A Hidden Life (23 page)

‘Oh, God, don't,' she said. Lou put the tray down on the table, and began pouring the coffee. ‘My mum thought it was a good idea for Poppy to give them to me last year as a Christmas present. They're embarrassing, aren't they? But Poppy likes it when I wear them. They make her laugh.'

‘Fair enough. They make me laugh, too.'

He grinned at her, and Lou found that she was giggling. He's got such a gorgeous smile, she told herself. And he's made me appreciate my slippers.

‘Milk?' she asked.

‘Yes, please. And a bit of cake. What did I get? Walnut? Carrot? I'll have walnut. Smashing.'

Lou left her cake on the plate and took a sip of coffee. ‘Who's Ciaran Donnelly? I've heard of him, I think.'

‘Yeah, he's a producer. American but lives here half the time.
Ensley Gardens, number forty-two. You ought to see it. It's like a Tardis. Nothing much from outside, just a semi like all the others in the road, but once you're in, well, you know at once where you are. He invited me to discuss the Ratcliffe script but most of the time he was interrupting our conversation to take calls from this or that director. Steve, Martin … you know.'

‘Spielberg? Scorsese? Not seriously?'

‘Oh, yeah. That's the kind of company Donnelly keeps. I was amazed he even called me. Not surprised he's put me off. Par for the course, when you're not a player.'

‘Aren't you a player, Harry?'

He shook his head. ‘Not really. Small independent British production company? Long way down the totem pole, I promise you, for people like Ciaran. But he's a good guy, made all the right noises. Don't let's talk about him, though. Tell me what you've been doing. Are you missing Poppy? She's been away for ages, hasn't she? A few weeks.'

‘I am. I do miss her, but …'

‘You can do what you like when she's not here, right?'

Lou nodded. ‘I feel guilty when I think of it, but Poppy's so happy and settled and it's all working out so well. My mum loves having her there.'

‘I'm sure you're a smashing mum. Why are you being so hard on yourself, Lou?'

‘I'm not. Not really. It's just that I know my limitations. Let's talk about something else. I'm going to Paris with my dad soon. That'll be good.'

‘Really? How come?'

Lou took a deep breath and began to tell Harry about Mme Franchard's letter. When she'd finished speaking, he said, ‘Wow – that's amazing. What a story. You must tell me what happens. Promise? Ring me after you get back and we'll have another curry, okay?'

‘Yes, of course. I'd love that.'

‘Or it doesn't have to be a curry. It could be Chinese, if you fancy a change.'

‘I'm not fussy, it's something to look forward to.' As soon as the
words were out of her mouth, Lou regretted saying them. Too eager, but the invitation had made her feel excited, like a kid who'd been asked to a party. Not a bit frightened. She liked having him in her flat, liked having coffee with him, liked talking to him.

He stood up. ‘Got to go, Lou. That was a great cup of coffee. Ta. You haven't touched your cake, though.'

‘I'll have it when you've gone, Harry. I was talking too much.'

They were standing by the door and Lou opened it.

‘You're on your own too much, you know. I think you ought to get out more. Preferably with me. We should do a movie.'

Lou was just about to say
yes, I'd love to. Let's go to the movies, whenever you like
when Harry put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her gently towards him and said, ‘Bye, Lou, I'll phone you, okay?' and kissed her swiftly on the lips. He was waving at her from halfway down the stairs before she pulled herself together. Then his voice came to her, shouting out from the floor below hers: ‘Bye, Fiver. Bye, Hazel!'

It took her several seconds to work it out. Fiver … Hazel. They were characters from
Watership Down.
Harry seemed so friendly and affectionate. A little shaken, she went back into the flat and sat where Harry had been sitting, and let herself fall into the kind of daydream she'd been indulging in since childhood. Herself and Harry … No. I won't do that, not yet. I'll think of something else. Ciaran Donnelly. Just round the corner. Top producer. Forty-two Ensley Gardens. She knew exactly where that was. She had a vision of herself walking into the house with the script of
Blind Moon.
Would she have the nerve to do that? Probably not, but it was a piece of luck that Harry had mentioned his name. Maybe it was a kind of omen. Oh, grow up, she told herself, you're not in a Meg Ryan movie now. She picked up the slice of cake from the plate in front of her and addressed her slippers: ‘Carrot cake, Fiver and Hazel. Eat your bunny hearts out!'

‘It's almost warm enough to sit outside,' Mickey said, opening the door of her study, which led out to the terrace, which wasn't really a terrace but which, as Mickey said, ‘will be called a patio over my dead body.' The small space was beautiful: greyish-beige flagstones,
and two or three blue glazed pots with ferny things growing in them. Nessa wasn't sure of their names but loved the soothing effect they produced.

‘No, I'm okay,' she said. In truth, she was nearly asleep. Mickey had made tea, drunk it with her, listened to the details of last night's revelations and then said, ‘Okay, Nessa, we can talk about this later – let's just relax now, there's plenty of time for everything. What about Tamsin, though? Have you told her?'

Nessa sighed. ‘I don't want to think about it. Gareth says we have to tell her straight away, but I don't see why, really. I'd rather wait till everything's sorted out and the legal side taken care of. I'm dreading it, if you want to know.'

‘Do you know what you're going to say?'

‘My ma, with her enormous expertise in leaving offspring high and dry, told me exactly what was needed:
We still love you … this won't change the way we feel about you … we still like each other lots and lots but just can't live together, that's all.
God, it's too Trisha Goddard for words, Mickey! And it's not even true. I can't stand him at the moment, if you want to know.'

‘Still, she's right. I'd add – tell her it isn't her fault. Tell her it's got nothing to do with her.'

What was going on? Nessa felt tears coming into her eyes, her throat filled up with what felt like a lump of something or other – was there such a thing as a lump of misery? – and before she quite knew what was happening, she was weeping. ‘I'm sorry, Mickey,' she sobbed. ‘It was that – what you said – I remember thinking that. Exactly. I remember saying to Justin, trying to shift the blame, really, a bit,
it's your fault. Our fault. We're naughty and horrible and that's why she's gone.
How ghastly I was, even then, but now I can feel it. How it used to be. How sad I was for ages when she went, in spite of Matt and Phyl doing their best. Oh, God, what will I look like if I can't stop crying?'

‘It's okay, you're allowed to cry.' Mickey came and knelt next to Nessa's chair and began to stroke her knee, very gently, as though she were an animal to be calmed down.

Nessa said, ‘I need a tissue, Mickey. My nose is bubbling in a totally ghastly way.'

‘Here you go. Kleenex on demand.'

‘Thanks. What would I do without you?'

‘You don't have to. Do without me, I mean. I am, as they say, here for you. You can come and stay for a few days if you like. If that'd help.'

‘No, thanks, love. I'm not moving out of that house. For all I know Gareth would move in and change the locks.' She giggled. ‘No he wouldn't, of course he wouldn't. It wouldn't occur to him. I'm sorry, I'm hysterical. Can we go for a walk or something? I feel – restless.'

‘Sure. I've got to go down to the village and pick up something for supper. We'll go the long way, through the wood. Okay?'

‘Lovely. Can I borrow some old trainers or something? I can't walk in these.' Nessa stuck her feet out.

‘No,' Mickey said, smiling up at Nessa. She'd gone back to sitting on the floor. ‘They're not used to Manolos at the village shop.'

‘Manolos! I wish – these are Russell and Bromley.'

‘Lovely, though.' And then Mickey put out a hand and ran her fingers quite slowly up the back of Nessa's leg, and then down again. Then she withdrew her hand and stood up and Nessa did too. She could still feel an echo of the tickly, shivery feeling of Mickey's touch on the silky fabric of her tights. She'd never had a woman caress her like that before. It was a caress. There was no mistaking it. It was strange in a way she couldn't have described. She followed Mickey out to the hall, a little trembly. Well, it was natural to feel like this after all the crying she'd been doing. That must be it. She wasn't used to emotional upheavals. Was this what people meant when they talked of someone feeling vulnerable? Yes, she told herself. It must be. That's what I am.
Vulnerable.
Like a snail out of its shell.

‘It's lucky we're here this month and not last.' Matt gazed out of the window of the Eurostar train at the housing estates on the outskirts of Paris, which looked to Lou just like estates on the English side of the Channel. Perhaps a little cleaner on the face of it, but rushing past at high speed wasn't the best way to get to know somewhere.

‘Why, Dad?'

‘Because it's April now and we can sing “April in Paris”.'

‘You can sing it, I'm not going to.' Lou stood up and pulled her jacket from the overhead rack. ‘I love this train – why can't all trains be like this?'

That morning, getting ready to go and meet her father at Waterloo, Lou felt the kind of excitement that she associated with school trips. When she arrived at the Eurostar terminal, Matt had been waiting for her. Of course he had. Her father always arrived so early at railway stations that he frequently managed to catch the train before the one he was going for. Lou had admired the airport-style departure lounge with its cafés and shops full of touristy things that you'd never buy anywhere else – biscuit tins with the Union Jack on them, for heaven's sake. Why would you want one of those?

‘We can't turn up empty-handed,' Matt said, as they walked through the Gare du Nord. ‘Let's get her some
marrons glacés.
If she's popped her clogs, we'll enjoy them.'

‘Honestly, Dad, what a way to talk about your great-aunt.'

‘Alleged great-aunt. Possibly deceased. I'll be more respectful if she's who she says she is. And let's get a cab.'

They came out of the station. Matt said, ‘Paris is doing its Paris in the spring thing, you see.'

‘Dad! Stop it with the Paris clichés. You're driving me mad!'

But the clichés were hard to avoid, because Paris was, from the view Lou had of it out of the taxi's window, living up to all of them. A cloudless blue sky, sunshine, trees wearing misty veils of green and the buildings just as clean and elegant as she'd imagined. It was strange coming to a city you'd never visited before but whose ‘look' you knew so well from a hundred posters and movies. What she hadn't been prepared for was the beauty of the real thing.

‘Isn't it fabulous, Dad?' she said. ‘And ta for the taxi. I'd never have taken one if I'd been on my own.'

‘If we're only here for a few hours, we ought to avoid spending some of that time down a hole.'

Matt leaned back against the leather headrest. ‘D'you mind if I ask you a personal question, darling?'

‘No … not at all. You sound very serious.'

‘I don't mean to. I'm just nosy, really, about what you're up to. Are you writing a novel?'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘It's occurred to me as a possibility, that's all. Are you?'

‘No, Dad. It's not a novel. And I'll tell you soon, promise, only I want to keep it to myself for now. D'you mind?'

‘Of course not. As long as it's going okay. How you want it to go, I mean.'

‘I think it is. I'll tell you soon, I promise.'

‘Okay.' Matt smiled at her. ‘Back to tourist mode again. Look, there's the river.'

A
bateau mouche
was passing under the bridge just as they drove across it and on their left, Lou caught sight of the unmistakable façade of the cathedral of Nôtre Dame.

‘Not a word, Dad. Don't say it.'

‘Say what?'

‘Possibly
the bells! The bells!'

‘Charles Laughton in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame?
Never seen it, though I know the cliché, of course!'

They laughed as the taxi made its way at alarming speed through streets that were suddenly narrower and far less grand than the main avenues. The people were normal: not tourists, not movie stars, but men and women going about their business. The butchers' shops, the pâtisseries, the flower stalls, the cafés with their striped awnings, still looked as though they were part of a stage set, but at least there were fat old women and shabby men walking about, some of them carrying black string bags and others, gratifyingly, wearing berets.

The taxi left them standing outside a door with the number ‘4' on a blue plaque screwed on to it. Suddenly, Lou felt nervous. She'd managed not to think from the moment she left home this morning right up until this second. There had been so much to look at that pushing thoughts of Mme Franchard out of her mind hadn't been too difficult. After all, she'd sat up late on Tuesday night, thinking of questions to ask and things to say. Now, here they were. Perhaps she didn't live here any more. Quite probably she was dead, as Dad had kept suggesting.

‘We should ring this bell, I think,' Matt said and pressed it firmly. Nothing happened.

‘You were right, Dad. She's not here. She must, as you said, have
popped her clogs. Let's go. We can get some coffee or something.'