. You should hear Marie-Françoise going on about her closest friends. But your mother and Beatrice… She found love there. That explains a lot. That explains…,’ he stops suddenly.

  ‘Go on.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There are some things I can’t tell even you with the lights on.’

  ‘So when can you tell me.’

  ‘When I’m holding you in my arms.’

  He isn’t laughing and I swallow hard.

  ‘But I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to be in your arms again,’ I mumble. ‘I haven’t decided which is the worst form of betrayal.’

  ‘That’s too bad. Because I’m going to leave Beatrice. Not in the lurch. We’ll arrange it. Maybe you can decide then, come and live with me.’

  He is looking at me with utter seriousness.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ I say.

  ‘Why not? She’s learned to walk now. Maybe she’ll learn to fly. And as I’ve thought about it, I’ve realized that I’ve protected her for too long. Protection is a form of prison, too, remember. She’ll be glad to get out of it. I probably remind her of all the things I was trying to save her from. I know too much about her.’ He laughs abruptly. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realise it.’

  ‘My fault,’ I mutter. I’m not listening. ‘My fault again.’ I clench my fists and reach for his pack of cigarettes.

  ‘I can’t say you haven’t been part of the process. You’ve reminded me what it can be like to be with someone you can talk to and play with and hold. And love. And the children. I’d forgotten what it was like to be, well, just ordinary with children.’ He has his lawyerly matter-of fact tone, but his gaze lingers on me. ‘Not your fault though. Just a little speeding up perhaps. I was getting there in any case. Or I might not have allowed you in with such a thump. It’s too bad you had to be Beatrice’s friend.’

  ‘And what about the children?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ll take them. They may be better off without her. You’ve made me realise that too. And she’ll be relieved to be shed of them.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I think I know her rather better than you. I’ve lived with her for fourteen years.’

  He is sharp and I look away and murmur, ‘Poor Beatrice.’

  ‘I think I give her more credit than you do. Shall we go
? I’m not enjoying this. And I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘What do you mean where am I going?’

  ‘With that bag.’

  He grimaces. ‘I thought when the evening started that you might invite me home. I brought you some law books. First year courses. Stale from my library.’

  He gestures for the waiter and I sit there and feel like crying and I think that he’s probably right, that he does know Beatrice better than I do. What do I know about her at all except what I’ve wanted to know. Through a French window darkly. Needed to know, too. Like an anchor from the past to tie myself to so that I wouldn’t drift away into even more troubled waters than the ones I was already in.

  We walk slowly up the Boulevard not touching. There are animated couples all around us and the homeless late-night beggars. I empty my change purse. I need the blessing. I put my arm through his then, and he lets it sit there stiffly and I feel stupidly forlorn. We turn into the Rue des Saints Pères and pass the Hotel du Pas de Calais and I stop.

  ‘If they have a room, will you stay with me?’ I say. I feel like I did when I was a little girl and I tossed coins in the air half believing that the magic of heads or tails could make up my mind for me. And then cheating when I didn’t like the result.

  He looks at me and laughs. ‘A gamble?’

  I nod.

  He laughs some more. ‘Careful. I’m suddenly feeling lucky.’

  -35-

  We both got lucky.

  The trouble is when we’re in bed together like this I can’t remember why we’re not always there. The other trouble is that I’m distinctly in love with him and that doesn’t do much for the clarity of one’s thinking. His hands and lips and that other part of him which I have the luck not to render limp tell me its the same for him. So we love each other and we don’t talk much and we fall asleep holding each other.

  And somewhere in that sleep I have a dream. It is a ghastly dream. I am very hot, too hot and I realise there’s a fire around me, flames everywhere, and I can’t breathe. I can’t seem to move either and I look up and I see Beatrice and there is a strange scary expression on her face. I scream, ‘No, Beatrice, no,’ and she laughs and says, ‘Too bad,’ and walks away and I’m still screaming.

  ‘Shhh.’ Paul is holding me, stroking my hair. ‘You’ve been dreaming.’

  I switch on the bedside lamp and I look at him, then look away.

  ‘You called out Beatrice,’ he says softly.

  ‘Yes.’ I swallow some water, empty the glass, want more.

  ‘Do you remember why?’

  I shudder and tell him, tell him quickly.

  ‘It’s the case notes, the trial, everything we’ve talked about.’

  ‘But in the dream she did it. I had her do it, set the fire I mean.’ I pause. ‘Did you ever think she did it, the two of them, the sisters?’

  He looks away, stares at the blank screen of the tiny television set perched in the corner of the room. ‘Not at the time,’ he murmurs. ‘Not during the trial.’

  ‘But later?’ I press him. ‘Come on, you can’t hold back now.’

  He is pensive. ‘But if I tell you, Maria, I don’t know how you’ll face Beatrice.’

  I laugh abruptly, ‘I don’t know how I’m going to face her anyway. One thing at a time.’

  He studies me, then puts his arm around me and holds me very close. ‘She told me once,’ he murmurs, ‘when Marie-Françoise was about five. She way lying on my bed. It was after her bath and she was all pink and shiny and naked and we were having a tickle and she was squealing and shrieking and laughing the way children do. In the midst of it I heard this sound, like a hiss, from the door, and I looked up and there was Beatrice. Her face was contorted in a way I didn’t recognize and she said in a cold little flat voice, full of hatred, “She’ll do it too, you’ll see. Just like me. Burn you down.” Then she walked away.’

  I try to digest this, ask, ‘What did you do then?’

  He shivers. ‘I didn’t do anything. I got Marie-Françoise into her pyjamas and put her to bed. Beatrice had gone up to her study at the top of the house and she didn’t come down again that evening. And the next day, she was as she always is, quiet and smiling, and I began to think I’d imagined what I heard or hope I’d imagined it. But this little fear stayed with me. I don’t like to leave her alone with the children for too long. That’s been the worst of it in a way.’

  ‘And you never confronted her? Asked her?

  ‘What’s the point? There’s not about to be a retrial. And the children…’

  ‘But you think the sisters did it?’

  ‘You’ve read the notes. They could as easily have as not. They hated him enough. With reason.’

  ‘And you don’t think they should be punished?’

  He studies me. ‘I’d forgotten how keen you are on punishment. It’s because you haven’t visited as many prisons as I have.’ He laughs then stops abruptly. ‘Even if the sisters had done it, it’s not the kind of crime you repeat. It’s utterly specific. And maybe Beatrice’s life has punished her enough. It can’t be very nice living with that history. Or in her body. But if you’re asking me the lawyer, I’ll tell you that public recognition of a crime is important. And in a crime like this case, a light sentence. Time to recognize and work out the guilt. And then one starts again.’

  I think about this. ‘That’s when you started to work on the book, isn’t it? The one on women murderers?’

  He nods, squeezes my shoulder.

  We are quiet for a moment and then I ask him because it’s been in my thoughts for some time. ‘You changed your mind about me, didn’t you? About us. The night of your birthday party you said it wasn’t possible, you closed the door in my face.’

  ‘I didn’t want to. You must know that. It was just… well, Beatrice and I had had a row,’ He laughs painfully. ‘And since we don’t often have rows, it was, shall we say, dramatic. And I wasn’t thinking straight, didn’t start to think straight again for weeks. It wasn’t long before the guests started to arrive. My mother had taken the children out for a snack and we were alone. Beatrice came into my room. She rarely does that, and she started to talk about you. She told me how you were her closest, oldest friend, how much you meant to her; how you admired her and thought she was good and how she admired you; how much your mother had meant to her, had been the only person in her childhood to treat her like a human being.

  ‘Then I said I thought you were wonderful too and how well we worked together. Maybe she didn’t like the way I emphasized it, for she grew visibly tenser. She said that the reason you were so wonderful was that you hadn’t had a father. And then I made my second mistake. I said not all fathers were like her father and she musn’t generalize. Then she exploded. No, that’s wrong. She got that look on her face, the one I can’t describe, all cold heat and hostility, and she said that if I ever mentioned any of that to you, if I ever so much as breathed a word, if she smelled anything funny between us, she would do something terrible, truly terrible. And that I knew what that meant, didn’t I? I knew her.

  ‘Then she walked off before I could say anything. I think I was shaking. I remember not being able to tie a knot in my tie. When the kids came back, I asked my mother whether she would stay with Nicolas until we were all at table. I was scared for him I guess, because that’s how I’d interpreted Beatrice’s threat. And then everyone started to arrive and I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t even know what I said to you. What I recall is panicking when Beatrice came in and you were talking to Monsieur Tran. I thought if she heard the word father, she’d misinterpret. Anyhow, it was a nightmare, continued to be. Though Beatrice seemed quite happy, always telling me how she was doing this and that with you. And again I got that odd feeling, as if I’d imagined the whole thing.’

  He turns to me now, seeks out my eyes, strokes me softly. ‘And then there I was, trapped between the two of you like a blundering bear. I tried
not to see you and it was worse than when you stayed on and on in England. You were right there across the street and I saw you with that man and I thought, I’m mad, I’m going to lose her. What am I doing? So I told myself I’d talk to you and we’d work something out, somehow. And then you threw it all back in my face and I was in the trap again. You too, I know.’

  He pauses, waits for me to say something, but I don’t and he goes on. ‘Then I woke up. Suddenly. On the way to Brittany it was. We were playing cards and you did something, touched Marie-Françoise. It was so ordinary. So natural, easy. And it came to me that I’d been living in a prison all these years. One I’d helped to construct for myself. Out of honour, habit, fear, I don’t know. And I’d put the children in it too. And probably Beatrice. And I thought it’s time to turn the key in the lock and come out. I had to make the leap and trust you.’

  ‘So here we are,’ I say.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m going to love you so well that you won’t be able to do without me.’

  He does. Over the next weeks he does. It’s a dazzling sort of existence, the kind that makes you pinch yourself every once in a while to make sure you’re not dreaming, and then you know in any case that you probably are.

  We don’t go into each other’s homes. It’s not prearranged or anything, we just don’t do it. It’s a kind of game. Or a holiday. A time away from life. I used to be good at it and I seem to have found the capacity again. We meet for dinner or a movie or leave the office together late after work and then we stay in a hotel, randomly chosen, depending on where we are. One night, we overlook the Notre Dame from the back where the buttresses float majestically into the river. On another we find ourselves in the midst of the Ile St Louis. We visit my childhood home in the Marais and stay in a tiny place at the corner of the Rue des Lions St-Paul. We are like strangers in our own city and we make ourselves strange to each other, so that we can find each other all over again.

  One night because I know I’m about to get a cheque from Grant, I don my best gladrags and invite him to the Crillon and we laugh in a huge bed in the midst of gilded eighteenth century splendour.