He shook his head. ‘Of course not. But think about going away with Chris in September. Aim for it. It’ll do you good.’ She nodded and he smiled again and closed the door softly behind him. She felt like screaming, like she was the only person who could see what had happened.
She looked at the telephone and suddenly thought of Lucas. It was absurd that his was the only phone number she possessed that still meant anything, that was still connected to the world she inhabited. And yet what would she say to him if she called? He’d care nothing that she was at a low point. Even the fact that she was still alive would probably be of only marginal interest to him.
For all that, though, the reason she didn’t pick up the phone was more practical. Lucas was her fallback position, her last resort, and as bad as things seemed, she wanted to keep him in reserve for the day they got worse. Lucas didn’t know it, but she was counting on him more than anybody.
Chapter Nine
It couldn’t be her. This girl had dark hair, but he sensed that she was going to the house, and sure enough she stopped and rang the bell—one of her friends, perhaps, a pretty girl.
He trained the lens on the door but the angle was no good, and whoever opened it stayed out of shot as the girl stepped inside. He was desperate to get in that house and see its domestic topography, Madeleine and their daughter, a husband perhaps, other kids.
He couldn’t imagine her parents still lived there. They’d probably made way for her, moved to the place in the country. Thinking of them made him nostalgic, remembering how much he’d liked them, more memories of Madeleine spilling in on the back of that thought.
He wanted to see her again, not with any hope of rekindling the past, just to tell her he’d finally changed, or retired at least. It probably wouldn’t mean anything to her, though, and maybe she’d be right not to care what he’d done with his life.
He wasn’t even certain how much he really had changed. He could think through his conversations with Ella Hatto and convince himself it was time for him to reconnect with the world, but maybe it was all just self-delusion.
After all, this was his idea of reconnecting with his former girlfriend and daughter, sitting in a car a hundred yards from their house with a camera and a telephoto lens. He was stalking his own daughter and could think of no other way to get close to her; that’s how far removed he was from normal life.
He was beginning to think he should just give up and go back to the hotel, or even back to Switzerland, when the door opened again. He trained the camera on it in time to see the girl with dark hair come out, then another girl, the familiarity of her appearance giving him a jolt of nervous excitement. His muscles weakened so suddenly that he had to lean on the wheel to stop the camera from shaking.
She was blonde, her hair quite short, whereas Madeleine had always worn hers long. Otherwise, it could have been Madeleine at fourteen. And that made him happy, because she had nothing of him about her; she was like her mother and she was beautiful.
They were walking away from him now and he felt a surge of panic. For a second, he wasn’t sure what to do, whether to sit and wait or to follow them. The indecision was only momentary, though, because he wasn’t staking out the house; he was there to see his daughter.
He put the camera on the floor deep in the passenger well, picked up his book and crossed the street. He walked quickly at first, but adopted a more casual gait once he was certain of not losing them.
He was close enough to hear their voices and their laughter, and occasionally they’d look at each other and he’d get a glimpse of her face and another jolt of nerves, fearing she’d turn and see him. A part of him wanted her to turn. He wanted her to throw a glance at the man far behind and then stop, snagged, knowing instinctively who it was.
He followed them to a cafe but didn’t go in, realizing that, even in Paris, sitting reading an English paperback might mark him out. He bought a copy of Le Monde, waited as long as he could, then walked into the cafe.
The place was busy but there were enough tables free for him to choose one that gave him a clear view of her face without being too close. A young waiter arrived at their table and they spoke to him with the haughty condescension of rich kids, borderline rude. That disappointed him; he wanted her to be more like Ella Hatto, someone who hadn’t known she was rich and who was balanced and polite.
Possibly they’d been play-acting, though. The waiter said something back to them and they both laughed loudly enough to draw the stares of other customers. Then they looked embarrassed that they’d attracted attention like that, and seemed more natural afterwards.