Cupid's Arrow (20 page)

'You thought it could be me. Just now. When I was telling you about what had happened last night. You were brave then, to stand there alone with me, while those thoughts were in your head.' The words sounded strange, without inflection. I could feel the tears coming to my eyes again. I said, 'I'm sorry, Remy. I didn't feel it – not really – not with my heart – but I –'

'But you thought it was possible. You thought I could have killed my own mother.'

I was going to disagree, but all at once I looked into his eyes and I knew it was useless to lie. Useless, and shameful. I said, wearily, 'For a moment, yes. I did think it.'

'Oh, Fleur,' he said, and that was all that he said, but the pain surged through me again. I said, 'Please, Remy. It was just... I didn't really... Please, forgive me.'

'I do forgive you,' he said, but he didn't look at me or try to touch me and I knew that I had hurt him so deeply that he might never recover from it. That
we –
our relationship – would not recover from it. And that it was my stupid, stupid, abominable fault. I, who had so loudly defended his innocence to everyone, had failed in the most important test of all, and in so doing, lost him.

It just goes to show how wrong you can be. Because just as I was thinking that the only thing left for me to do was to turn and go away and never look back, Remy whispered, 'Fleur, will you help me?'

My confusion must have shown on my face, for he added, quickly, uncertainly, 'If you, if even you, for one moment, thought that I could ... well, that means it must look – must look very black against me.'

There was a lump in my throat. I nodded.

He stammered, 'Then you do see why I can't – why I can't go to the police. Or not now. I owe it to my mother. I can't – can't have everyone thinking that – I have to find out. Who, why ...?' He broke off. He was very pale, his eyes on me, his hands shaking, every fibre of him showing uncertainty, even fear. 'Fleur, there's no-one else I can ask. I need you. Will you help me find out what really happened?'

'Of course,' I said simply. My heart felt so big in me that it seemed like it had taken over my whole body. 'Of course I will help you. Always.'

Yeah, okay, I know. I should have said, Don't be silly, the police can find out much more than we can, and much more safely too. I should have said, Don't you see, not going to the police looks even worse against you. I should have been sensible. I should have thought. And I did. Those thoughts flickered into my head. And right out again.

He said, softly, 'Thank you for trusting me. It can't be easy,' and I said, half-angrily, 'It would be harder not to,' and then he gave a little cry and said, very low and very sad, 'Oh, God, Fleur, what are we going to do?'

'I thought you were the one with the plan,' I said smartly, to cover up the fact that my heart had started racing again, and I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

He shook his head. I looked at him and saw the utter bleakness in his eyes, and thought, suddenly, he's in shock, he hardly knows what he's been saying or doing. He's just heard his mother's been killed on top of having been thrown out by her for no good reason and he's gone on and on like a clockwork toy that's still wound and still going but in a moment the reaction will set in and then he'll collapse.

I wasn't wrong. He was shaking with tears now and howling in pain and grief. I was holding him tightly, half in tears myself trying to comfort him and telling him idiotically over and over again that it would be all right when I knew it wouldn't. I should really have said it then, too, said that we couldn't cope on our own, that it was crazy to even think of doing anything else. But I didn't. It wasn't only that I didn't want to. I literally couldn't.

After a time, he became quiet. We held each other for a little while longer, without speaking. Then I said, gently, 'Are you – have you eaten today, Remy?'

He shook his head.

'Then that's the first thing to do. I'll go to the café in the village, get something. On my own. When I come back, we'll –' I saw the sudden flare of anxiety in his eyes, and hurried on, 'I'll be back really quickly. I promise.' I could see he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to. I added, very gently, 'You have to trust me, Remy. You have to know I wouldn't tell anyone. Anyone at all.'

He nodded. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

'Don't be.' I kissed him on the forehead. 'Just wait. Rest. I'll be back in two seconds. And then we can talk about what we're going to do.'

There was a ghost of a smile on his face. But all he said was, 'All right.'

I ran all the way, slowing down only when I was on the outskirts of the village. I'd already looked red and panting when I'd first lobbed in there, and attracted enough attention to myself. I mustn't do it again. I forced myself to stroll down the main street towards the café. There were a couple of people chatting on a doorstep and they stopped their conversation to stare at me as I went past. I managed to say, 'Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,' as if I didn't have a care in the world. That's the thing to do in France. Forces people to stop stickybeaking quite so openly at you, when you've actually spoken to them. They were obliged to say, 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle,' and then pretend to look away from me and start up their conversation again. Though I could feel their eyes on my back, I ignored them, or tried to, and marched into the café as if I had no idea anyone would be interested in my turning up there for the second time that day.

The owner was polishing glasses behind his counter. One of the guys who'd been in there when I went in before was still there, leaning on the counter. The other one was gone. But there were a couple of other people in there, a man and a woman. They were sitting at a table, eating a meal. It looked good, and I suddenly felt really hungry myself.

'So, you found Our Lady of the Fountain, then?' the café-owner asked, quite shattering any hopes I might have had that he wouldn't recognise me.

I nodded. 'Yes, I did.'

'And what did you think of it?'

'It's a very interesting place. And beautiful.'

'Did you make a wish?' said the guy leaning on the counter.

I shrugged. 'Wishes do not come true if you tell them.'

He laughed. 'The little Mademoiselle has teeth.'

I ignored him. 'I want to buy some food.'

'Food?' said the café owner, sardonically, raising his eyebrows. 'Then you have come to the right place.' He gestured to the blackboard behind the counter. 'A stew? A soup? A salad? What do you desire? Go and sit at a table and I will –'

'No. No. I need something quick. Something easy to carry. Sandwiches,' I stammered.

'Sandwiches?'

'I am having a picnic.'

'Alone? Such a sad thing, a picnic by yourself,' said the guy leaning on the counter. By this time, the couple who'd been eating their meal were watching me interestedly. I could feel myself going red. I said, sharply, to the café owner, 'Can you do some sandwiches, Monsieur? Please. I am in a hurry and cannot wait.'

'Ah, then it is not a picnic by yourself,' said the annoying stickybeak, a big smile over his face. 'Young love, eh?'

I wanted to slap him. Why didn't he mind his own business? But the café owner, after a sharp little glance at me, said, 'Ham? Cheese?
Saucisson?
I do them on baguettes, not that bread you English are used to.'

I was going to say I wasn't English, but couldn't be bothered. I nodded. 'Yes. Please. All three. Oh, and a bottle of water, too, please.'

He raised his eyebrows again. 'Still? Sparkling?'

'Still, please.'

He went out the back somewhere and for a few agonising minutes I was left there, the target of three pairs of curious eyes. I made as if I didn't notice, pretending to look with great interest at a framed picture on the wall – the café in 1890 or something, with a guy in front of it who looked rather like the current owner, except with a beard. I was very glad when the café owner came back with a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and a bottle of water. He said, 'I made one of each, as you said.' He handed me the parcel. I took out my wallet. 'Er – how much is it?'

What if I didn't have enough? But the sum he mentioned was much smaller than I'd feared. I gave him the money. 'Thank you very much, Monsieur.'

He shrugged, and reached in under the counter. 'Take these, too.'
These
were two beignets. He wrapped a twist of paper around them and handed them to me.

Taken aback, I took out my wallet again. He waved it away. 'No. I had them left over,' he said gruffly. 'Enjoy them, you and your young friend. A sweet ending to a sweet day.'

I did go red, that time. I was sure now that he remembered Remy and me, coming in the day before. Muttering thanks and goodbyes, I took the beignets and the sandwiches and hurried out of the café. I knew they'd be discussing me as soon as I turned my back. But somehow it didn't bother me as much as before. The gruff kindness of the café owner at the end had seen to that.

When I reached the well, everything was quiet. I had a sudden fear that he'd gone, vanished, that I'd never see him again. But then Patou came out from behind a tree, grinning all over her long face, and Remy followed close behind. I said, 'Sorry it took so long.'

'It's okay. I've been dozing.'

'Are you ... are you feeling okay?' I had found a nice grassy spot, and was clearing away the twigs and sticks from round about.

He nodded. 'Better.' He sat down, and reached out to touch me on the hand. 'Fleur?'

I was unwrapping the sandwiches. Well, filled half-baguettes actually. They looked wonderful. 'Yes?'

'I don't deserve you.'

'That's a silly thing to say,' I said, sharply, my heart hammering under my ribs. 'You mustn't say things like that. I'm not anything special.'

'And you mustn't say things like that,' he retorted. 'You are the most special person ever. Trusting me, when everything looks so bad.'

'I told you, I didn't really believe it. I knew, I always knew, that you couldn't have done it. Anyway, don't let's talk about that right now. Let's eat, okay? And then we can talk.'

And so that's exactly what we did. We ate and drank in silence, leaning up against each other, feeling the warmth of each other's skins, and the sun, all mingled together, Patou sitting at our feet, her head up for the odd titbit that we flung to her. I can honestly say, though it might seem weird to you, that I was happy in those few moments. Really, really happy. There was this bond between Remy and me, this thing that felt stronger and deeper than anything I could ever have imagined or dreamed.

Between us and Patou, we'd soon finished every crumb and every drop. We were still leaning up against each other, but now I rested my head against Remy's chest, and he was stroking my hair. I found myself strangely reluctant to break the sweet silence that surrounded us. It was he who spoke first.

'I have to tell you first exactly what happened yesterday, from the moment I arrived home. Because maybe too if I go over it with you, we can begin to understand, to work out what was really going on. Because, you see, I've thought and I've thought, and I think it wasn't, it can't be, because we'd spent the day together that she got angry, though she went on and on about how I didn't know you, how I had neglected her for you, how I was ungrateful.'

'She said all that?' I said, amazed.

'She did. I couldn't understand it. She'd seemed to like you, that day when you came to our house. But she's –' He broke off, swallowing. 'She was never easy, poor Maman. She had these moods. She got scared. Angry. She had these nightmares, sometimes. I knew it was because of what had happened back in Quebec. She had never spoken much about it – I only know the barest outline of what happened, she didn't want to tell me, said she wanted me to grow up without fear, without horror – but I knew it haunted her. She had good days and bad days, you see. On her good days, she was – just wonderful –' He bit his lip. The bleakness had come back into his eyes. 'But she – she had just never really got over it. And on her bad days, well, she could just go ballistic over the least little thing. I–I tried to keep out of her way, then. I went for walks. Hunting. She didn't mind that. She told me, when she was better, that it was the best thing I could do. She would cry and tell me she was sorry.'

I stared at him, appalled. I could only begin to imagine what it must have been like for him, having to cope with that sort of thing all by himself in the cottage in the woods. I thought of my own mother and how easy I've had it with her, how, even if we irritated each other sometimes, still, basically we got on well and I had never had to deal with anything like what Remy had been putting up with for years.

He saw my expression. He said, 'Don't think it was all terrible. It wasn't. Not mostly. She was ... she could be – the very, very best.' He paused, then continued, quietly, 'Sometimes it was a bit like being in Siege Perilous, you know?' I didn't. He explained. 'It's in the Arthurian stories. The seat at the Round Table that's never filled, the dangerous seat, the one that's waiting for the one person who can fill it, and anyone else who tries has a really hard time of it. Anyway, it could be like that. But, usually it wasn't. And I'd never – ever – seen her as bad as she was yesterday. She was raving. Screaming at me to get out. I thought she had really lost control, that time. I was really angry too. I wasn't usually, when she got like that. But you see, it looked like she was jealous. Really jealous that I had been with you. And I couldn't work out why. I couldn't understand it. I said all sorts of things to her. Horrible things.' He broke off, and put a hand to his head. 'I said she was stark raving mad, that she needed help, that I couldn't stand it anymore, that I was going and never coming back. I left her in such fury, and I never once looked back, you know, Fleur. And those were the last words I said to my mother. The last words she heard from me.'

'Oh, Remy,' I said, turning and hugging him close. I couldn't say anything more. My heart was wrung with pity for him.

'But now that I think of it,' he said, very gently, I don't think, I can't think – that it was really about you. I think that it started – it started when I told her about the dream book, and what we'd found in it, and what you thought – what we'd both thought, about the coin, and where Raymond might have hidden it. She didn't react. Not at first. I mean, she just listened, and nodded. It was only later that she began.'

I felt cold. I said, 'Did you show it to her?'

'Yes. Briefly. I said I'd keep it in my room.'

'What did you do – with the dream book, I mean?'

'I left it in my desk.'

'You didn't take it with you, when you left?'

'No. I forgot about it. I was too angry. I–I just slammed out of the house. I didn't take anything. Except Patou, because she came after me. But nothing else. I was, I was intending to go back for some things in a day or two, when my mother – when she might have simmered down.'

A coldness crept up my spine. 'The police didn't find it in your house,' I said. 'I described it to them, but they said they hadn't found anything like it.'

There was a silence.

'Maybe the police just weren't looking for it,' said Remy, at last. 'I mean, why would they think it was important? They wouldn't have known about it till you told them, would they?'