Twenty-four
I t was early in the morning, not long before Elise left to go back to London, when Charlotte received a call from Gilles Auvert.
‘Did you hear your interview yesterday, Charlotte?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did. So did my family.’
‘And?’
‘They loved it. It was great, Gilles. I mean, you do such a great interview.’
‘Well, it’s easy, when you’ve got a good interviewee,’ he said, sounding very pleased. ‘Anyway, I wanted to let you know I’ve already received some really nice comments about it.’
‘That’s great,’ she began, but before she could say more, he went on, ‘One of them was an email from someone who said he heard the interview, enjoyed it, but also remembered you as someone he used to know. He said he’d like to be in touch with you again and gave me his number, asking if I could pass it on.’
‘Okay.’ Charlotte was wary. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Wait a moment.’ She heard the rustle of paper, then the click of a mouse. ‘Ah. Yes. Here’s the email. Name’s Lamartine. Pascal Lamartine. He said you’d know him from St Jean.’
Charlotte stiffened. ‘ What did you say?’
‘Lamartine, Pascal,’ Auvert repeated, uncertainly, ‘from St Jean, wherever that might be. Do I take it you know this person then?’
Charlotte exhaled. ‘Yes. I certainly do. But we haven’t been in touch for quite a while.’
‘I see. So do you want to er—to have his number?’
‘Yes please, if you can text it to me.’
‘No problem,’ he said, obviously trying to keep any hint of curiosity from his voice, but Charlotte thought there was no reason to keep at least an edited version from him, so she said, ‘Pascal’s an old friend from school days, and another friend has been asking after him, so it would be great to be in touch.’
‘That’s excellent,’ he said, warmly. ‘It’s always good to reconnect with old friends.’
‘It is indeed, Gilles. It was lovely to see you again and thank you so much for the great interview. I’m really happy with it.’
‘As am I,’ he said. ‘Will send you that number now.’
When the text came through, Charlotte saw at once that Pascal’s number wasn’t a French one. She had to look up the country code to discover it was Hungary. But by now, Elise was getting ready to go, and Charlotte had no time to call Pascal, or Emma.
It was a couple of hours later that she managed to phone Emma to tell her about Pascal but the call went straight to voicemail so instead she left a brief message to say she had new information. Half an hour passed and there was still no response, so she decided to write a text to Pascal. That way she might have more to tell Emma when she eventually rang back.
Hello, Pascal, it’s Charlotte Marigny. Gilles Auvert gave me your number. It’s been a long time. But I’m glad you got in touch. This is my number. Speak soon? Cordially, Charlotte .
Now it was up to him.
But she felt on edge. Yesterday, after the radio segment, she’d felt happy, almost as though her troubles were over. But now …
Stop it, Charlotte , she told herself, sternly. And don’t just sit here brooding . Suiting the action to the thought, she’d left the house and was walking along the riverside quays when her phone buzzed in her pocket. The call was from Pascal’s number.
‘Hello. Charlotte Marigny here.’
‘Charlotte, it’s Pascal.’ The voice was instantly familiar, yet also changed, slightly, in intonation. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’
‘You too, Pascal,’ she said, and to her surprise, realised she meant it. ‘So I believe you heard my interview?’
‘Yes. It was great! You might find this funny, but I’ve really got into gardening in recent years. Just as an amateur, not professionally like you. I was so pleased to hear that you are doing so well.’
His words sounded genuine, and she was touched. ‘I’ve been fortunate.’
‘I’m sure hard work was very much involved too,’ he said. ‘How long have you been based in London?’
‘Since I was twenty.’
‘Don’t you miss Paris?’
‘I do. But I still go there a lot. I’m there now, as it happens.’
‘Really?’ His voice rose a notch. ‘So am I.’
‘But your number—it’s Hungarian.’
‘I can’t be bothered changing sims for a short trip like this,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for Papa’s eightieth birthday tomorrow. It’s going to be a big party, my stepmother doesn’t do things by halves.’ Anticipating her question, he added, ‘My parents divorced years ago and left the Morvan. Papa and his new wife have been living in Paris for a while. Anyway, I’d very much like to catch up in person if you have time. I’m going home Friday morning.’
‘Where are you now?’ she asked, making a sudden decision.
‘I’m about to head to Galeries Lafayette to buy some presents to take back home. Where are you ?’
‘I’m roughly near the Place de la Concorde. It’s not far to the Galeries Lafayette from here. I can meet you there if you like, in their cafeteria, in twenty minutes or so?’
‘Perfect.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘See you soon, Charlotte.’
Reaching the store, she took the escalator up to the cafeteria. It wasn’t as busy as it would be later, for lunch. But there were a few people seated at the tables, most of whom were in couples, and two or three singles, including a man sitting alone at a table by one of the windows that had a panoramic view over the city’s roofs. He had his back to her, staring out. But she was sure it was Pascal, from the set of his shoulders and the bright blond of his hair.
As if he was aware of her gaze, he turned and got up, a smile spreading over his face. ‘Charlotte. It’s so good to see you. You haven’t changed much.’
‘Pascal.’ She shook his proffered hand, noticing he wore a wedding ring. ‘Neither have you.’ That was a polite lie, and Pascal’s wry smile showed that he knew but wasn’t offended.
He was tall and broad still but he had put on quite a bit of weight, his beautiful golden hair had thinned, while his face showed the telltale signs of a life lived a bit too hard. ‘Sorry, I skipped breakfast, so I was hungry.’ He indicated the half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich in front of him. ‘But what about you? Coffee? Something to eat?’
‘Coffee, yes, but I had a late breakfast, so no food. Thanks.’
‘Won’t be long,’ he said, and was as good as his word, returning quickly with two steaming cups. Sitting down, he looked at her across the table. ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘It certainly has.’ This could have been the lead-in she needed, but it didn’t feel quite right. Instead, she asked, ‘How are you, Pascal?’
‘Surprisingly well. Happy.’ He picked at his sandwich, sipped his coffee. ‘And that’s the biggest surprise of all.’ The very blue eyes, which were the only thing about him that hadn’t changed at all, were filled with an expression of wonder that touched her.
‘I’m so glad,’ she said, really meaning it. ‘You have a family?’
His eyes lit up. ‘I do. Two little boys, six and four. And Anna, my wonderful wife, who I don’t deserve.’
She reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. ‘I’m sure she would say otherwise.’
‘She probably would,’ he said, smiling. ‘But still I have to remind myself it’s happened. A family, a home—I never imagined, in the years when I hit rock bottom … but enough about me. What about you?’
‘Three children, like you heard in the interview, but all grown up now. It’s taken a bit of adjusting to, but it’s a different pleasure seeing the lovely adults they’ve become. But I do miss that sweet small stage—like the age your children are at.’ She hoped he wouldn’t ask anything about her husband, because there was no way she could tell him about it, but a lie would also choke her right now.
He’d lived in Hungary for the last eleven years. He had a job in a hotel, something he’d managed to hold onto when he’d beaten the bottle—he was quite upfront about being a recovered alcoholic. He’d met his wife in Hungary, nine years ago.
Charlotte listened, thinking wryly that, as a teenager, she’d imagined Pascal to be the kind of guy who would cruise into the adult world without a care, and now she realised that she’d been quite wrong. There had been serious tensions in his family and a fragility to Pascal she hadn’t seen or understood at the time.
After a while, he looked at her and said, ‘Forgive me. It must be tedious listening to a virtual stranger going on about people you don’t know.’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. I’m so glad things have worked out for you. And I don’t feel we’re strangers.’ A pause. ‘I remember that summer we met really well. It was a good time.’
‘It was,’ he said. ‘At least …’ He stopped, then went on, ‘Do you still hear from Corinne?’
It was the opening she’d been hoping for. ‘She moved to Australia and very recently, I learned that she’d—’ She swallowed. ‘She died.’
Pascal’s eyes widened. ‘But she was only …’
‘Our age, I know. It was cancer. Her daughter told me,’ she added.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Her daughter?’
‘She contacted me. She wants to know more about her mother’s life in France. Corinne didn’t tell her much.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
Their eyes met. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Did you ever see Corinne again, after that summer?’
‘Yes,’ he said, surprising her. ‘Very briefly and by chance.’ He saw her expression and went on, ‘It was about two years after that summer, maybe a bit longer than that. I was at university in Tours, but not doing much studying, I’d got into a bit of a scene, and well … Anyway, a bunch of us had gone up to Paris for the weekend, we were going from bistro to bistro and it was then that I saw them in the street.’
‘Them?’ Charlotte echoed.
‘Corinne and this guy. I recognised her immediately—she was so striking. Once seen, never forgotten.’ He gave another wry smile. ‘But I had forgotten her, or more accurately, put her at the back of my mind, because I knew I’d behaved badly towards her.’ He rubbed at his face.
‘Did you speak to her?’ Charlotte prompted.
‘Yes. I called out and she turned around and saw me. She didn’t look pleased, but she didn’t walk away either. I went up to them, and it was only when I saw them up close that I recognised him .’ He looked up at her. ‘You remember my friend Eric, who hung out with us sometimes?’
Charlotte stared at him. ‘She was with Eric ?’
‘Yep. He’d grown taller, broader, not weedy like before. He’d cut his long hair and it looked thicker. And his face seemed—I don’t know, more defined, somehow. He wasn’t a skinny kid anymore, but a man. But his eyes were the same. You know, that stare of his that made you think he saw things you didn’t.’
His words suddenly conjured up a sharp picture of Eric’s face in Charlotte’s mind, and she nodded. ‘I know what you mean. But back in that summer we met, Corinne never showed any interest in him.’
‘I’d never imagined it before either,’ Pascal said, with a faint smile. ‘But they were definitely a couple, when I saw them. Holding hands, looking at each other a lot, clearly besotted. And thinking about it afterwards, I realised it wasn’t so strange. They were both intense, unusual people.’
‘So what happened then?’ she asked.
‘We chatted for a few moments. Apparently they’d met up again in Normandy, where they’d both gone, separately, for some kind of seasonal job earlier that year. They asked about what I was doing, too. Our conversation didn’t last long, though, just a couple of minutes, it was all a bit awkward and my friends were getting impatient, so we said goodbye and went our separate ways.’
‘Did you ever see or hear from either of them again?’ Charlotte asked.
He shook his head. ‘But a few months after that my mother told me that Eric’s father had been sent to prison for a long stretch, for fraud and extortion.’ He saw her expression. ‘Old man Dubois was a dodgy character, always into schemes. But this was a particularly nasty one, conning vulnerable old ladies. People were ready to lynch him. You can imagine what it must have done to his family. Especially his wife, who was, I believe, rather fragile. Eric was very protective of her.’
‘Do you know what happened to them after Dubois was arrested?’
‘They left the Morvan because the case had been national news and they’d been harassed. But that’s all I know. I never saw or heard from Eric again … Or Corinne, for that matter.’
Eric must have taken that happy, laughing photo of Corinne in the meadow, Charlotte thought, trying to process everything she’d heard. Maybe in Normandy, where Pascal had said they’d met again. Or maybe in the Morvan, later. But what had happened after Eric’s father went to prison and he and his mother left the area? Had the couple continued seeing each other, or had it all gone to pieces? The answer to that might determine if Eric was Emma’s father. But if he was, why had Corinne taken off to Australia, alone? ‘Corinne’s daughter will want to know what you’ve told me,’ she said. ‘Is it all right if I tell her?’
‘Of course. But maybe she should remember her mother as she was with her. If those are good memories.’
‘I’m pretty sure they are,’ said Charlotte. She got up. ‘I’ve got to go now, Pascal. Sorry for taking up so much of your time, but it has been really good to see you.’
He got up to farewell her. ‘You too, Charlotte. And I hope—’ He took his wallet out and extracted a card which he handed to her. ‘You have my number, but here’s my address. Maybe one day you might consider a Hungarian holiday?’
‘Maybe I might,’ she said, smiling, extracting her own card from her wallet and handing it to him. ‘Or you could visit us in London. In any case, let’s stay in touch.’
‘Absolutely. And give Corinne’s daughter my best wishes,’ he said, smiling.
As Charlotte walked away, her mind was whirling with what Pascal had revealed. Corinne and Eric! The idea took some getting used to. She tried to remember instances when the pair of them had interacted that long-ago summer they were all together, but nothing really came to mind that might explain the later attraction between them. Still, there it was. Two years or more after that Morvan summer, they had definitely been a couple …
She had to speak to Emma, as soon as possible. In person.