FOUR
‘I enjoyed this evening,’ said Reine-Marie, slipping into the cool, crisp sheets beside her husband.
‘So did I.’ He took off his half-moon reading glasses and folded his book onto the bed. It was a warm evening. Their tiny back room had only one window, onto the kitchen garden, so there wasn’t much of a through draught, but the window was thrown open and the light cotton curtains were billowing slightly. The lamps on their bedside tables provided ponds of light and the rest was in darkness. It smelled of wood from the log walls and pine from the forest, and a hint of sweetness from the herb garden below.
‘Two days’ time and it’s our anniversary,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘July first. Imagine, thirty-five years together. Were we so young?’
‘I was. And innocent.’
‘Poor boy. Did I scare you?’
‘Maybe just a little. But I’m over it now.’
Reine-Marie leaned back on the pillow. ‘Can’t say I’m looking forward to meeting the missing Finneys tomorrow.’
‘Spot and Claire. Spot must be a nickname.’
‘Let’s hope.’
Picking up his book he tried to focus, but his eyes were growing heavy, flickering as he strained to keep them open. He gave up the fight, realizing it wasn’t one he could win or needed to. Kissing Reine-Marie, he burrowed into his pillow and fell asleep to the chorus of creatures outside and the scent of his wife beside him.
Pierre Patenaude stood at the door of the kitchen. It was clean and orderly, everything in its place. The glasses lined up, the silverware in its sleeves, the bone china carefully stacked with fine tissue between each plate. He’d learned that from his mother. She’d taught him that order was freedom. To live in chaos was to live in a prison. Order freed the mind for other things.
From his father he’d learned leadership. On rare days off school he’d been allowed to go to the office. He’d sat on his father’s lap, smelling cologne and tobacco, while his father made phone calls. Even as a child Pierre knew he was being groomed. Trimmed and shaped, buffed and burnished.
Would his father be disappointed in him? Being just a maitre d’? But he thought not. His father had wanted only one thing for him. To be happy.
He turned out the light and walked through the empty dining room and into the garden to look once again at the marble cube.
Mariana unwrapped herself, veil after veil, humming. Every now and then she looked over to the single bed next to hers. Bean was either asleep or pretending to be.
‘Bean?’ she whispered. ‘Bean, kiss Mommy goodnight.’
The child was silent. Though the room itself wasn’t. Clocks filled almost every surface. Ticking clocks and digital clocks, electric clocks and wind-up ones. All set to go off at seven a.m. All moving towards that time, as they had every morning for months. There seemed to be more of them than ever.
Mariana wondered if it had gone too far. Whether she should do something. Surely it wasn’t normal for a ten year old to do this? What had started as one alarm clock a year ago had blossomed and spread like an invasive weed until Bean’s room at home was choked with them. The riot each morning was beyond belief. From her own bedroom she could hear her strange child clicking them all off, until the last tinny call to the day was silenced.
Surely this wasn’t normal?
But then so much about Bean wasn’t normal. To call in a psychologist now, well, it felt a bit like trying to outrun a tidal wave of odd, thought Mariana. She lifted Bean’s hand off the book and smiled as she laid it on the floor. It’d been her own favourite book as a child and she wondered which story Bean liked the most. Ulysses? Pandora? Hercules?
Leaning down to kiss Bean Mariana noticed the chandelier and its old corded electrical wire. In her mind she saw a spark leap in a brilliant arc onto the bedding, smouldering at first then bursting into flames as they slept.
She stepped back, closed her eyes, and placed the invisible wall round Bean.
There, safe.
She turned off the light and lay in bed, her body feeling sticky and flabby. The closer she got to her mother the heavier her body felt, as though her mother had her own atmosphere and gravity. Tomorrow Spot would arrive, and it would begin. And end.
She tried to get comfortable, but the night was close and the covers collapsed and stuck to her. She kicked them off. But what really stood between her and sleep wasn’t the stinking heat, the snoring child, the clinging bedclothes.
It was a banana.
Why did they always goad her? And why, at the age of forty-seven, did she still care?
She turned over, trying to find a cool place on the now damp bedding.
Banana. And she heard again their laughter. And saw their mocking looks.
Let it go, she begged herself. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the banana and the clocks tsk, tsk, tsking in her head.
Julia Martin sat at the vanity and took off her single string of pearls. Simple, elegant, a gift from her father for her eighteenth birthday.
‘A lady is always understated, Julia,’ he’d said. ‘A lady never shows off. She always puts others at ease. Remember that.’
And she had. As soon as he’d said it she knew the truth of it. And all the stumbling and bumbling she’d done, all the uncertainties and solitude of her teen years, had fallen away. Ahead of her stretched a clear path. Narrow, yes, but clear. The relief she felt was absolute. She had a purpose, a direction. She knew who she was and what she had to do. Put others at ease.
As she undressed she went over the events of the day, making a list of all the people she might have hurt, all the people who might dislike her because of her words, her inflection, her manner.
And she thought of the nice French man and their conversation in the garden. He’d seen her smoking. What must he think of her? And then she’d flirted with the young waiter and accepted a drink. Drinking, smoking, flirting.
God, he must think she was shallow and weak.
She’d do better tomorrow.
She coiled the strand of pearls, like a young snake, onto its soft blue velvet bed then took off her earrings, wishing she could also remove her ears. But she knew it was too late.
The Eleanor rose. Why did they do it? After all these years, when she was trying to be nice, why bring up the rose again?
Let it go, she begged herself, it doesn’t matter. It was a joke. That’s all.
But the words had already coiled themselves inside her and wouldn’t leave.
Next door, in the Lake Room, Sandra stood on their balcony surrounded by the wild stars and wondered how they could get the best table for breakfast. She was tired of being served last, always having to insist and even then getting the smallest portions, she was sure of it.
And that Armand, worst bridge player she’d ever seen. Why’d she been paired with him? The staff fawned over him and his wife, probably because they were French. It wasn’t fair. They were staying in that broom closet at the back of the Manoir, the cheapest room. A shopkeeper almost certainly and his cleaning woman wife. Didn’t seem right to have to share the Manoir with them. Still, she’d been courteous. They couldn’t ask for more.
Sandra was hungry. And angry. And tired. And tomorrow Spot would arrive and it would get even worse.
From inside their splendid room, Thomas looked at his wife’s rigid back.
He’d married a beautiful woman and still, from a distance and from the back, she was lovely.
But somehow, recently, her head seemed to have expanded and the rest shrunk, so that he had the impression he was now attached to a flotation device, deflated. Orange and soft and squishy and no longer doing its job.
Swiftly, while Sandra’s back was turned, he took off the old cufflinks his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday.