Chapter 28
Twenty-eight
It had rained overnight and the streets had a rinsed look about them that bright Saturday morning when Isabelle emerged from the hotel and set off for a late breakfast in the closest café.
She’d hadn’t woken till well past nine o’clock, something that hadn’t happened in she didn’t know how long.
The events of the day before had returned to her as she awoke and she felt buoyed by the memory, excited to start on the work for their project.
She had the notebook she’d bought in Batignolles, and would start putting together a timeline in that, so she’d have something to show Romy and Audrey when the three of them met up tonight.
She’d just finished breakfast and was heading back to the hotel to start on the notes when her phone rang. It was Carlos. ‘Oh, how are …’ she began, flustered, but he cut into her words. ‘I’ll be in Paris in an hour, Isa. Can you meet me at Montparnasse station?’
Her heart leaped. She’d tried not to think about whether Carlos would come or not, and had stopped herself several times from messaging him.
She had to be patient, she knew that, even if patience wasn’t something that came naturally to her.
‘Of course,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.
‘You—you must have caught a pretty early train.’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘The letter came back to us. I have it with me.’
‘What? How?’ She hadn’t thought about Cazenave at all this morning and only fleetingly last night.
He was not important. He might have the letter, but he didn’t have the real prize—the tracings.
Besides, she had already decided she was going to go to the school on Monday morning to confront him, and so she’d put it to the back of her mind.
But now she felt stunned, completely at a loss.
She hadn’t expected this at all. ‘Carlos?’ she added, when he didn’t answer.
There was a crackle. ‘Sorry, Isa, reception’s terrible just here, I’ll explain it when we—’ The call dropped out and Isabelle was left staring at the phone, her pulse racing, her thoughts churning.
She tried to distract herself by walking back to the hotel and making a start on the notes, but she couldn’t concentrate at all and in the end gave up and set off for Montparnasse. It didn’t matter if she had to wait.
An hour later, she was standing on the platform watching his train drawing in.
As it came to a stop, she felt something grip inside her chest, and knew she was nervous in a way she hadn’t been for a very long time.
It wasn’t just because of what he’d told her, unexpected as it was; it was also because he had chosen to come here so quickly.
She didn’t know what that meant, not yet. She could only wait and see.
The passengers began to get off, and for a moment she couldn’t spot him in the surging crowd—young, old and in-between; in family groups, pairs or singly; wheeling, lugging, shouldering bags of all descriptions, which she avoided warily.
But there he was at last, small backpack hoisted casually over one leather-jacketed shoulder, waving at her from behind a noisy scrum of children, probably a school group on excursion.
He looked bright, cheerful, determined—his usual self, in short.
The feeling gripped in her chest again and as she waved back, she knew that what was agitating her was more than just nerves.
‘It’s so good to see you, Carlos,’ she said, as he drew level with her.
She hadn’t intended to say it with such force and, afraid he would think she was trying to soft-soap him, was about to add something innocuous, like, how was your trip?
but before she could, he put his backpack down and took her in his arms. ‘And you too, Isa,’ he said, hugging her tightly before letting go and looking at her with a smile that made his black eyes sparkle.
‘There’s a lot to talk about. But shall we do that over a coffee? ’
She’d had coffee less than half an hour ago, but who cared if she buzzed like a bee?
‘Of course,’ she said, her nerves calming a bit, because of the warmth of his hug, or his beautiful smile or the way he was just—well, Carlos.
And that was suddenly worth so much more to her than the thing he had travelled so far to give her.
They found a café nearby, and after the waiter had delivered their coffees, Carlos took an A4-sized brown envelope from his bag. It was closed with a split pin, and on the front were some handwritten words: ‘To Madame Isabelle Bernard, care of Monsieur C. Souza’.
Carlos told her it had been left under the door the night before, but Liana had found it very early that morning and called him straight away.
And then, after picking up the envelope, he’d jumped on the first train.
Isabelle looked at Carlos, her throat suddenly dry.
He returned her gaze and somehow read the strange reluctance she felt at handling the envelope.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, gently. ‘Take your time.’
She took a deep breath. ‘No. I’ve—I’ve got to know why.
’ Unfastening the split pin, she opened the envelope and drew out, firstly, Elisabeth Fontaine’s letter, which had been slipped into a stiff, transparent document holder.
It was intact, undamaged, and original, as she soon confirmed when she popped open the holder button and glanced inside.
Setting it aside, she pulled out the second item in the brown envelope: another envelope, but plain white and sealed.
It also had her name on it in the same handwriting as on the brown envelope. Cazenave’s writing.
She looked up at Carlos. ‘Maybe it’s a bribe to make us forget what he did,’ she said, attempting a joke she didn’t feel, and he had the kindness to give her a faint smile in return, though said nothing.
Taking a fortifying swallow of coffee, she opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of folded paper with a couple of lines in biro: It was a moment of madness. Things have been hard recently. There was no signature, and nothing else in the envelope.
‘“A moment of madness”,’ she said, scornfully, passing over the note to Carlos.
‘Ha! He thinks that’s an explanation. No way.
He saw his chance and took it. He probably thought I might not even remember that I’d left the letter at his place, I was so woozy that evening …
’ She swallowed. ‘And even if I did remember, he could always say he hadn’t seen it, that I must have left it somewhere else.
Of course he had no idea that you knew me and would call me about it.
But then he saw us in Toulouse when I—well, you know—and it got too hard so he decided to cut his losses and try to save his job.
He must have suspected we’d contact the school, which is exactly what I was planning to do.
’ She looked again at the note. ‘He doesn’t even say he’s sorry. ’
‘No,’ said Carlos. ‘That’s true. But’—and he gestured at the restored letter—‘this is perhaps the only apology he is capable of.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Isabelle. ‘But it’s not enough. I can’t just leave it like this. I need to have it out with him. Properly. In person. Do you see?’
Carlos nodded. ‘I do. And I thought you might say that.’ He looked at her. ‘You said you were going to contact the school. Why not go to his flat? You left the letter there, didn’t you?’
She flushed under his calm gaze. ‘Yes, but I don’t have the address. It was all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I was feeling … not quite myself.’
He reached into his wallet, drawing out a slip of paper. ‘This is the address he gave us when he first brought us the letter,’ he said, again without judgement.
Her eyes pricked with tears. ‘Oh Carlos,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘No problem,’ he said, smiling. ‘But let me come with you, Isa. You never know how he might react.’
‘You’re amazing,’ she said, and meant it with all her heart. Cazenave wasn’t the only one who had behaved shabbily, she thought, and she had to make amends for that right now. Gulping down a lump in her throat, she went on, ‘Carlos, there’s something I want to say …’
He smiled. ‘You don’t have to. I know.’
‘Oh, but I need to say it! I’ve been unfair—more than unfair to you.
And not just with the letter …’ She swallowed, the words coming out choppy.
‘I have always trusted the wrong men. And that made me—unsure with you. But you don’t deserve it.
I really am so sorry and I know that you must not want any more to … ’
‘Shh,’ he said, taking hold of her wildly gesturing hand in his. ‘Relax, Isa.’ He grinned, his whole face lighting up. ‘You really are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met.’ And he softly kissed the tips of her fingers.
She stared at him, hope lighting in her. ‘Do you mean—you still want—’
‘Of course,’ he said, simply. ‘If you’ll still have me.’
‘Oh, Carlos.’ She reached for his hand and laid it against her cheek, a flood of feeling surging through her as she recognised at last what she should have seen from the beginning.
He wasn’t like the other men. He never had been.
And now at last she could relax, and really get to know him, properly.