Blood Wedding (18 page)

January 19

The bitch! I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at, I don’t even know if she’s doing it deliberately, but I’m furious with her, and furious with myself. Of course, I have to wonder whether Sophie has worked things out, whether this was a trap. In anticipation of her appointment with her therapist, I snuck into the apartment to take from her desk drawer the black Moleskine notebook in which she jots everything down. I know it well, I read it often. So I didn’t check it immediately. It is completely blank. It looks exactly the same, but every page is blank. This means she has two notebooks and I wonder whether this was a decoy intended to trick me. She must have noticed tonight that the notepad was missing.

After careful consideration, I conclude that she has not become aware of my presence. Perhaps I’m just trying to reassure myself, but if she had made the connection there would surely be other signs, when in fact everything seems to be working perfectly.

I don’t know what to think. I have to say, this business with the notebook has got me worried.

January 20

There
is a God, after all. It seems I’m out of the woods. To be honest, I was really panicked: I didn’t dare go back to the apartment; I had the vague feeling that it was dangerous, that I was being watched, that I was about to get caught. And I was right.

When I got to her place, I put the blank notebook back in the desk drawer but I had to search the entire apartment for the other one. I knew she wouldn’t have taken it: her constant fear of losing things was my salvation. It was bound to take time and I don’t like to stay long, I know it’s not wise, I have to minimise the risks. I was searching for more than an hour, sweating in my latex gloves, freezing every time I heard a board creak. I was beginning to feel jittery, I couldn’t fight it. Then, finally, there it was, behind the toilet cistern. This is not good, it means she’s beginning to suspect something. Though not necessarily me . . . It occurred to me that she might be suspicious of Vincent, which would be a good thing. I had just fished it out when I heard a key turn in the lock. I was still in the bathroom. The door was ajar. I just managed to stop myself reaching out to pull it closed: it’s right at the other end of the hallway from the front door. If it had been Sophie, it would have all been over – women always head straight for the bathroom when they get home. But it was Vincent, I could tell by the footsteps it was a man. My heart was pounding so loudly I couldn’t hear a thing, couldn’t even think. Panic surged through me. Vincent walked straight past, slamming the door shut. The noise was terrifying. I almost passed out, I had to steady myself on the washbasin. I felt as if I was going to throw up. Vincent went into the study, turned on the stereo, and at that point it was my panic that saved me. In a sort of trance, I pushed the door open and tiptoed quickly down the hallway, opened the front door and
without even closing it I hurtled down the stairs. I was convinced the plan had been compromised, that I would have to give up. I felt utterly distraught.

A vision of Maman appeared before me and I began to sob. It was as though she had died a second time. Instinctively, I clutched Sophie’s notebook in my pocket. I walked away, tears streaming down my face.

January 21

Listening to the recording today was like reliving the whole thing. It was a nightmare! I heard the stereo being cranked up (something by Bach, I think), I imagined I could make out the patter of my feet in the hallway, but it was very faint. Then I distinctly heard Vincent walking to the front door, and there was a long silence before I heard it close. I think he must have been wondering if someone had just come in, maybe he stepped out onto the landing, went down a couple of steps, peered over the banister or something like that. The door was closed carefully. He probably thought he had not shut it properly when he came in. That night, he didn’t even mention the incident to Sophie – if he had, it would have been a disaster. I got such a fright.

January 23

A hysterical e-mail to Valérie. She was due to see her therapist tomorrow morning, but try as she might she cannot find her notebook. She is sure she hid it in the bathroom, but now it is gone. She broke down in tears. Despite her exhaustion, she feels anxious, constantly on edge. Depressed.

January 24

Appointment
with her therapist. When she told him about losing the notebook, he was very supportive. This kind of thing often happens when you’re trying too hard, he told her. Overall, he found her very level-headed, not panicked at all. She burst into tears when she related the dream about her mother-in-law. She felt she had to tell him how the accident had happened in precisely the same circumstances. How she could not remember anything she had done that day. He listened calmly, he does not believe in prophetic dreams. He offered a theory that she did not quite understand, did not quite hear, since her mind was working too slowly. It was something he terms “minor tragedies”. But at the end of the session, he asked whether she might like to go somewhere “for a rest”. This was what really scared her. I think she thought he was planning to have her sectioned. That is something that terrifies her.

Valérie always responds to her e-mails immediately. She wants to show how supportive she’s being. Valérie suspects – and I know for a fact – that Sophie is not telling her everything. Maybe it’s a kind of magical thinking. What she doesn’t talk about does not exist.

January 30

I was starting to give up hope about her watch. It’s been almost five months since she lost the beautiful watch her father gave her for her graduation. God knows, she turned the apartment upside down looking for it. No luck. Eventually she had to write it off. She was so upset.

But now, all of a sudden, it has turned up. And you’ll never
guess where? In her mother’s jewellery box. Right at the bottom. Now it’s not something she opens every day, obviously, since she doesn’t really wear that kind of thing. But all the same, she must have looked inside it half a dozen times since late August. In her mind, she tries to work out precisely how often she has opened the box since they got back from their holidays – she even wrote down a list for Valérie, which was pointless, as though that would prove anything. But not once did she notice the watch. Granted, she was not at her best, but it’s not a particularly large box and there’s not really that much in it. And besides, why would she have put it there in the first place? It’s insane.

Sophie doesn’t seem particularly happy to have found the watch, which is a little rich.

February 8

Everyone loses money from time to time, but having too much is pretty rare. And in this case, it is baffling.

My little lovebirds have big plans. Sophie is very discreet on the subject in her e-mails to Valérie. She says “It’s not definite yet”, that she will tell her soon, that she’ll be “the first to know”. The fact is that she has decided to part with a painting she bought five or six years ago. She put the word out to her colleagues and clients at the auction house, and sold it yesterday. She was asking for 3,000 euros. Apparently that’s a fair price. A man came to look at the painting. Then a woman. Eventually, Sophie settled for 2,700 on condition it was paid in cash. She seemed happy. She put the money in an envelope in the writing desk, but she does not like to keep so much money in the apartment. So Vincent took it to the bank this morning to deposit it into their account. And this
is where it becomes baffling. Vincent seems quite shaken by the episode. They have been going round in circles talking about it ever since. There were 3,000 euros in the envelope. Sophie is absolutely certain it was 2,700. Vincent is just as certain: 3,000. My little lovebirds suddenly seem to be certain about everything.

Vincent, it has to be said, has been giving Sophie strange looks. He even said that lately she has been “acting weird”. Sophie did not realise he had noticed anything wrong. She cried. They talked. Vincent suggested she go and see someone. That it was the right time.

February 15

The day before yesterday, Sophie took everything back. Her library card cannot be wrong, it says she took out two books, she remembers borrowing them because she flicked through them. She didn’t read them, just leafed through them. She had borrowed them out of curiosity, prompted by an article she had read a few weeks earlier. She can picture them clearly. But she cannot find them anywhere. The monograph on Albert Londres and the Glossary. These days, everything panics Sophie. The slightest little thing and she falls apart. She called the library to ask if she could extend the loan. They told her she had already brought the books back. The librarian even gave her the date: January 8. She checked her diary, she had a meeting with a client in the suburbs that day. She must have dropped them off on the way. But she has no memory of taking the books back. She asked Vincent if he knew anything, but she didn’t insist: these days he’s like a bear with a sore head, she tells Valérie in the e-mail. The books are still there, still available, they have not been lent out since. She could
not stop herself, she went to the library and asked when they had last been returned. They confirmed the date.

I saw her as she came out. She looks very distressed.

February 18

A week ago, Sophie organised a press conference to publicise a major auction of rare antiquarian books. She brought a digital camera and, during the cocktail party afterwards, took photographs of journalists, of board members and of the finger buffet for the company newsletter. This also meant the press did not have to send their own photographers. She spent a whole day and much of the weekend on her computer at home, cropping and retouching the photographs she needs to submit to the board and send to the various journalists. She stored the images in a folder labelled “Press 11/02”, which she plans to send as an e-mail attachment. There must be a lot at stake because she thinks long and hard, checks the images, does a little more retouching, checks them again. I can tell she is nervous. Professional pride, I suppose. Eventually, she is satisfied. Before sending the e-mail, she carefully compresses the images into a single ZIP file. I have never abused the fact that I have remote access to her machine. I’m always worried that she will notice. But this time I couldn’t resist. While she was zipping the file, I added two additional photographs to the folder. Same format, same EXIF data, guaranteed from the same camera. But these are not of journalists or of prestigious clients. They are of the press officer on a sunny beach in Greece, giving her husband a blow job. Admittedly, the husband is not as recognisable as the press officer.

February 19

Understandably,
there is uproar at Percy’s. News of the mix-up with the press kit is spreading like wildfire. Sophie is dumbfounded. First thing Monday morning, a member of the board called her at home. Several journalists called as soon as they got to their desks. Sophie is in complete meltdown. She has not mentioned what has happened to anyone, certainly not to Vincent. She must feel completely mortified. I only learned of it myself from an e-mail sent by one of her journalist “friends”. A devastated Sophie had no idea what he was talking about and asked him to forward the offending photographs. Though I say so myself, I’ve got an eye for good composition: her mouth full, Sophie is gazing up at Vincent with a deliberately lascivious smile. When nice middle-class girls play the whore in private, they’re better than the real thing, let me tell you. The second image is even more compromising, if that’s possible. It was taken at the climax, and proves that she’s a natural and that his equipment is in good working order.

It’s a disaster. Sophie did not go in to work and spent the whole day sprawled on the sofa. Vincent is distraught, but she refuses to tell him anything. All she could bring herself to tell Valérie was that “something terrible” had happened. Shame is a terrible thing, it can be crippling.

February 20

Sophie cried all day. She stood for a long time at the window, smoking countless cigarettes. I got a lot of good pictures of her. She has not set foot in the office, where I’m sure the rumour mill is going round like crazy. I bet that the images have leaked, that the people around the coffee machine are passing them back and
forth. This is probably what Sophie is imagining too. I don’t think she would be able to go back. That would explain why she seemed indifferent when she found out that she had been suspended. One week. Apparently, they managed to limit the extent of the damage, but personally I think the harm has been done. And in career terms, this is the sort of thing that can come back to haunt you.

Sophie certainly looks like a ghost.

February 23

From the very start, the evening felt like a trap: I was supposed to pick her up at her apartment and take her out to dinner. I’d reserved a table for two at Chez Julien, but my determined paramour had other plans. As soon as I stepped through her front door, I saw the table set for two. The mindless bimbo, whose noxious perfume is enough to confirm that nothing is too tasteless, had even put a candelabra on the table, one of those revolting objects that masquerades as contemporary art. I gave a little yelp of surprise, but now that I was inside and could smell something cooking in the oven, it was difficult, indeed impossible, to refuse her invitation. I protested for the sake of form, vowing never to see this woman again. My decision was made. This thought comforted me, and since the round table made it impossible for Andrée to paw me as she usually does whenever she has the opportunity, I felt safe.

She lives in a cramped apartment on the fourth floor of an ageing, charmless building. The living-dining room has only one window, which admittedly runs floor to ceiling but gives little light since it overlooks the courtyard. It’s the sort of place where
you have to keep the lights on at all times if you don’t want to sink into a depression.

Like the evening itself, the conversation lagged. As far as Andrée is concerned, I am Lionel Chalvin, I work in the property business. Both of my parents have passed on, meaning that it takes only a mournful look whenever the subject is raised to avoid having to talk about my childhood. I live alone, and of course the stupid bitch believes that I’m impotent. Or that I have trouble getting it up, at least. This is another subject I have largely managed to avoid, or to limit to practicalities. I play it by ear.