A Hidden Life (37 page)

In the end, it was hunger that put an end to their kissing. They'd walked back from the river to a brasserie called La Coupole, which was famous, apparently. Harry was telling her about the artists who used to go there in the old days. When they walked in, he showed her the tops of the columns that held up the ceiling, decorated by this artist and that one. She gazed at them open-mouthed, but her thoughts were already racing ahead to later: to when the meal was over. They'd go back to the hotel and … what? Go to bed together. He'd make love to her, she knew he would. She wanted him to. That was such a strange feeling after such a long time of dreading sex, of shrinking away from any contact, that it quite distracted her from practical things, like the ordering of food.

‘I don't care, really,' she said, when Harry held out the menu to her. She waved it away. ‘I'll have what you're having.'

‘The
choucroute
here is fantastic … you know, lovely sausages and sauerkraut and bacon bits, etc. Sound okay?'

She nodded, and watched him ordering the food and two pints of Stella and it was as though everything was going on somewhere far away from her. Later … that was all she could think about. What would happen. What they'd be doing. She was wearing her best underwear – that must mean something. It must mean I was sort of expecting it this morning. Hoping for it, even. When she'd got dressed at about six o'clock, which was quite a normal getting-up time for Poppy, she certainly hadn't been imagining anyone seeing the lacy bra and knickers set she put on. I chose the best ones because I was going on holiday and it was a special day, that's all. Harry didn't come into it … or maybe he'd been there at the back of her mind the whole time. Never mind … she could hear him speaking now, but part of her was still miles away, putting together a kind of scenario in her head. Perhaps he wouldn't see her underwear in the end. Maybe he'd wait till she was in bed and then knock on her door and she'd call out to him and he'd be standing in the doorway with the light
behind him and then he'd walk over to the bed and she'd hold back the duvet so that he could slide in next to her … She shivered.

They ate. They talked. Harry had another Stella and Lou asked for a cappuccino. Then, all at once, he fell silent. The contrast between this and how they'd been, chatting and laughing – Lou couldn't understand it, and she had no idea how to describe it. A shadow had fallen over the table, making everything dark. That was what it was like. Harry was too quiet. So was she. She couldn't think of anything to say. Around them, at the other tables in the crowded brasserie everyone else seemed to be having a hilarious time. The laughter was raucous, harsh. The lights, up in the high ceiling, dotted over the walls, were suddenly much too bright and hurt her eyes. Earlier, when they'd sat down, it had occurred to Lou that their diamond brightness mirrored exactly the way she felt: sparkling, twinkling all over with happiness and excitement.

‘Lou … Lou, are you listening to me? You look as if you're miles away.'

‘No, I'm listening, Harry. What's wrong? You seem …'

He took hold of one of her hands and held it between both of his.

‘I've behaved very badly, Lou. I'm so sorry.'

Badly? How had he behaved badly? ‘I don't think you have,' she said finally. What could she tell him that didn't sound ridiculous? Why was he making her go through this? He must have known that she'd loved the kissing. Didn't he realize that she'd already rehearsed what they would be doing soon? Very soon. This was like some kind of
Alice in Wonderland
thing – nothing was what it seemed to be. She said, ‘You haven't behaved badly at all, Harry. I've had a lovely, lovely time.'

Doh! What a lame way of putting it! Why were they in a public place, separated by a chilly marble table-top? Why couldn't she just get up and go over to him and hug him? Kiss him again. If only she could kiss him again, everything would be okay and back to normal and they could get up and pay the bill and go back to the hotel. She said, ‘Why don't we go back to the hotel?'

‘In a sec. I have to tell you something first.'

Lou felt cold dread take hold of her. She thought: It's like being on some hideous roller coaster. She was plunging into black depths,
leaving her stomach behind, wanting to faint, wanting it to stop, wanting to go back to normal and not being able to. She swallowed. Her mouth tasted of the garlicky sausages they'd just eaten and she thought she might easily vomit.

‘Okay,' was what she managed to whisper in reply. If I speak any louder, if I open my mouth any wider, I'll definitely puke.

‘We shouldn't – I mean, I shouldn't – well, I got carried away, that's all. I like you so much, Lou, and you're so pretty and you were all fired up by your visit to Mme Franchard and everything. Plus there was the river. It's easy to lose your head, right? I lost my head. Please say you forgive me.'

What to say? ‘There's nothing to forgive,' she muttered at last. What the hell, nothing to lose. She lifted her head and spoke with more confidence, starting to allow a little anger at Harry to creep up on her, making her feel less like crying and more like hitting him over the head with one of the thick white china cups. ‘I liked it. I liked it a lot. You have no idea how important it was to me.'

‘I know. I felt …'

‘You do not know!' Lou realized that she was almost shouting and looked around, embarrassed. No one was taking any notice. ‘I felt, for the first time since I left Poppy's father, that kissing someone, wanting someone, not being scared shitless of what would happen if I allowed myself to enjoy being kissed by a man – oh, fuck it, what does it matter. You've obviously changed your mind between the
choucroute
and the coffee. Never mind. I'm off.'

She got to her feet and Harry caught her by the hand. ‘Please don't go, Lou. Please sit down. I want to explain.'

She sank back on to the chair. ‘Go on then. I'm listening.'

‘I met someone in America.'

‘What?'

‘A woman. I met her the first day I was in Hollywood. I – we – well, I'm in love with her.' He leaned forward and tightened his grip on her hand. ‘You can't help it, Lou, falling in love. It just happens sometimes. Like that. Out of the blue.'

‘She's Meg Ryan and you're Tom Hanks. I get it, Harry. Okay? You don't have to explain any further. I totally, totally get it.'

‘I should have told you before I got on the train this morning.'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘I wanted to come to Paris. I wanted to come to Paris with you.'

‘Why on earth did you?'

Harry looked down at the table and blushed. ‘I like you. I also fancy you like mad. You must have known that.'

‘No. No, I didn't. Not till today, not really. I mean, I knew you liked me. Or I thought I did.' Lou sat up straight and pulled her hand out of Harry's grasp. ‘Okay, let me get this completely straight: you like me, you fancy me, you thought a trip to Paris would be a blast, but on the other hand you are madly in love with some starlet in Hollywood and so you shouldn't have come. You should have stayed home, after confessing your deep love for the starlet to me the minute you got back. Is that about it?'

‘Well, sort of. She's not a starlet. She's a lawyer.'

‘Oh, pardon me! Ally McBeal, then. Calista Flockwhatsit and not Meg Ryan. Apologies, really.'

‘No, I – I'm the one who should apologize.'

‘That's right, you bloody should. But it's a bit late now, right? Still,' said Lou, overcome by a kind of recklessness, ‘better late than never, that's what you reckon, isn't it? Having succumbed, having kissed me and enjoyed it and just as you're teetering on the verge of taking me back to our hotel and spending the night with me in a storm of violent passion, you get a conscience and decide that no, that wouldn't be a very nice thing to do: to make love to someone and then tell them you're in love with someone else afterwards. You're quite right. Much better to say something before all that happens. I would agree, only I've …'

The recklessness had gone. The tears were creeping down her cheeks now and she felt hideous: miserable, disappointed, pissed, too full of food … she wanted to lie down and hide under a blanket and never come out.

‘You've what, Lou? Don't cry. Please don't cry. Let's try and …'

‘Don't say it, Harry. Don't say let's go back to how we were before today.'

‘Why not? We were okay, weren't we?' He frowned suddenly. ‘You're not going to leave Cinnamon Hill? I need you. I value your judgement, truly. Please don't go.'

‘D'you really think I'm going to let you screw up my job as well? Forget it! I'm not leaving. I like my job. I like reading screenplays.' She shivered. The idea of having to find work all over again especially after what had just happened was too horrible to think of.

‘It won't be awkward between us, will it?'

Lou glared at him. ‘I don't care if it
is
awkward for you, if you want to know. I don't care. I'm going to try and forget that today ever happened. I'm going back to the hotel and you can wait ten minutes before you leave here. I want to walk on my own.'

The bill. Lou realized as she pushed her way between the tables and out into the night that she hadn't even offered to pay for her bit of the meal. Fuck it, she thought, let him pay. It's the least he can do. He's hurt me. He thought he was being kind and he wasn't. She walked along the pavement and saw nothing: not the streetlights nor the people nor the trees in full leaf. She almost ran to the hotel and up to her room. The old-fashioned key stuck a little in the lock and Lou burst into tears. It was too much, the last straw. In the end, she managed to wrench the door open and almost fell into the room. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. I don't care if I can't get it opened again. Fuck Harry Lang! What a bloody nerve! Coming to Paris under false pretences. Men were – she had no words for what men were. He'd actually almost gone to bed with her; what did that say for his love for this American person? This skinny, well-dressed lawyer woman. If he'd been a different sort of man, he'd have gone ahead with it, and they'd be together right this minute.

Lou sat on the edge of the bed and flopped back on to the counterpane, staring up at the ceiling. The tears were now flowing down the sides of her face and into her hair. There was a part of her that wished Harry was a two-timing bastard. What did she care if he cheated on his Jennifer Aniston lookalike? She wanted him to make love to her. It was the first time she'd wanted anyone to touch her for months and months and she'd worked herself up into longing for it so much that when the chance vanished, she couldn't take it. Was that what was going on here? Her anger and tears, her misery: was that simply because she was being denied a treat of some kind? No, it wasn't. She really liked Harry. She admired him, agreed with him about movies – she hadn't thought about the future but there had been the odd
moment, looking at Poppy, for instance, when she'd seen the three of them together: a family.

Lou sat up abruptly and went to the sink. She ran a basin of cold water and plunged her head into it. She groped for a towel – too thin – and began to rub at her hair, her eyes, her face. Then she went to sit on the chair by the window. That's Paris, she thought. City of a million romantic clichés glittering away in the velvety night. Paris isn't helping. I'd rather be in my grotty little flat, with my baby. Poppy. This morning – only this morning yet weeks seemed to have gone by today – she'd been only too happy to escape from having to look after her, but now she missed her. It would have been a comfort to hold her little body close and kiss her chubby cheeks. She took her mobile out of her handbag and wondered whether it was too late to text her mother. No, it was only ten o'clock in the UK. The message read,
Phone when you find this. Late as you like. If not, will see you 2morrow.

I'll get up as soon as it's light, Lou thought. I'll go to Gare du Nord and take the first Eurostar I can. She went to lie down on the bed again, though she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep much. She smiled ruefully. The scene with Harry had pushed Mme Franchard quite out of her thoughts. She sighed and turned her mind to
Blind Moon.
How could she ever find out if it was true? And did it matter to anyone other than Dad? Everyone else who might have been affected was dead. If those things really happened, then it explained Grandad's reluctance to talk about his childhood. Also, she could see from the photograph that she looked very like the other Louise. Part of Grandad's devotion to her must have been because of that resemblance. Her head was swimming with tiredness, anger, frustration and curiosity, and she closed her eyes. An image of Harry seemed to be imprinted on her brain. Oh, God. Even a few minutes' sleep would be bliss.

No one ever mentioned this aspect of looking after a small child: you were not allowed to go to pieces while you were in charge of one and the result of this was, whatever happened, however terrible things were, you held it all together till some other time when you could
collapse and weep and fall apart at your leisure.

‘There you go, precious,' Phyl said, dimly aware that a few hours before, her phone had done its pinging and she'd deliberately left the message unread because she couldn't think of anyone who'd be texting her except Matt and she certainly didn't want to think about him now.

‘He's with her,' she whispered to Poppy, sticking down the adhesive flaps of the new nappy, buttoning the baby-gro and covering the baby up again with her fluffy white blanket. She moved a couple of the cuddly toys nearer, so that they stood within reach of Poppy's hand if she needed them in the night, but her eyes were closing already. Phyl left the room quietly, carrying the nappy sack, which smelled faintly of violets (why did the manufacturers think they needed to perfume rubbish bags, anyway?) and there was the noise from her phone again. She didn't know exactly what she felt. What did she know for a fact? Only that Matt wasn't at home. He said he was at Paul's after a drunken bridge game which sounded … She wasn't quite sure why she disbelieved it, but she did. Paul and Matt were not the sort of men to forget about drinking too much. Matt was the embodiment of obedience to the law. He never drank when he had to drive. That meant he'd decided before the alleged bridge game that he was going to stay the night with Paul. Again, most unlikely. So where was he?