Nell
PRESENT
Because Alex is leaving for the US on Monday, we decide to spend the weekend on our own rather than socializing as we sometimes do with Béatrice and Victor, Alex’s sister and brother-in-law.
We’ve had dinner with them a few times and at one of the dinners I met Béatrice’s friend Inès, who works at the French Consulate.
It was during the dinner with Inès that Béatrice announced she and Victor were expecting a baby in the spring.
Alex was delighted for them, but in the seconds before he hugged them I saw a shadow cross his face and guessed he was thinking about Stephane, his son.
So far, we haven’t socialized with my friends.
Apart from Sadie, I only have three; Romy, Rob, and Marcus.
I first met Romy, a beautiful Corsican girl with long dark hair and almost black eyes, two years ago at a Pilates class I no longer go to.
Rob, Romy’s partner, is a brawny Scot and former rugby player from Glasgow and Marcus is Rob’s roommate from university.
As well as friends, the three of them are partners in an advertising agency they set up together.
Although they know about Alex, I haven’t introduced him to them yet. As far as they know, Alex and I have only had dinner together a few times. They don’t know that for the last four months, on his trips to London, he’s spent most of his nights at mine rather than at his hotel.
“You know that Marcus thinks Alex is a spy, right?” Romy had teased one day.
I’d turned from the worktop, where I was pouring chilled white wine into our glasses, and raised my eyebrows. “A spy? Wow. Why on earth would Marcus think that?”
“Because, according to Marcus, a consultant is a euphemism for a spy. And also because Alex spends most of his time in Washington and hangs out with people from the French Embassy when he’s here.”
“So who’s he spying for?” I’d asked, playing along. “The French or the Americans?”
Romy had grinned. “Both probably.”
“A double agent,” I’d breathed. “In my book, that makes him sexier than he already is.”
Romy had arched her perfect eyebrows. “I wouldn’t know, given that I haven’t met him yet.”
“You will,” I’d promised. “Next time he’s here.”
Remembering that conversation, and my promise to Romy, I feel doubly guilty at the lie I told her.
She had invited me to join her, Rob, and Marcus for dinner this evening and to get out of going, I’d invented a work function I needed to go to.
I hate lying but if I’d told Romy the truth, that Alex was here, she would have insisted—in her charming Corsican way that makes it difficult to refuse her anything—on joining us at some point.
And selfishly, I want to keep him to myself a little longer.
We spend the rest of the weekend in the same way that we’ve spent other weekends—shopping in the local market and walks along the Thames interspersed with leisurely lunches, early nights, and late breakfasts, because we’re still in that honeymoon phase of our relationship when our main preoccupation is spending as much time as possible in bed.
On Sunday afternoon, as we stroll hand in hand in Hyde Park, a cold wind lifting our hair from our scalps and stinging our cheeks, me wearing his gloves because I left mine at home, a question that I didn’t know I was going to ask bursts from my lips, triggered perhaps by the sound of an ambulance siren nearby.
“How did your girlfriend die?” The words are no sooner out of my mouth that I want to take them back. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding Alex’s hand tighter. “I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s fine.” Alex’s voice is quiet. “You have a right to know. I should have told you, Béatrice said that I should but…” His voice trails off. “She was killed. Murdered, for want of a better word.”
Shock nails my feet to the ground. I snatch my hand from his, leaving him holding an empty glove.
“I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me.” He stands there, holding the useless glove, then turns to face me, his eyes dark with pain.
“But if there’s an easy way of saying it, I haven’t found it.
I should have told you, I know. But it’s the last thing you want to tell someone, especially someone you care about.
I suppose I thought it might drive you away. ”
To my horror, I burst into tears and the knowledge that I’m crying, not from sorrow but from fear, makes me cry even more. Alex, mortified that he’s the cause of my distress, tries to console me by pulling me into his arms. But my tears turn to anger.
“You should have told me!” I cry, my hands on his chest, pushing him away.
It’s like trying to push back a mountain.
He waits until I drop my hands in defeat and pulls me back into his arms, holding me tight against him, murmuring soft words in French, reverting to the language he learned as a child from his mother, as he always does in times of deep emotion.
His heart thuds its anguish beneath my cheek and my anger gone, I press myself tighter into the soft cashmere of his coat, wishing I could be absorbed into his body, because only then will I feel safe.
“Shall we go home?” he murmurs and I nod against his chest.
We don’t speak as he guides me toward the park gates, or as we walk back to the house. We don’t speak when he takes me upstairs, or while he undresses me and takes me to bed. It’s only after, when we’re wrapped in each other’s arms, that he finally breaks the silence.
“Tell me what you want to know.”
I don’t know what I want to know. I don’t know if I want to know anything at all.
“What happened?” I ask finally, moving my head back so that I can see his face.
“It was just a random, senseless killing. If there had been a reason, it might have been easier to bear. A jealous ex-boyfriend, that kind of thing. But there was nothing, just a burglary gone wrong. At least, that’s what the police concluded because her flat had been ransacked and her jewelry taken.
” Alex pauses. “They think her attacker was high on drugs at the time, because of the damage he inflicted.”
I don’t know if he’s referring to the damage inflicted on the flat or on his girlfriend but the bleakness of his voice breaks my heart. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”
“It was the worst time of my life,” he says quietly. “I’ve never let myself get close to anyone since. Until I met you.”
I draw his face toward mine and kiss him. “What was her name?”
“Ariane.”
“Was she French?”
“Yes.”
“Are they in prison? The person who killed her?”
There’s the minutest of hesitations. “Yes.”
“It was a random attack.” I make it a statement rather than a question.
“Yes. She was out for the evening with friends and the police think she was followed home. They maintained from the outset that Ariane was targeted because of the way she looked—you know, well off. And because of where she lived, Belgravia.” He smooths my hair.
“Promise you’ll keep yourself safe while I’m away. ”
“Of course I will.”
It’s an empty promise, I know. The wheels of time have already started turning.