A Hidden Life (49 page)

Lou looked across the carpet at Jake, sitting forward on the sofa. If she wasn't careful, this moment would pass and Poppy would start mithering and demanding attention and that would be the end of this conversation. She got up and went over to sit next to him. Poppy didn't even look up from her play.

‘Jake,' she said, ‘you might be older than I am, but you think too
much. Please just stop talking and kiss me again.'

She leaned towards him and put one hand on his shoulder. At once, his arms were around her and his mouth was on hers. She closed her eyes. Let it go on, she thought. She clung to Jake as though she never intended to let go.

‘Mama … Maaam …' Poppy wailed. The kiss ended, and Lou and Jake sprang apart.

‘What's the matter, darling? Don't cry. Nothing's wrong. Look … look at this doll.'

Jake smiled at her as she slid down to Poppy's level on the carpet. ‘I guess she thought I was attacking you.'

‘It's okay,' Lou said. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘She's going to have to get used to it. So are you. I'll get the tea stuff. We all need some cake, right?'

He left the room and Lou picked Poppy up and hugged her. ‘Oh, Poppy,' she said. ‘Don't you just love him? Jake? Say it. Jake!'

‘Yake!' Poppy shouted, caught up in the excitement. ‘Yake!'

‘Do you mind?' Lou smiled up at Jake, who was leaning on one elbow in her bed. This was probably not, she thought, how he'd intended it to be. To be woken up at five o'clock by a shouting toddler demanding light refreshments after a night spent in a small, rather shabby bedroom in a flat that could no way be described as desirable wasn't what Lou would have dreamed of either, but now it seemed to her completely blissful.

When she'd come back about an hour ago from dealing with Poppy, Jake was fast asleep. She slipped in beside him, breathless at the sight of his slim, pale body in her bed. In
her
bed. She lay there, conscious of his quiet breathing, and went over the last few hours in her mind. He'd brought them back from his house in the car and helped Lou to carry all Poppy's stuff upstairs. And then he just stayed. She'd fed and bathed Poppy and Jake had helped. She'd put her baby to bed. Then she'd made them a risotto. They opened a bottle of wine that Dad had insisted on giving her after his birthday. They'd drunk too much. She'd shown him the photograph of John Barrington's mother, which lived on the shelf above her table.

‘This is the first Louise – my great-grandmother.'

He'd held the wooden frame in his hands and stared down at the picture. ‘She's … she looks exactly like you. That's amazing. Don't you think that's amazing …?'

‘I know. It's spooky.'

‘Where's it taken? By the sea, it looks like. You can just see it, there, behind her head.'

‘I think it's the house in Brittany. You can see how thick the walls are. I suppose they need to be, with the sea so close.'

‘It's beautiful. She's beautiful.' He'd leaned forward then and kissed her, putting his arms around her and drawing her down into the depths of the sofa. ‘I can't drive home,' he added, whispering the words into her neck. Lou had felt her bones melting, her whole body frantic with longing for him. ‘And it's late.'

‘Stay. Stay here,' she'd said.

He'd followed her into the tiny bedroom. He undressed her and she lay naked on the bed and closed her eyes while he tore off his clothes and came to lie beside her. She could see him by the light left on in the lounge. ‘Kiss me,' she whispered and he did, oh, God, he did. He touched her all over. He licked the hollows of her neck and spoke words to her that she heard and didn't hear and understood and repeated back to him and then he was there, inside her, moving inside her and she thought she might faint and didn't faint and moved with him and cried out with him and lay next to him afterwards, panting and laughing and he was kissing her again and telling her he loved her, he loved her, he always would and he loved her and he wanted her and she was his love his only love and kiss me, he said and she did and she didn't want to stop, not ever. Then he woke up and said,

‘Hi, Louise. Hi, my darling,' and she wondered about him calling her Louise and what it meant and she nearly asked him and then decided not to and whispered, instead, ‘Do you mind?'

‘What are you talking about?' he said sleepily. He lay down again on his side, and put an arm around her naked body. ‘Mind what?'

‘Well … this flat. It's grotty. Not your sort of place at all.'

‘I have no idea what you're saying. Any place you're in is my kind of place.'

‘But you …'

‘I love it. I love this flat. Ssh …' Gently, he pulled her on top of him as Lou whispered, ‘Poppy could wake up at any moment. I'm not sure we should.'

‘I am. I'm sure we should. Sssh …'

‘Feels as though autumn's on its way with a vengeance, doesn't it?' Matt smiled at his secretary and wondered, not for the first time, how social wheels would be oiled without the wonderful weather clichés which could be trotted out for every occasion. And since he was holding a dripping coat at arm's length as he spoke, Matt felt that today he was more than entitled to comment on the weather. He'd been soaked, just walking from where he'd parked in the tiny carpark behind the office for use of Barrington employees only.

‘I'll make some coffee, shall I?'

‘Thanks, that would be wonderful. And a couple of biscuits, I think, as well.'

Once he was in his place, behind his desk, Matt began to feel better. In the three weeks since his birthday, he'd felt like a recovering patient, conscious that he shouldn't take too much for granted, but still telling himself that things were looking up. Yes, that was the way he put it when he was thinking about it. Things were improving on all fronts.

Ellie wasn't being difficult, Justin wasn't nagging him for help, and Nessa seemed happy now that the divorce was a
fait accompli.
The best thing of all, as far as he was concerned, was what had happened to Lou. It looked, from things she'd said, as though she and Jake Golden were – he never knew how to put it. An item. A couple sounded too formal and lovers too flowery and romantic. In any case, pleased as he was for Lou, he didn't like to think too much about her being someone's
lover.
But it was a good thing, there was no doubt about that. Lou sounded more positive than she had for ages and, apparently, Jake was very fond of Poppy. He knew that Poppy's mere existence would put off a lot of men. He hadn't been like that. He'd been perfectly content to accept Ellie's children by another man, but he knew that most people would run a mile before taking on an infant who wasn't theirs.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Matt thought. He's not proposing marriage. And there's still the problem of Lou's lack of money, that awful flat and her complete obstinacy when it came to accepting help from him and Phyl. The advance on
Blind Moon
was welcome, but it wasn't much, and privately Matt wondered whether the book would go on to make money. He doubted it. Never mind, Lou was okay for now and he was glad about that.

‘There's someone just arrived to see you who isn't in the book,' Mrs Beaumont said, coming in with the coffee and biscuits. ‘He had an umbrella, thank goodness. He's French … a Monsieur Thibaud, or Thebaud, or something …. You're not expecting anyone from France, are you?'

‘No, I don't think so, but you'd better send him in.'

Monsieur whoever he was entered the room rather tentatively. First he put his head round the door, and then the rest of him followed.

‘Come in, come in. The English weather is behaving in just the way people think it always does, I'm afraid. Come and sit down. I'm sure you could do with a hot drink. Is coffee all right, or do you prefer tea?'

‘Coffee is very good, thank you so much.'

M. Thibaud settled himself in the chair in front of the desk as Matt phoned through for another cup and saucer. Mrs Beaumont brought it in and while she busied herself with handing out the coffee, Matt had a chance to assess his visitor. A middle-aged man, bald and quite small, with a pair of rimless glasses enlarging already quite protruberant blue eyes. Reasonably well dressed in a conservative style, he carried a very old-looking briefcase.

‘It's very good of you to see me, out of the blue like this,' he said. Matt wondered how it was that foreigners didn't seem to have any problems talking English, whereas he'd have had a struggle in any European language. M. Thibaud went on, ‘I left a message on your machine?'

‘I'm very sorry. I don't seem to have received that. It's easy to dial the wrong number, I think, when you're calling from abroad. But there's no harm done. I've no pressing engagements till after lunch.'

‘Thank you. My name is Jules Thibaud. I am the attorney of Mme
Manon Franchard. I regret very much to say that Mme Franchard passed away ten days ago. I have only just found your address and other details among Mme Franchard's papers. I am deeply sorry to be the bearer of such news.'

‘Oh!' Matt didn't know what to say. Finally, he spoke. ‘That is very sad. I only met Mme Franchard once but she was my great-aunt and I'd have liked to know her better. I feel badly about it. I ought to have made sure to see her more often … to bring her to England, perhaps. I'm very sorry to hear this, and I know my daughter will be too. She'd only met Mme Franchard twice, but I know she liked her. Lou … that's my daughter, Louise … she's the one who's interested in our family history … I must phone her and tell her the news. She'll be very sad.'

M. Thibaud coughed and opened the flap of the briefcase. ‘Mme Franchard was a client of mine and a good woman in every way, but order in her papers was unknown to her. I have found a letter she has written to me, in which she tells me that your daughter, Louise, possesses a letter Mme Franchard gave her on the occasion of her last visit. Is this so?'

‘Yes, she brought a letter back with her from Paris … that was in August. I can telephone her, if you like?'

‘That would be very kind of you, if it is convenient.'

‘Absolutely.' Matt dialled Lou's mobile and smiled at M. Thibaud as he waited for her to answer. ‘I often wonder how we managed to do anything before the advent of mobile phones … Lou? Can you talk, darling? Good … thanks. Are you at home? Right. Right … it's okay, only I've got a piece of rather sad news, darling. Mme Franchard has died … Yes, yes, I know. Of course … her lawyer is here. M. Thibaud. He's been going through Mme Franchard's papers and as I understand it, she's told him she gave you a letter. Is that right? It is? Good … then let me put you on to him now. Are you ready to speak? Oh, quite right. Okay. I'll wait for you to ring back. Bye, Lou.'

Matt turned to M. Thibaud. ‘She's going to ring back very soon. She has to find the letter and read it herself. Mme Franchard apparently made her promise not to open it until after her death. Please have another biscuit. I'm sure Lou won't be long.'

Lou sat down on the sofa. That thing that people said about having the stuffing knocked out of you was right, she thought. That's just what I feel like. Sort of sad, but not really, truly, terribly sad because I hardly knew Mme Franchard. And I'm surprised even though I shouldn't be, because when I was in Paris, she looked very weak and ill. And she gave me a letter to open when she died … this isn't a shock. Not really. I was expecting it, but also, because of everything that's happened, I'd forgotten all about it. Now that I've been reminded, I'm stunned and I have no right to be.

She stood up and went to find the letter, fearful for a second or two of opening it. She wondered if she ought to phone Jake, but that wasn't unusual. She felt like phoning him about every ten seconds and found the time when they were apart difficult. I'm in love, she thought. Amazingly, she'd found that she could repeat these words to herself in her head over and over without feeling a fool. She had never imagined it could be like this: as though there were a thin thread of something or other pulling her towards him at all times. Whatever she was doing or thinking, wherever she was, every part of her was drawn in his direction. She imagined what he'd be doing: reading something or other in the office. Talking to someone on the phone and leaning back in the chair, and whatever he was doing she knew with absolute certainty that he was thinking of her in exactly the same way. We yearn for one another, she thought and almost laughed. What kind of language was that, for God's sake?
Yearned
 – but that was exactly right, and when they met after a few hours apart they clung together as though they'd been in imminent danger of being separated for ever. Bloody ridiculous, Lou smiled. I've lost my heart.
My true love hath my heart and I have his
 … there was no doubt about it, reason and normal behaviour had gone out of the window.

Since that night three weeks ago, when they'd made love for the first time, Lou had spent part of every day with Jake. It was the thing with the car seat all over again. He'd gone to John Lewis the very next morning, bought a cot for Poppy and proceeded to turn one of the small rooms in his house into a nursery. He'd taken Lou to help choose pictures and bedding for the cot and a small chest of drawers.
She'd watched him do this in a daze. What was the etiquette about letting a man buy stuff for your baby? Was it the same as letting them buy you perfume and lingerie?

‘Don't you need to think about this for a bit?' she asked weakly, as they came out of the shop with so many carrier bags that they were both staggering.

‘No. No, I don't. I want to spend every night with you. I want you to move in. You won't, for some reason, so I need to make it easier for you to stay over sometimes. I'm betting it'll happen one day, right? You want it to happen, don't you?'