This is Life (39 page)

Aurélie had never liked that woman, and now she liked her even less.

Aimée continued. ‘She’d told me she would be here at nine with Olivier, that was always the agreement, and I was tearing my hair out when she didn’t show up. I must have
called her twenty times. She didn’t even send that message until it was gone ten o’clock, and it drove me out of my mind with worry. I’ve never run so fast in my life.’

Aurélie was relieved to think that she looked good in comparison to Aimée’s sister.

‘The sad thing is, I can guess what she’s done. She’ll have run off on tour with a drummer. It’s always a drummer. Maybe I wouldn’t mind so much if she had gone off
with a proper musician for once in her life, but a drummer . . .’

‘That’s really sad – she must have very low self-esteem. But maybe she’s moved up in the world. Maybe it’ll be a guitarist this time.’

‘I doubt it. At best it’ll be a bass player. Let’s see.’ She switched on speakerphone, and dialled.

—
Hi, Aimée
, came a perky voice.

‘Hi, Justine.’

—
So you got Olivier back?

‘Yes, he’s here now.’

—
Sorry I couldn’t be there. I’d run out of something and had to go to the shop at the last minute, so my friend stepped in
.

‘What did you run out of?’

—
Er . . . cheese
.

‘Well, that explains it. I can see how important it must have been for you to get some cheese. It’s terrible running out, isn’t it?’

—
It is, yes
.

‘But thank God your friend was there to help you out. She’s very nice, isn’t she? What’s her name, again?’

—
Her name? You don’t need me to tell you that
.

‘Don’t I? Why not?’

—
Well, this is typical, isn’t it? I’ve known her all my life – she’s my best friend. She was always there when we were growing up, but you never even noticed
her. You and Mother were too busy coddling the baby to ever pay attention to anything that happened to me
.

‘So the middle child syndrome’s still raging?’

—
I don’t have a syndrome, I just see the facts as they are
.

‘But never mind all that now. Her name has completely slipped my mind. You must remind me.’

—
It’s . . . er . . .

‘You can’t remember it either, can you?’

—
Well, it’s just . . . we always used to call her by her nickname
.

‘Which was what?’

—Dumbo
.

‘Dumbo?’

—
Well, Semi-Dumbo.

‘Semi-Dumbo?’

—
Yes, Semi-Dumbo – it’s because of her
. . .

‘I know why you would call her that, but I find it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten your best friend’s real name because you only ever think of her as
Semi-Dumbo.’

—
Well, I do remember her name, as a matter of fact. She’s . . . er . . . Véronique. Yes, that’s right – Véronique. She’s definitely quite
Véroniquey. Some people just suit their names, don’t they?

‘Are you sure she’s called Véronique? I thought she said it was something else. It’s just I was so pleased to see Olivier again that I lost concentration.’

—Ah, no, it’s coming back to me now. It’s . . . wait . . . she’s . . . er . . . Aurélie, that’s it. I always get those names mixed up
.

‘If you say so. Anyway, how’s the drummer?’

—
He’s fine . . . Hang on, no, I mean, what drummer?

‘What’s his group called?’

—
I don’t know what you’re
. . . She knew the game was up. She sighed.
Herbert,
she said.
They’re called Herbert
.

‘
Air-bear?
’

—
No, Herbert. Pronounced the English way. They’ve never made it as a French band, so their manager has made them reinvent themselves as an English band, and they’ve given
themselves the most English name they can think of. They sing in English, and pretend they’re from The Deepings, apparently that’s a place in England, and they tell people they’re
called things like Desmond and Roy. My one pretends he’s called Rodney. And it’s worked, too. They made up all these fake press cuttings about how everyone in England thinks
they’re the new Beatles, or the new Smiths, and they’re getting the bookings.

‘And where are you now?’

—
Somewhere between, er . . . Toulouse and Toulon, I think
.

‘How’s the tour going?’

—
Pretty well. They had sixty people in last night, which is a record. I work the stall, and I even sold a T-shirt – their first one. We were all pretty excited about that. And
nobody’s realised they’re French yet. If they ever think someone’s starting to suspect, they just start acting as English as they can by bumping into things and saying
‘crikey’, or drinking too much and being sick all over the place
.

‘I’m delighted for them. I’m sure they’ll become really, really famous. But never mind all that. Guess what I’ve found out: I know for a fact that you’d never
met Aurélie before you gave her Olivier. She could have been anyone. You do know, don’t you, that I’m never going to trust you with him again?’

—
What? Why? You can’t stop me from seeing him. I’m his aunt – I have legal rights, and anyway he’s OK, isn’t he? I don’t know why you’re being
so uptight. That girl looked after him, didn’t she? I knew she would. She has a kind face.

‘She has an exhausted face right now. She’s done a good job under the circumstances. And what about all those texts you sent, telling me what you and Olivier had been up
to?’

—
Well, pardon me for putting your mind at rest. Hey, did that girl tell you about how she threw the stone? That was so funny. How could that ever be a good idea for an art project? What
an idiot!

Now she was telling tales, in the hope that she would begin to look better in comparison with Aurélie. Fortunately, Aurélie had already confessed to the stone throwing.
Aimée hadn’t been delighted by the story, she had even cried a little bit, but Aurélie had been so mortified that Aimée couldn’t help but forgive her.

‘She told me everything.’

Aurélie looked at her shoes. She hadn’t told Aimée everything. The sisters’ conversation carried on, but she stopped listening and started worrying.

Aimée put the phone down. ‘Well, that’s answered the big question. Who is to blame for this mess? It’s me! I’m the one who entrusted Olivier to a
pathological liar with terminal middle child syndrome. That’s the problem with the government’s big scheme to get people breeding. It’s all very well giving people tax breaks to
have a third child, but they haven’t thought of future generations. How is the country ever going to function with an underclass of middle children with chips on their shoulders, creating
dramas to draw attention to themselves, living in fantasy worlds and lacking direction in their lives? For one thing there won’t be enough drummers to go round. Whatever was I thinking,
giving my eight-month-old baby to my messed-up sister?’

‘Isn’t he a nine-month-old baby?’

‘He’s a eight-month-old baby. He won’t be nine months old until next week.’

‘OK, let’s work this out. If he’s Aquarius, then . . .’

‘Aquarius? Who said he was Aquarius?’

Aurélie didn’t have to answer. Aimée sent a text to her sister:
What is new boyfriend’s star sign?

Seconds later, the answer came back:
Aquarius. Perfect for me, I know!

At least this cleared up the mysterious non-appearance of the stranger in yellow.

As Aimée and Aurélie talked, Aimée went through her suitcase. She had bought some clothes for Olivier while she had been in America. Picking them out for
him had been the only aspect of her stay that she had enjoyed, and she was impatient to see him wearing them. She pulled out a red-and-black striped sweater.

‘Let’s put this on you,’ she said.

Aurélie turned cold with fear. ‘I should go now,’ she said, and stood up.

‘No, you sit down. You have to see Olivier in his new sweater.’

‘No, I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

‘Nonsense. Sit down.’

Aurélie didn’t see any alternative but to do as she was told.

She popped Olivier on her knee, and took off the top he was wearing. He sat there in his vest, and she put the sweater on her hands, ready to put it on him. Then she noticed something.

‘My God,’ she said. ‘Olivier . . . how . . .?’

She pulled back the strap of the vest, and stared at the wound. It was worse than Aurélie had ever seen it. It was healing, but the scabbing looked awful, almost black, and there was a
yellowness and a tightness to the skin surrounding it.

‘Aurélie,’ said Aimée, ‘what happened to him?’

Aurélie looked at her shoes. ‘He fell.’

Aimée looked at the wound, then back at Aurélie.

Aurélie could see from Aimée’s face that her explanation hadn’t been adequate, that she needed to know more. And she knew Olivier’s mother needed to know
everything,
really
everything this time. But to tell her everything would be the end of her. She tried to find the courage. ‘He fell . . . on to . . . a bullet.’ Aurélie
realised how stupid this sounded. She had to stop slithering around, and start telling the truth. ‘I shot him.’

Aimée held her baby tight. ‘Olivier,’ she said, ‘what have I done?’

Aurélie carried on looking at her shoes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

She could feel Aimée looking at her, and she looked back.

‘Aurélie,’ said Aimée, ‘this is too fucked up. I can’t deal with it any more.’ She took Aurélie’s bag, with the gun in it, and put it
between her feet. ‘I’m going to call the police.’ She picked up the phone.

Aurélie felt no urge to wrestle her gun from her bag and point it at Aimée’s head to get her to put the phone down. She never wanted to touch the thing
again. She felt awful. She was beyond feeling sorry for herself; now she just felt sorry for her dad. He was going to find out what she had done. She loved him so much, and he didn’t deserve
to have such a ridiculous and horrible daughter.

‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘It was a big drunken mistake. Maybe you’ve never made a big drunken mistake. If you haven’t, you’re lucky.’

Aimée put the phone down, and went back to getting Olivier into his new sweater. It suited him very well. She lowered him on to the floor, and watched him dart away. She clamped a palm to
her forehead and slumped back in her chair. ‘So tell me what happened,’ she said.

Aurélie told her everything. Aimée listened in silence, and when she had finished, Aurélie said, ‘Are you going to call the police now?’

‘I ought to. People who shoot babies should go to prison.’

‘I know.’

‘But when you asked me if I had ever made a drunken mistake, well, guess what – I have made a few in my time. Most of them were pretty trivial in the scheme of things. But sometimes
. . .’ She picked up Olivier, and held him close. ‘. . . good things come from drunken mistakes. Wonderful things, even.’

Aurélie wondered what she meant.

Aimée continued. ‘A couple of years ago my work transferred me to England, and I made the basic error of embracing the local culture. You’ve probably heard what it’s
like over there.’

Aurélie nodded. She had never been, but she had heard plenty of stories; life across the Channel seemed to be one big drunken mistake.

‘One night I drank much too much, much too fast, and nine months later this little character came along. I never even knew his father’s name. I can barely even remember what he
looked like. All I remember is that he was English.’

‘So Olivier is half English?’

‘Yes. You can see it from some angles – particularly around the chin. But he’s still my baby, and I love him no matter what. Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant it felt as
if it was going to be the end of the world, and it’s not been easy, but I can’t imagine life without my little boy.’ She looked long and hard at Aurélie. ‘Maybe
something good will come from all this too. What do you think?’

Aurélie nodded. She was going to make sure of it.

W
hile Sylvie Dupont was working, Toshiro Akiyama had gone to spend a few hours at the House of Soundwaves, a permanent exhibition of sonic marvels
that had been established by a group of enthusiasts, including Le Machine’s sound designer. He had sent her a text message, in comprehensible French:
Museum very good
.

She was missing him like mad, and couldn’t wait for her shift to end. She came to the end of a trip around the neighbourhood, and pulled up at the top of Montmartre. She waved off her
passengers, and the moment they were out of the car, her friend Aurélie Renard got in, diving on to the back seat.

‘Just drive around the block,’ she said, ‘and pretend you don’t know me.’

Sylvie drove off.

‘I’ve got your gun,’ said Aurélie. ‘Thanks for lending it to me. You can have it back now.’ She took it out of her bag and dropped it on to the passenger
seat, still wrapped in its tea towel.

Sylvie drove on, thinking hard. Then she pulled over to the side of the road. She picked up the parcel, and put it in a paper bag that was full of wrappers from her lunch. Three soldiers were
walking by, on one of their regular patrols that were designed to reassure tourists that the streets were safe. Two held rifles, the other carried a pistol. She got out of the car, went over to a
litter bin, and right in front of them she dropped the bag in. She smiled at them, and they smiled back. She got back in the car.

‘I don’t need it any more,’ she said. ‘I have Toshiro now.’

They drove on.

Aurélie looked at her friend. She knew she wouldn’t be seeing much of her for a while, as she and Toshiro spent time getting to know each other. But that was OK. She was so happy
for her to have found him.

‘Sylvie,’ she said, ‘don’t worry. I’m not going funny on you or anything, but there’s something I want you to know.’

‘What is it?’

‘Actually, no, I’m not going to say. You’ll just laugh at me.’

‘Well, you have to tell me now.’