A Hidden Life (22 page)

Well, okay, that was fine but this person knew that Grandad's mother was called Louise. Would a confidence trickster know such a fact? And why had the letter been posted into the vase? It was a mystery – perhaps someone had come into the room and she'd panicked, stuck it down there thinking to retrieve it later and then forgotten about it. She'd have thought of it as trivial, nothing to occupy her mind for very long. Once she'd dismissed the writer as a nutcase and a foreign one at that, she'd have lost interest in the letter and in everything it contained.

Rue du Treixel, Paris. Perhaps it wasn't a trick. What if this Mme Franchard
was
who she said she was? There was no one around who would even know whether Franchard was the correct name. Grandad's aunt. Dad's great-aunt. If she'd been sixty-five in 1985, she might easily be dead. I could write to her, Lou thought, and wondered whether she ought to tell Mum and Dad. Part of her longed to keep this small mystery to herself, but that wasn't fair. Dad was more closely related to this Mme Franchard than she was. She couldn't not tell him, not show him the letter. But Nessa was there in the study, monopolizing him, when he wasn't even her father. Lou smiled. Didn't matter how old you were, you still had the same old childish jealousies lurking somewhere in your head. But honestly, she thought, why hadn't Nessa gone to pour out her heart to her mother? Now that Ellie no longer lived abroad, she was just as available as Dad – but of course he was a solicitor. Nothing like getting free legal advice, and a good dollop of sympathy into the bargain. Briefly, she wondered what Gareth's girlfriend was like. She imagined a restful type, the exact opposite of Nessa.

Lou folded the letter carefully and put it into her jeans pocket. I'll show it to Dad and Mum later on, she thought, and went on clearing up. Many of the pieces she was collecting to throw into the
bin outside were painted with such pretty things: butterflies, flowers, leaves, tiny birds. It seemed a shame to get rid of them but there was nothing else to be done with them. Lucky that there was another vase just like this one, waiting to be unpacked. Perhaps Mum ought to consider keeping it wrapped up for a few years and taking it out only when Poppy was a bit older. Lou emptied the pieces from the dustpan into several thicknesses of newspaper and wrapped those in a carrier bag to take outside.

Just as she opened the lid of the wheelie bin, something struck her. Paris was easy to get to by train. You were there in an hour or so by Eurostar. I could go and come back the same day. I could go and see her. Obviously, it would be more sensible to write ahead and save herself the expense of a trip if Mme Franchard was no longer alive. But I don't want to, she told herself. I want to go to Paris. A day trip – a treat. Dad might come with me. I'll ask him. She didn't see how talking to Mme Franchard would help her with the screenplay, but you never knew – she could call it research and that would make her feel a little better about the expense. The screenplay was going okay, she thought, but how could she be sure? How do you ever know if work is going well? Maybe all the words she reckoned were powerful, evocative and moving were in fact pathetic and didn't work. She wanted to ask Harry but she wasn't ready to tell him what she was doing. A sudden longing to get back to the work, open her laptop and immerse herself in the terrible world John Barrington had created came over her. She'd been all ready to ask Mum whether she could take Poppy back to London, but perhaps now she should wait at least until she'd been to Paris. She'd make sure instead that Mum and Dad were okay with holding on to Poppy for just a little while longer.

Lou leaned against the wall by the kitchen door in the spring sunshine and tested herself for the presence of guilt. She did still feel bad about leaving Poppy with her parents, but her daughter was loving every minute and being well looked after, and that made Lou feel better. But I'm still her mother, she told herself, resolving to take her to the park as soon as she woke up. I'll spend every minute with her while I'm here, at least.

Her thoughts went back to the letter in her pocket. An old Frenchwoman (Lou imagined her like an ancient version of Isabelle
Huppert, but that was just silly. Most people weren't in the least beautiful …) might at this very moment be sitting in Paris, waiting to greet her with a warm embrace, after having yearned for such a moment for over twenty years. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she'd forgotten all about the letter by now.

Matt turned the piece of paper over in his hands. The words jumped about a bit in front of his eyes and he wondered whether he might need bifocals, after all. Old age getting to him. This woman, this Mme Franchard, if she was real and who she claimed to be, would be in her mid-eighties. There was something thrilling about the thought that he might have a relative still living, but perhaps he'd better not raise his own expectations in case nothing came of it in the end. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic sound of Phyl's knife moving on the chopping board. She was standing at the work surface near the cooker, getting the vegetables ready for tonight's supper. He could tell that Lou, sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, was holding her breath, waiting to see what his reaction would be.

‘If this is real—' he began, and Lou interrupted him.

‘What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be? What are you saying, Dad?'

‘Nothing, nothing, only – it might be a trick of some kind. Someone writing to a person she says is related to her, out of the blue, like that. Perhaps she thought an English author would be rich. That there might be some advantage to her in claiming a relationship.'

Lou looked so let down that Matt was almost sorry he'd spoken. He went on: ‘There's no need to look upset, Lou. I'm as excited as you are in a way, but perhaps you're setting yourself up to be disappointed, you know. She's very old by now, if she's still alive. Maybe she's lost her marbles – maybe anything.'

‘But if she
is
your great-aunt, Dad,' Lou said, ‘don't you want to meet her? Find out about her? See what your own dad's aunt is like? She might know stuff about your real grandmother you'd want to know.'

‘I suppose so.' Matt sighed. How could he tell Lou that alongside his excitement there was also a kind of nervousness about making
new discoveries? He was wary about resurrecting stuff which might turn out to be anything: distressing, unfortunate, life-changing even. Matt wasn't keen on the whole ‘life-changing' thing. His life was fine, thank you very much. Most people must be dissatisfied, he supposed, constantly wanting their existences to be altered, made different. He said, ‘You've fallen for it as well, haven't you, Lou? This craze for finding out about your ancestors on the internet and so forth. You could try Googling this Mme Franchard and see what you get, I suppose.'

‘I don't want to Google her. I want to visit her. Paris is so close, Dad, I could do it in one day on Eurostar.'

‘Really? You actually want to go and see her?'

‘Yes, I do. Why not? I can't imagine why you don't, or don't seem to. You could come with me. Aren't you curious?'

‘How about a letter? We could explain everything in writing before we go traipsing over the Channel on a whim.'

‘I want to traipse. I'd love to go to Paris. I've never been.'

‘Sorry, darling,' Matt said. ‘I never thought of that – a bit of a treat for you, I suppose. D'you really want me tagging along?'

‘Why not? It'd be fun.'

‘Work,' Matt frowned. ‘What about that?'

‘No one'd mind. You're the boss, after all. And Mum, you'd be all right, wouldn't you? On your own with Poppy for a whole day?'

‘I usually am alone with her for a whole day,' Phyl said, turning on the tap to rinse the vegetables. ‘And I love it. Can't imagine why you're not keener, Matt. A trip to Paris and a possible relation. Would you lay the table, you two? Ta.'

Lou went to the dresser drawer to get the knives and forks out.

‘I'll think about it,' Matt said, and took the wine glasses out and put them out on the table. He had a sudden vision of himself and Ellie strolling along beside the Seine and shook his head as though that would dispel it. If only – no, he had to stop such thoughts at once. He said, ‘When d'you want to go? I would pay for your ticket, it goes without saying.'

‘Really? Thanks, Dad. That's great. Really kind of you. Soon. This coming week. Any day you like except Tuesday, when I'm in the office.'

‘Right, we'll go,' Matt said, looking in the cupboard for the salt and pepper. ‘We haven't had a day out together for ages. It'll be fun.' He felt bad about wishing he could go with Ellie. What was the matter with him, for God's sake! Lou was so keen, and Matt wondered why he wasn't feeling more excited than he was. Perhaps there was something wrong with him – didn't he want to know about his own family? If Lou hadn't found the letter, his life wouldn't be worse in any way that he could see. How would having an ancient French great-aunt make any difference unless she turned out to be a nuisance … a scenario of Mme Franchard being in some unexpected way a burden flashed into his mind – he'd become responsible for her welfare. She would be impoverished and suffering from Alzheimer's and incontinence and he'd find himself having to take care of her … No, that was nonsense. Why was he being so negative about everything? I'm not going to worry about something before I really have to, he told himself. It'd be wonderful to go to Paris with Lou, and he was looking forward to it already. Whatever they found there, it would be good fun travelling with her. They used to go on excursions and outings and adventures when she was a girl and this was just a grown-up version of that. Thinking about it this way made Matt realize how much he missed those occasions. Let us hope, he thought, that we find Mme Franchard in the best of health. It would be quite something to find a great-aunt and he would welcome her into the family.

Why did the bloody phone always ring when you were right in the middle of something? Lou stopped typing and reached down for her bag. There was too much in it. Maybe she ought to get rid of the printed duffel-bag thing that had carried her rubbish about for ages and invest in a proper handbag like the ones she saw featured in
Grazia,
where her mobile would never become lost among the rest of her belongings.

‘Hello! Sorry – my mobile was hiding.'

‘Hello, Lou. It's Harry. I'm just ringing on the off-chance you're in.'

‘Yup.' What was this?

‘I could come up to your flat for a coffee if you like. Or you could meet me down here.'

‘Where are you?' Did that sound inhospitable? Yes, it did. She tried to sound enthusiastic as he told her.

‘Then come here – I could do with a break, but Harry …'

‘Yes?'

‘There's nothing in the flat. I've just finished the last gingernut.'

‘Disaster,' said Harry. ‘Don't worry, I'll bring something. See you soon.'

Lou put the mobile down next to the computer and went back to staring at the screen. She was very careful to save the work she'd done this morning before she closed the machine, but once she'd put the laptop away in its place under the sofa, she began to move a little more quickly. What was more important: that she should look respectable, or that the flat should be tidy? She pushed cushions into shape, took her empty coffee cup from breakfast into the kitchen and rinsed it quickly under the hot tap. Then she ran a cloth over the work surfaces and once she was in the bedroom on her way to the mirror, she straightened the duvet on the bed. No time to change. Jeans – they were okay. She was wearing a white shirt – clean, so okay. She ran a brush through her hair and slicked some lip-gloss on. Perfume? No. That would seem as though she was trying too hard. Trying too hard to what? To make herself attractive for Harry. No, of course not, she told herself, but then what was all the duvet-straightening, cup-rinsing and hair-brushing about? To say nothing about the lip-gloss. No, all it meant was she was trying to make a good impression on someone who was, after all, her boss. She wanted to look competent and ‘together'.

The doorbell rang. As Lou went to answer it, she noticed that she was still wearing slippers: the ridiculous, fluffy pink ones in the shape of bunny-rabbits. Oh shit shit shit. How fashionable were skinny jeans if they had bloody Flopsy and Mopsy poking their noses out from under the hems?

‘Hi, Harry, come in,' she said.

‘Thanks, Lou. Hope you didn't mind me ringing up like that. Only, as I said, I was here in the area. I was seeing Ciaran Donnelly, who lives right round the corner from you, so I thought …'

‘Glad you did. I was just about to make myself a coffee when you rang. I was working.'

‘Really?' He glanced around at the flat which suddenly looked to Lou rather too tidy. Perhaps she ought to have scattered a few scripts about to give the impression that she was hard at it, reading stuff for Cinnamon Hill Productions.

‘Not reading,' she said. ‘I was on the computer. I put it away when you rang.'

‘You writing something?'

‘No, no – just fiddling about. Sit down, Harry. I'll put the kettle on.'

‘Here.' He held out a plastic bag. ‘I got some goodies at the deli. Hope they're okay.'

‘That's lovely. A treat. Thanks so much.'

Lou went through to the kitchen and Harry sat down on the sofa. She prepared the cafetière, put the delicious-looking slices of cake out on her best plate and got the cups and saucers ready on a tray, wishing she'd taken up Phyl's offer of nicer crockery when she'd first moved in here. She was aware that Harry could see her moving about from where he was sitting. Ought she to take her slippers off? She was just considering this when he called out: ‘Love those crazy rabbit slippers!'