Nowhere Girl (23 page)

Olivier’s father, Roland, was less severe than his wife and his rosy cheeks and pot belly made Cate like him even more. His grey hair was unruly and Cate had before seen Josephine running her fingers through it, trying to smooth it down. She liked that it sprang back up regardless. A man who enjoyed his wine, who enjoyed the ladies too from the lingering way he appraised Cate. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, turning to give Amelia a kiss on each cheek, something Josephine had not done, and delivering General a vigorous rub on the chest. “A handsome dog, aren’t you, General?” The dog wagged his tail, his mouth wide and almost smiling, as if to say that he was indeed very handsome.

They all entered the house, and Cate felt as she had the other two times they’d visited, that it wasn’t so much a home, more a museum, that she should hold her breath and be careful not to touch. To be a child growing up here, to be Olivier at just ten or eleven, must have been stifling. Every object was so perfectly positioned, she couldn’t imagine a boy’s muddy football boots ever being allowed. Maybe that was why he could be intolerant of Amelia’s mess, going into a frenzy of tidying that Cate realised he must have inherited from his mother.

Amelia had finally switched off the iPad and her green eyes widened as she gazed around, the house was still a novelty to her. And there was plenty to be captivated by: the gramophone player and thick black records, each the size of a side plate; the green-brown marble figurine of a woman dancing; the framed butterflies that were dotted around the room. “Are they real, Mum?” she whispered, as if they might wake and fly away.

“Well, they were.” Real corpses, now. But for Amelia it added to the mystery of the strange house.

“Aperitif,” announced Josephine briskly, tapping her fingers to her palm. “But quickly, if we are to make evening Mass. And when we return from church the food will be ready.”

Cate stared at Olivier, he had not told her that they would be going to church. He avoided her look, and busied himself with filling small delicate glasses with Pastis, handing one first to his mother, then to Cate. She downed it, swallowing aniseed with her words. If it made Olivier happy, that was good enough.

Thirty minutes later they were walking to the Catholic church which was just around the corner, the evening sun cast an antique bronze hue over the boulevard and Josephine linked arms with her son, leading the way in an efficient tapping of high heels on paved streets. The bells rang as they walked, guiding them closer. Roland ambled behind his wife, chatting genially with Amelia, asking how she was liking her new school, what she thought of Luxembourg, and Cate was gratified that Amelia didn’t mention Ellie, but spoke instead about how much harder the homework was and how glad she was to finally have a dog. “I wasn’t allowed a pet in England,” she told him, “but General was already here so Mum couldn’t say anything.”

Soon they arrived at the church. It was small but beautiful, and inside were rich paintings in flaked gold and reds. The air was heavily scented and along with the darkness it felt strangely comforting to Cate, the effigy of Jesus, the bowed heads of the congregation. She could smell perfume and incense, hear the slow breathing of contented souls finding solace in God. As if he had been waiting on their arrival, the priest promptly began his service. His voice was incomprehensible to Cate, yet so familiar, deep and steady, the tone of someone why knew he was right, who deigned to share a little of what he knew with other, lesser beings.

In the stiff wooden pew, Amelia pressed against her, awed by the vaulted church and also by the strangeness of the language of the devout, the slow serenity of the people who smiled hello. Cate took her hand and together they stood, sat, prayed, all following Josephine’s cue. Afterwards, Cate tugged at the hem of Amelia’s dress so she remained seated as the congregation moved forward into neat lines, waiting to receive the bread and the wine. Olivier stood at the altar with his mother, one hand lightly on her elbow as if going simply to support her, but he too opened his mouth for the sacrifice.

“What are they doing, Mum?” asked Amelia.

“Drinking Jesus’ blood,” she couldn’t help but tell her, smiling when Amelia’s eyes went wide.

“But not really!”

“They think so,” Cate said, silencing herself as Josephine returned to the pew, her mouth closed on a wafer and her face as serene as a sleeping baby. Cate saw, as she had seen before, how religion could do this and for a moment envied the faithful.

Service over, the groups broke away and approached the Massard clan, kissing Josephine and Roland, as well as Olivier. Some also glanced at Cate and Amelia. She initially gave a tight smile, but when no-one introduced them she focused instead on straightening her blouse and tidying Amelia’s ruffled hair.

Back at the house, the evening meal was quickly served, and Cate realised that Josephine had help, seeing for the first time the elderly woman in a black dress who bustled to and fro with dishes of steaming vegetables. In the dark, oak-panelled dining room, Roland sliced the meat, which to Cate’s dismay was venison, and Olivier poured the wine, which was red and heavy, like a bowl of winter fruits left to rot in the sun. Cate drank hers too quickly.

“And how is work?” Roland asked Olivier.

“Fine, no problems at all.” Olivier winked at Cate.

If Olivier’s parents knew that he was dealing with a kidnapping, they did not say. The meal was eaten politely, the wine bottle soon emptied. Amelia talked about the dance class she wanted to join, she fed a slice of meat to General, who had positioned himself under the table at her feet, and was only lightly chastised.

Cate was just thinking that they had got through the evening unscathed when Olivier reached for her hand, surprising her with his urgency.

“Everything is wonderful, now Cate and Amelia are part of my life. And I would like to make this more official, if she will agree.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, making Amelia groan with embarrassment. Cate’s heart lurched.

From the pocket of his jacket, Olivier produced a small velvet box. Even before she opened it her heart thumped uncomfortably.
Oh, no, not like this…

Inside the box was a beautiful antique solitaire ring. When Cate looked up to the head of the table, Josephine was dabbing her eyes.

“It was my mother’s ring,” she said. “She wore it until the day she died, and then we put it away until this moment. When her only grandson…” Josephine would not allow herself to cry, but she stopped speaking, sipping at the last of her wine, blinking quickly at Olivier. Cate realised then that this had all been planned. Olivier had choreographed the proposal with his mother’s blessing.

Amelia clapped her hands excitedly, grabbed the box to better see the ring and slid it on her own finger. Olivier and Roland laughed, but Josephine looked less than happy. “That is not a toy, Amelia.”

Cate gently took the ring from her daughter, gave her a smile, and slid it onto her wedding finger. It fit perfectly.

It was only later that she realised she had never actually said yes.

There was champagne, two bottles that were already sweating in coolers when they arrived, and Josephine insisted they stay the night. She was enjoying having this impromptu party, if indeed it was, and a small buffet of finger food was produced as the evening drew in.

Roland placed his hand on Cate’s shoulder, in a quiet moment when mother and son were talking in French within the curtained seclusion of the window seat. “Welcome to the family,” he said, and Cate could have kissed the old man on his rumpled cheek for his kindness. But Amelia was yawning, her eyes were narrow with fatigue and she needed to go to bed. Taking her upstairs, Cate bade her future mother-in-law and husband a goodnight.

Cate was not allowed to sleep with Olivier under his parent’s roof, good Catholics that they were, and so Amelia and Cate went straight to their own bedroom at the front of the house, with a generous bay window shrouded in dusky pink curtains. The room was beautiful, heavily flowered drapes hung around a four-poster bed and in the bathroom, thick towels had been placed alongside toiletries. Amelia was delighted, a princess in a castle.

The four-poster bed had a wooden canopy and creaked painfully when Amelia got in, having tossed her dress on the floor and wearing just her underwear. “We should have packed pyjamas,” she said, but Cate pointed out this stay hadn’t been planned. Someone, however, had thought to equip the en-suite bathroom with new toothbrushes, a tube of paste and wrapped soap.

Cate felt uneasy amid the fine fabrics, the antique furniture. Olivier’s family home was laden with wealth and tradition and she knew instinctively that any discussion they might have on religion or politics would end badly. She would have to keep her mouth shut.

“So. How do you feel about me marrying Olivier?” Cate asked Amelia, snuggling next to her. She knew her daughter was tired, but she needed to ask this one question.

Amelia’s eyes glittered. “Can I be bridesmaid? I know what to do, it would be my second time. But I’ll need a different dress.”

“Of course,” said Cate, not wanting to be reminded of Tim’s wedding to Sally, “but more importantly, Amelia, do you want Olivier to be your stepdad?”

Amelia paused, as if considering the matter, though her broad smile said she was still dreaming of dresses and shoes. “Will you have a baby? I’d like another sister. Not a brother though.”

Cate smiled and pulled Amelia close. She and Olivier had never talked about having children. There seemed to be so much that they hadn’t discussed, so much about him she didn’t know, but did that really matter? What mattered was that it worked, or seemed to. It would work better, she thought, now she could stop thinking about Ellie’s case, meddling in something that wasn’t her concern.

Amelia’s breathing levelled out and she drifted to sleep. Cate realised that she should return downstairs to her fiancé and his family, that they were probably expecting she would, but instead she continued to lie on the bed and stare at the canopied ceiling. She lifted her left hand and examined her ring, which sparkled like a star in the night sky and felt heavy on her finger. Then she closed her eyes, realising that she was slightly drunk and very sleepy, and she allowed herself to drift.

I am alone in the beauty salon, it is not yet time to unlock the front door, and I touch the screen of the laptop and see that beyond the page for emails, which Auntie checks often during the day, there is a section that says “search”.

It is not a fancy computer, which is good because I am not very clever at such things, but I know that there is information that can be gained through it, that just by asking one question, a million answers will pop up.

Why does Auntie not do this for Fahran? Surely something can be done to make him better. But I am afraid, and have to tell myself to be brave. I know it is forbidden, that my job is tanning and painting and waxing, not trying to cure the boy. I may answer the phone, if I am polite and careful, but Auntie is the one who deals with any enquiries that come from the website. Twice now she has taken photos of the nail work I have done, to post onto our page, and it is through this that we get our email appointments. But there is more to know, more things to search, and the computer has answers.

Hoping I am spelling correctly, I type the words the British woman said, the cure she mentioned, the words Ellie said too. It must be so easy, so common, yet to me it is a strange and frightening:
proton therapy
.

The answers pop up, the hospitals where it happens. There is a picture, too, of the little boy treated in Prague, the one the British woman told me about. He is smiling, in the arms of his father, and the headline simply says
Cured
and below is a quote,
It justifies everything we went through
. Inside I am sinking, thinking that this boy is lucky. This boy is not Fahran. We can’t afford to buy medicine and we have no papers. Knowing that a cure is possible just makes it worse.

I hear a scuffling behind me and know that it is Fahran. He has taken to me now, and will often seek me out in the house, though he still says very little. Something stops him knowing the words, just like something makes him trip up every now and again. I think it is the cancer.

I spin quickly, as if surprised, my hands up to my mouth in a clownish show of shock that makes him laugh so hard he stumbles and I have to grab him before he falls to the floor. And touching him like that, it feels so like hugging Pizzie, that I pull him closer and he hugs me back, still laughing with delight.

When I look up, Auntie is standing in the doorway, watching me with her boy. I see she has been crying again, the sadness never completely leaves her, and it is hard to bear when the solution has just been at my fingertips, is even now on the screen behind me.

“Fahran doesn’t have to be sick,” I tell her, impulsively, believing it so strongly I can no longer keep the thought inside.

Auntie’s mouth becomes smaller and she blinks, so I know she is holding the tears inside. Fahran wriggles in my arms and pulls away from me, running to his mother. He may not speak, but he knows that she is upset and that we are talking about him.

When she is kneeling on the floor, her boy in her arms, I tell her, “There is a boy here who had the cancer, but now he has been cured. Look, Auntie.”

When she looks at the photo on the computer screen I see her aging by ten years in seconds. She looks so tired that I think of Omi, and for a moment I hate myself for causing her such sadness.

“You think I haven’t thought of this treatment, Amina? You think I don’t know that there are clever people, close by, who could help us? But we are illegal here. You know this.”

“Yes,” I agree, she is only saying what I had been thinking, not ten minutes ago. “But there must be other ways to get help.”

Auntie frowns.

“The girl upstairs,” I whisper. “Her family. She said they would pay to have her home.”

I realise I am holding my breath, because my plan is so perfect. I want to help Fahran, and I want to help the girl. If Auntie agrees to this, then both will end up happy.