Nell
PRESENT
The next day, I decide to walk to Inès’s flat. It’s one of those bright November days which tricks people into thinking that spring is already on its way and as I cut through Hyde Park, I feel an unusual sense of well-being.
Being the weekend, there are plenty of families around.
As I walk along a path, a small hand slips into mine and looking down, I see a tiny girl walking along beside me.
At that moment, aware of my eyes on her, she looks up and smiles—and then, realizing that I’m not her mother, she snatches her hand away, her face already puckering.
“Charlotte!” A young woman comes running up and takes the girl’s hand before she can start crying. “It’s all right, Mummy’s here. Sorry,” she says, turning to me with a smile. “We’re dressed the same, so she must have thought you were me.”
“So we are,” I say, looking at our navy jeans and green wax jackets. “She’s lovely,” I add. But the little girl is already tugging her mum away.
Overwhelmed by an emotion I can’t define, I find the nearest bench and sit down, strangely shaken by what just occurred.
At first, I think it’s because, if the mother hadn’t seen what had happened, she could have accused me of trying to take her daughter.
But there’s something else, something deeper and as I turn it over in my mind, I realize that what has upset me was the feel of the child’s hand in mine, her little fingers tightening as she gripped on to me.
And out of nowhere, I’m filled with an intense longing to be a mother.
It is so visceral and hits me with such force that I double over in physical pain.
Tears of panic fill my eyes. What if I’ve left it too late?
What if I find I can’t have children? What if I can’t find anyone to have children with?
The longing coursing through my veins is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
I fumble in my bag for a tissue, not wanting passersby to see that I’m crying. But my tears turn to sobs, scaring me with their violence. A little boy looks curiously at me as he walks by and I hear him ask his mum why I’m so upset.
“Perhaps she’s just feeling sad,” his mum tells him, which makes me cry even more.
It’s a while before I feel calm enough to carry on to Inès’s.
But as I hurry to make up for the time I lost, my eyes fill repeatedly at the memory of the little girl’s hand slipping into mine, so that when I arrive at the building where Inès’s flat is located, I have to take a few minutes to compose myself before taking the stairs to the fifth floor.
“Nell.” Inès steps back from the door and welcomes me with a kiss on each cheek. She’s wearing black jeans, a cream cashmere jumper, and beautiful black suede boots with the usual four-inch heel. And her crimson lipstick. “I forgot you don’t like elevators,” she adds, noticing how breathless I am.
“Especially tiny ones with no windows. But your flat is lovely, well worth the climb,” I say, catching a glimpse of a striking black-and-white kitchen at one end of the hallway and a wall lined with books through an open doorway.
“Are you all right?” Inès asks, looking closely at me. “Have you got a cold?”
“Just the start of one,” I say, realizing my eyes must still be red. “I hope I don’t give it to you.”
“Don’t worry, I have a good immune system. Shall I give you a quick tour of the flat before we go up to the roof terrace?”
“You have a roof terrace?”
“Yes.” Inès’s eyes gleam. “And the best thing is, with this lovely sunshine, it will be warm enough to have a drink there.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, managing a smile. My eyes fall on a pair of scruffy white sneakers pushed under a console table that hugs the wall in the hallway. “Don’t tell me those are yours?”
Inès looks affronted. “God, no. I never wear sneakers, or slippers. Heels or bare feet for me.” She bends and scoops them up. “They’re Cécile’s.” She opens a nearby door and pops the sneakers inside. “I won’t show you her room, in case she’s set a trap and will know if I’ve been in.”
“Really?”
Inès laughs. “I’m joking. But I wouldn’t go in anyway, not without asking her first. She’s a very private person and I respect that.”
“Is she a friend? Or just a flatmate?”
“More of a flatmate. Now and again, we’ll have a glass of wine together if we’re both here at the same time.
But I’m out a lot during the week seeing friends and I spend one weekend a month in Paris with Maxime, and when he comes here, two weeks later, we stay in a hotel.
So Cécile and I aren’t here in the flat together that much. ”
“How long have you known Maxime?” I ask as we move down the hallway, remembering too late that Béatrice told me they’d met a couple of months before Alex met me.
“Around eight months or so. We met on the Eurostar when I was going to Paris to see my mum. He’d been visiting London with a friend and I happened to have the seat opposite them.
We got talking and by the time we arrived in Paris, I was in love.
So, this is the kitchen and through here is the living room.
” Inès moves farther down the hallway and opens another door.
“This is my bedroom. My bathroom is through there and Cécile has her own bathroom, so we don’t have to share, which I would absolutely hate.
Come on, let’s go up to the terrace. I have blankets if you’re cold and a bottle of Chablis waiting. ”
“My favorite wine,” I say.
“I know. I remember you telling Victor.”
Inès leads me to the end of the hallway where a door conceals a tiny staircase leading up to the terrace.
“Wow, this is lovely,” I say, admiring the row of miniature trees in wooden tubs placed against the railing to act as an extra barrier and give the terrace a garden feel. There’s also a wooden table, a bench, and two chairs piled with cushions and blankets for extra comfort.
“I often come up here at night, even in the winter,” Inès says, reaching for the Chablis and opening it expertly with a fancy corkscrew. “It feels very otherworldly, not like London at all.”
“I can imagine,” I say. “This is such an amazing view.”
The table has been set with two wineglasses and a platter of salmon blinis dotted with lemon and crème fraiche.
“So, did Alex explain about Caitlin?” Inès asks, once we’re sitting with our faces turned toward the sun, a blanket across our knees and a glass of wine within easy reach. “Béatrice told me he flew over from the US the minute she told him that you knew about her.”
“He did,” I say. “He said that he hadn’t told me about her because I’d only just found out about Ariane and he was worried it would scare me off if I learned that another of his girlfriends had died.”
Inès turns her head toward me. “Would it? Have scared you off?”
“It might have, if I’d found out at the beginning of our relationship when I didn’t know him very well. I might have wondered if he’d had something to do with either of the deaths.”
Inès reaches for the plate of blinis and offers it to me. “You must have been pleased to see him last night.”
“I wish,” I say, taking one. “He’s not coming to London until next weekend. He’s gone to Paris to see his mother.”
“Yes, I know, he left this morning with Béatrice. I thought you might have seen him last night, as he was in London.”
I stare at her, the blini halfway to my mouth. “Alex was here? He couldn’t have been. He said he was flying straight to Paris from Washington.”
Inès frowns. “I called Béatrice yesterday to see how she was and she said she was waiting for Alex to arrive and that he was staying the night at hers so that they could take an early Eurostar to Paris this morning.”
“But—” I put the blini down on the table, unable to eat it.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t he tell me?
We could have met up.” Seeing my disappointment, Inès looks at me sympathetically.
I force a smile. “Sorry. It’s been one of those weeks.
It would have been nice to see him, if only for five minutes. ”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I’m glad you did. I just don’t understand why he didn’t tell me he was going to be in London.”
“Maybe because he knew he wouldn’t be able to see you?”
I make an effort. “You’re right. That explains the flowers. I found a bouquet of lilies on the doorstep when I got home from work last night. There wasn’t a card to tell me who they were from but they must have been from him. Apology flowers. Shame they were dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“You should phone the florist and complain.”
“I would, but there was no florist’s card attached to the bouquet, only an empty staple.”
Inès raises her eyebrows. “No card to tell you who they were from and no card to indicate which florist they came from? And the flowers were dead? You don’t have any enemies, do you?”
My heart thuds. “Not that I know of.” I give a shiver and Inès stands up.
“You’re cold! Come on, let’s go downstairs where it’s warmer.”
But I’m not cold. It was Damon Parker, walking over my grave.