He put the camera down as the car moved in his direction. He took in the driver, a middle-aged woman, and then the two girls in the back. As they talked to each other, he could see his daughter’s face. For a moment, it looked as if she were looking directly at him, her smile for him.
He got out of the car without thinking what he was doing, walked over to the house and rang the bell. Almost immediately he heard a commotion inside. He was right about the younger child: there were excitable shouts nearby followed by a mildly chastising adult voice growing in volume as it approached from deep inside the house. The door opened and he was faced by a maid.
‘Hello. Do you speak English?’
The answer was clear. She gave him a look as if to suggest he was being intentionally awkward, and then said something that he took to be a request to wait there. As she closed the door, he caught a glimpse of a little blond boy in long shorts and a T-shirt. He was peering out but as soon as he made eye contact with Lucas he ran off into the house.
When the door opened again, Madeleine was standing in front of him, wearing a simple red summer dress, her hair pulled back loosely into a ponytail. Her figure was still perfect, her face as youthful as it was in the one picture he had of her.
He was ambushed by how beautiful she was, no less so than he had been all those years before. For a second, he couldn’t speak and, whatever shock or emotion his appearance had inflicted on her, she didn’t speak either. It was as if she were trying to remember what her response was meant to be to this situation, one she must surely have imagined, even planned for.
‘Hello, Madeleine. I waited till she’d gone out.’ The spell was broken, the sound of his voice apparently all she’d needed to remember how they stood.
‘Big of you. What are you doing here, Luke?’
‘It’s good to see you, Madeleine.’ The child called her and she automatically closed the door behind her before responding, her tone pleasant, indulgent. He could imagine her being a good mother. He knew this wouldn’t go well, though—that closing of the door, an expression of her desire to keep him even from her other child, upon whom he had no claims.
She turned back to him and said again, ‘What are you doing here?’
The only route open now was directness.
‘I want to see her. I know I made a promise but I want to see her, talk to her. And maybe she wants to meet me, find out who I am.’
‘We made an agreement. You agreed not to see her, specifically to protect her from the knowledge of who you are, the kind of person you are. And what, now because of a selfish whim you want to expose her to all of that?’
‘Selfish, maybe, but it’s no whim. I changed my life, Madeleine. Not soon enough, I’ll admit, but I changed it.’
Her tone was softer but still insistent as she said, ‘Our lives have changed too, Luke. We’re a family, happy, settled. It’s the wrong time for this. I’m asking you to go away—not for me, for Isabelle.’
‘Isabelle?’ He choked on the word, his throat tightening with emotion. He couldn’t believe it overwhelmed him so much just to hear her name for the first time, to be able to say it, the three syllables like some perfectly formed haiku.
Madeleine appeared not to notice. ‘Yes, her name’s Isabelle, and she’s happy, and not curious. Besides, she doesn’t speak English, only ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ ‘hello.’ I’m assuming you still don’t speak French?’ He shook his head, sensing that beneath her gentle tone was real malice and bitterness. He could imagine Madeleine steering her away from English all these years, knowing the barrier that language would place between them. ‘So tell me, Luke, what good would come from a meeting, what good for Isabelle?’
She was right. The girl was clearly happy, and how could he say this wasn’t a whim when in fourteen years it had never crossed his mind to learn her native language? How could he not have thought of that? He couldn’t even think of anything to say in response to Madeleine, could only nod, dejected.
‘Please don’t come back, Luke. Promise me.’ He didn’t want to promise. He wanted her to ask him in, to tell him about her life. He wanted to hold her again, to help her out of that light summer dress, to feel her skin against his. It was never too late.
‘I’ll be out of Paris by this afternoon.’ He turned away and then heard her call behind him.
‘Promise me.’ He didn’t respond, just kept walking to the car, and by the time he got there and looked back, the door was closed.
He couldn’t understand how a promise from him could be of any worth to her now. But at the moment, he couldn’t understand anything. What was the point? If there was never going to be a way back, what was the point of any of it?
Chapter Ten