Out of Sight (29 page)

‘It's not that easy.'

‘Jesus, Lennie, you were suicidal after you lost the baby. And even before that, at Christmas, too, when he'd buggered off. Face facts! This is the man who walked out on you without a word, who stuck his baby in a car and left him to die.'

‘Not deliberately!'

‘Oh no? How can you possibly be sure?'

‘Because I know him!'

‘Oh, for God's sake!'

Leonie clenched the hot mug between her hands, refusing to raise her head. Stella stood her ground, frowning down at her. ‘I'm sorry, Lennie,' she said at last, a little more calmly. ‘But I can't go through it all again. I realise it's not about me, shouldn't be about me, but the fact is
that I sacrificed all this year's holiday time because that selfish shit wasn't there for you. You're truly welcome to all I've got to give, you know that, but I don't want Patrice, or Patrick, or whatever he calls himself, back in my life. He's bad news and always will be.'

‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I do appreciate how much you've done for me.' Leonie made mewling sounds in an effort not to cry.

Stella took pity, and pulled up a chair beside her, rubbing her shoulder. ‘It's okay. Really. I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm just so angry at him.'

Leonie nodded miserably. Stella fetched some kitchen roll for her to blow her nose. ‘We've been over this a million times. You have to have the courage to face up to the fact that you made a mistake with Patrice,' said Stella. ‘It doesn't matter, we all do it. But he's never going to be the man you hoped he was. You have to move on. Change. Don't get hooked back in, or you won't survive.'

Leonie nodded again, trying to breathe normally. ‘Do you seriously believe he was to blame for his son's death?'

‘What did he say?'

Leonie busied herself with the kitchen roll.

‘You didn't ask him about it?' Stella was incredulous.

Leonie defended herself. ‘We were in a small café. It was hardly the right time or place.'

Stella sat back, exasperated. ‘Answer me this: if you'd been told before you met him what he did to his son, would you ever have dreamt of getting involved with him?'

Leonie shrugged. ‘I'd've felt sorry for him.'

‘Honestly?'

‘It was an accident.'

‘An accident happens in a split second. He left that poor kid for hours. The whole day, Lennie. How does any sane, normal parent forget his child for an entire
day
? What kind of forgetting is that?'

‘If it was deliberate neglect, he'd have gone to prison.'

‘How do you know he didn't?'

‘The inquest report in the paper said it was a tragic accident.'

‘It's still macabre. There has to be more to it,' insisted Stella.

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. Resentment. Some passive-aggressive controlling thing against his wife. Catastrophic thinking. Like those fathers who kill the whole family rather than lose custody.'

‘Patrice isn't like that.'

‘No? How can you be sure? I'd like to hear his wife's side of it!'

Leonie had no response.

‘Look what he did to you! His disappearing act was pretty passive-aggressive. Certainly wasn't normal.'

‘But it did make sense once I found out what had happened, how he'd feel about being a father again. Imagine what it must have been like for him, when I told him I was pregnant!'

‘Frankly I was rather too busy witnessing what the consequences were for you! And asking myself, if he hadn't upset you so much, whether maybe you wouldn't have lost the baby. I'm sorry, Lennie, but his selfishness runs pretty damn deep.‘ Stella rose to her feet and began shakily clearing the table. She dumped the plates and mugs in the sink and rested her hands on its rim, bowing her head. ‘Why defend him?'

‘Because I have some sympathy with what it's like to lose a child,' said Leonie quietly. ‘So I do see why he couldn't bear to stay, couldn't face having another child.'

Stella turned back to her, clear-eyed. ‘Fine,' she said. ‘If that was the reason he left, then face up to telling you the truth. Don't just vanish.'

Certain that Stella had only her best interests at heart, Leonie tried to account to herself for why she defended Patrick. She had sensed from the very beginning how wounded he was, how his reactions were those of someone badly damaged, but she hadn't cared. Had that been stupid? Or was that what love was about? She needed to know, once they had spoken and the tragedy of his son's death no longer lay between them, whether their connection was as strong as she hoped. She still believed in him, in his essential goodness and desire to heal. After his kiss, she would be mad to walk away before she was sure of what she was discarding. She recalled how well and happy Greg had looked beside the woman he was about to marry,
how altered from the pasty, resentful man she had left. It
was
possible to be transformed, and much as she loved and trusted Stella she owed herself a chance at that kind of love.

She concealed her silent mobile in loose pockets where she could feel it vibrate. Patrick had not offered her his number, nor mentioned where he lived, but she could always find him again at the Angel Sanctuary. Pushing away the silly fear that he would flee from her a second time, she allowed herself to rehearse the conversation they would have about his son, to anticipate his relief at no longer having to live alone with such guilt and grief. Stella was right: however carelessly she had sprung on him the news of her pregnancy, he should have told her the truth. Or, after his first panic, at least come looking for her again to make sure she was all right.

And yet, while Leonie could hardly blame Stella for condemning him, she was not wholly convinced it
was
cowardly to seek to avoid contaminating others with the unthinkable manner of his son's death. Why should he have burdened her with such knowledge? Yet, equally, why should his need to protect himself from exposure bar him from closeness and intimacy? Would Stella honestly wish to shun him, deny that he deserved a second chance, and expect him to lock himself away from all human contact?

These were questions Leonie had asked herself many times. She possessed remarkably few concrete facts about his former life, and nothing beyond the barest circumstances of his
son's death, but, now that she knew the worst and could release him from the past, he would be free to tell her everything.

Her mobile rang the following week while she was showing a wealthy couple from Mauritius around a flat in St John's Wood. She took the phone from her bag. Not recognising the number, her heart leapt at the thought that it might be Patrick. She excused herself and went swiftly out to the hallway to take the call in private, leaving the clients to discuss the size of the bedrooms.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello, it's me, Patrick. Patrick Hinde.'

Leonie felt a rush of sweetness at his notion that she wouldn't have recognised his name or voice. ‘Hello!'

‘How are you?'

She laughed. ‘I'm fine. How are you?'

‘I thought we could meet for a drink. If you'd like to.'

‘I think I would, yes.'

‘There's a pub on the corner of Primrose Hill, The Queens. See you there tomorrow? At seven?'

‘Okay.'

Patrick said goodbye and rang off. Leonie felt the past months recede like a wave from the shore, dragging away with it all the gritty, sore detritus. She returned to her clients, smiling confidently.

The following evening Leonie's mobile rang again while she was getting ready to go out. Debating whether to wear
her new summer slippers decorated with silver sequins took her back to how Patrick had had to push her on his bike after she'd decided to wear unsuitably high-heeled sandals. She instantly recognised the voice.

‘Hello, sweetie. It's ages since we spoke. How are you?'

‘Gaby! I'm very well. And you? And Thierry?'

‘Well, not so great. That's why I'm calling. Thierry had some tests, and the doctors think he may need a heart bypass.'

‘Oh no!'

‘There's no immediate danger, but that's the way it is.'

‘I'm sorry, Gaby. You must be worried.'

‘We've been doing a bit of re-assessing our lives,' she admitted. ‘Thierry thinks he may retire.'

‘That wouldn't be so bad, would it?' asked Leonie. She remembered Thierry's many interests – local history, wine, the peach and apricot trees espaliered against the high stone wall in their garden, over which he fussed about winter frosts and pollination and marauding insects.

‘I suppose not. Everyone thinks they're immortal, that's all.'

‘Are you okay, Gaby?'

‘Fabienne, the girl I took on when you left. She's hopeless.' Gaby paused. Sensing what might be coming, Leonie hesitated to fill the silence. ‘I may semi-retire, too,' Gaby went on. ‘So Thierry and I are free to go off and do things together. Sweetie, none of my kids are interested in the
business, so I'd like to make you a partner. They're all happy with my decision. What do you say?'

Hearing the pleasure Gaby took in making her offer, Leonie swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, Gaby. So much. I'm very touched. And I really admire how hard you've worked to build up the agency.'

‘So you'll come back?'

‘I don't know.' She registered Gaby's involuntary little gasp and winced guiltily. ‘Gaby, I'm honoured. It's a wonderful offer, but please may I think about it?'

‘Are you still working part-time for that estate agent?' Never one for flannel, Gaby had cut straight to the bone.

Leonie felt terrible. Gaby had been unbelievably kind and generous and understanding: she owed her a proper explanation. ‘The truth is, I've just seen Patrice Hinde again.'

‘No! Oh, sweetie, no, you mustn't.'

‘I know, I know. But I have to—' Leonie sought the right words. ‘I have to finish it. So I can pack it away.'

‘Stay away from him, Leonie. I beg you. Think of what you told me about his son!'

‘I know you're protecting me, Gaby, and I'm terribly grateful.' Leonie struggled with conflicting impulses. ‘Give me a day or two, and you'll have your answer.'

There was a long silence before Gaby spoke again. ‘Something else you should know about him. Something I learnt a little while ago. I wasn't going to rake things up again, but—'

Leonie could just imagine Gaby pursing her lips with a shake of the head.

‘It's about his grandfather,' Gaby went on. ‘Madame Broyard's husband.'

‘Yes?'

‘He had nothing whatsoever to do with the Resistance. He shot himself.'

‘Suicide?' Leonie was astonished.

‘Yes. When his poor wife was eight months pregnant. Even worse than what his charming grandson did to you.'

‘My God!'

‘Whether or not you come back to Riberac, you should stay away from that man.'

‘But he had no idea about his grandfather! And it was hardly anything to do with him!'

‘Bad blood, all the same.'

‘Please, Gaby, let me have a few days. I just want to clear stuff up first.'

‘Think things over very carefully, sweetie. It's a good business. A good life here. Thierry joins me in sending big
bisous à toi
. We'd all love to have you back.'

‘I'll call soon, I promise. And thank you. For everything.'

Gaby rang off. Leonie dropped the phone on the bed and put her hands to her face. It was all too much. And now she was running late and Patrice – Patrick, she corrected herself again – would be waiting.

As she sat on the bus towards Camden, from where she intended to walk along the canal, Leonie attempted to
examine the tumult that besieged her feelings. She hated being so ungrateful to Gaby; and she had lied to Stella about what she was doing tonight. And what was she supposed to do with this latest revelation about his grandfather? A suicide more than sixty years ago, how could it possibly affect her? Yet she was certain it did. There had been too many long dark nights when her sanity had rested on the attempt to understand how anyone could be capable of such indifference, how Patrick could have been able to abandon her so completely, yet still persuade himself that he had acted for the best. She was sure the reasons lay in his damaged childhood, and that this suicide, kept secret, was yet another of the toxic adult emotions that had swirled and curdled above his head when he had been a homesick, lonely little boy.

And there still remained Patrick's own secret to take into account: his son's death, and the way in which he had left his marriage and, according to him, walked to Riberac; his horrific nightmares; his refusal to travel in a car; his reaction to Gaby's grandson clinging onto him that night at dinner; his panic at the prospect of fathering a second child. All things he must still assume she could not possibly link together. She hoped he would trust her to understand.

The bus reached its stop and Leonie pushed her way off. She went down the steps to the tow-path, awakening to the fact that it was a beautiful June evening and the canal side was thronged with kids out to enjoy themselves.
Threading her way between the various tribes sprawled out along the path, she felt charged with special power and energy. This grappling with damage and memory, with secrets and despair, was all about what makes people who they are. It was a privilege to see beyond the veil of everyday superficiality and be vouchsafed a glimpse of the real stuff of life. She was determined to respond with every scrap of courage and wisdom she possessed.

Patrick was waiting for her on the wide pavement outside the pub at Primrose Hill, his stance rigid with self-consciousness. Leonie was immediately taken back to how he had leapt up from the churchyard bench the evening of their first date. If only she had known and understood then what she did now, had herself possessed more self-confidence. He gripped her arm and kissed her cheek, and she noticed a rucksack in his other hand. He threw a glance of distaste towards the bellowing drinkers occupying the pub and displayed the rucksack. ‘We don't have to stay here,' he said. ‘I brought a picnic. And a bottle of wine.'