The Mysterious Stranger

14

The Mysterious Stranger

    By the end of their first week at La Rance the two girls had begun to feel as if they’d been there most of their lives. Whether or not Rose’s licence let her, she had driven the little Renault innumerable times into the village and back, and even Linnet had driven it once. They had had afternoon tea with Catherine Langlois and subsequently had met a lot of Langlois and Ferry relations, and cheery Maître Ferry and his kindly, plump wife had had them to dinner. Fergie was enrolled at the maternelle and on her first day appeared to take in her stride the fact that none of the other kids spoke English. In fact, as her new teddy had got christened “Nounours” on its being presented to her as such by the cooing chorus of Roma, Marie-Claire, Sidonie, Bernadette, and Estelle, her mother and aunt had an odd suspicion that she didn’t really realize there were two languages involved.

    Pauline and Mathieu had come over with Jean-Paul and Fabien for a family dinner, congratulating Gilles and Linnet on the engagement with every appearance of pleasure. There was no sign of Guy, but Rose, who hadn’t been favoured with Fabien’s and Gilles’s opinion of him, assumed he must be at work, and Linnet, who of course had, wasn’t surprized. Even Bertrand appeared to be putting a good face on things. He had departed after the family dinner in order to sell his country house; Linnet had gasped in horror that he mustn’t do that, but he’d replied that of course he must: he’d made up his mind to it.

    The château’s old servants all obviously adored Linnet, so as far as household harmony went, there was nothing more to wish for. And Linnet obviously thought Roma was wonderful, whilst Roma, though still a little anxious about how it would all work out, had decided that Gilles couldn’t possibly have found anyone more right for him than Linnet. Marie-Claire and Rose were getting on famously, and to the family’s stunned astonishment Annie turned up unannounced for the weekend, apparently in order to sequester Linnet for the entire two days while she earbashed her about modern architecture, modern films, modern books, and the iniquities of the capitalist system her male chauvinist father supported.

    Rose had started looking at houses. She quite fancied the little modern houses at “Les Mues” but hadn’t made up her mind, yet. She thought she’d like to look around. Fabien had suggested she could buy the old spa over at Touques-les-Bains before Guy could get his mitts on it and turn it into a Motos Totos emporium, but not even he had taken either of these suggestions seriously: on the one hand the old hotel was huge, not at all suitable for a private home, and on the other, there was no-one at run-down little Touques-les-Bains who could have afforded the sort of vehicle that Guy’s chain of exclusive outlets specialized in.

    By the time the girls had been in France a fortnight Gilles still thought Linnet should take much more than forty percent of the worth of the Bellecourts’ ULR shares and she still thought that she should take much less. They compromised: it would be eighty percent of the worth of the shares (Bertrand’s house contributing to this) plus eighty percent of the enormous sum the house in Paris had realized. Rose was so overcome when the number of millions in Australian dollars the latter had fetched was revealed to her that she’d have settled for that. But of course the Morpeths wouldn’t have let them do so. This might not have seemed like compromise to everyone, and in fact Linnet decided that in that case she and Gilles had better have a thingo. Gilles thought so, too—definitely! No, blushing: a thingo where you wrote down that it all went to your children, or something like that. So Maître Ferry, to his gratification, not to say relief—until this moment he’d still been afraid the Comte would take his business elsewhere—was given the task of drafting an immense document of settlement whereby Gilles and Linnet on their marriage would share equally everything they owned, this to include the income from Linnet’s tontine money, but the tontine capital would be held in trust for their joint offspring. Maître Ferry saw nothing to cavil at in this arrangement: he was an old-fashioned man, a country lawyer who would have been shocked by the very idea of the modern type of prenuptial agreement, starting from the assumption that divorce is inevitable. As Gilles didn’t choose to reveal to Bertrand that this was what he’d done, there was no-one to point out to him that he’d signed half his birthright away to la paysanne australienne. And Linnet, of course, was too innocent to realize it: she was simply relieved that he’d agreed to at least take half of what she still didn’t feel was really hers.

    Roma’s birthday fell at the end of the third week of their stay but before then she thought she and Linnet might just pop up to Paris for a few days and look at flats. Rose decided not to go: she’d had a couple of hectic days with Marie-Claire and Isabelle at the Collections, but after the initial period of bedazzlement her honest soul had been shocked and horrified at the prices of the gowns, and after staggering out of Lagerfeld’s showing in the company of Isabelle Fleuriot du Hamel making a list—a list!—of the creations she thought she might consider this season, she had retreated to La Rance, telling Marie-Claire and Isabelle firmly that she was a bit tired: it had been lovely, but she was a bit tired.

    “Ya know what ya have to be prepared to spend per annum to get an invite to those bloody shows, don’tcha?” she said grimly to her sister on her return.

    “Um—no. I thought Buffy said it was all photographers and journalists from the women’s fashion magazines?”

    “No! Well, yeah, but they sit on one side, ya see.”

    Linnet listened patiently. When Rose finally came out with the sum of $150,000 a year, minimum, she only said: “I expect you would have to, yes. Conspicuous consumption, isn’t it? Gilles seems to think I’ll like the ones they’ve got lined up for me. I said I wouldn’t let him throw away that sort of money on clothes, though.”

    “What did he say?”

    “He said to ask Marie-Claire where she shops. –She has got some models, but Isabelle buys them for her.”

    Rose’s knees went weak. “I’da thought he’d insist on chucking away twelve thou’ or so on your dresses! –Each,” she said grimly.

    Linnet sighed. “No. We had a compromise. He’s gonna chuck away immense sums on a fur coat.”

    “Well, the weather is freezing,” said Rose in a very limp voice.

    “Yes. I said it had to be cultivated—you know, not wild.”

    “Not leopard or that: right,” she agreed in a hollow voice.

    “Yeah,” Linnet conceded glumly.

    “Ranch mink, maybe,” said Rose thoughtfully. “It’ll be lovely and warm.”

    “Mm.”

    “Cheer up, you’ll survive! –Well, I must admit I couldn’t take it; after a bit I kept seeing Uncle Jim’s ratty old farmhouse in my mind’s eye. –I dunno,” she said, grinning sheepishly; “too rich for my blood, or something!”

    “Yes,” said Linnet, looking at her with affection. “You won’t be lonely here by yourself, will you, Rose? We’ll all be in Paris: Gilles wants to spend some time in at the office while I get dragged off to look at clothes.”

    “No, me and Fergie’ll have a good time! Catherine Langlois was saying there’s a house for sale near them: I might have look at it. And Bernadette’s gonna give me cooking lessons. I’ll be frying up liver with the best of ’em before long, you’ll see!”

    “Yeah. Or mincing it,” she said with a shudder.

    “You would go in the kitchen when she was making pâté! –Hey, I bet they thought you were preggy when you went all green and swimmy!”

    “No. They know we haven’t been to bed yet.”

    Rose’s jaw fell “Whadda they do, inspect the flaming sheets?”

    “N— Well, yes, they probably do,” she admitted. “No, Sidonie asked me. She was awfully anxious, I couldn’t quite see why, so I told her, I didn’t want her to get even more upset. Then she burst out with this frightful story about how she had an illegitimate kid. Has she mentioned it to you?”

    Rose nodded. “Yeah. Léon. Musta been before the Pill, he’d be, um, in his forties, I think. Reading between the lines the father was married already, otherwise ‘feu M. le Comte’ woulda made it a shotgun wedding. I’ll say this for the old bloke, he seems to have stood by her.”

    Linnet nodded. “Yes, of course, the family all did. Anyway, the poor old thing wanted to make sure I knew all about birth control.”

    “Good grief!”

    Linnet looked at her drily. “It seems to be another one of the things the French invented.”

    Rose choked, but said: “Well, poor old girl. It was bloody decent of her, really.”

    “Yes. So I was glad I’d told her.”

    “Aren’t you gonna?” asked Rose dubiously.

    Linnet went very pink. “Yes. Only—I sort of can’t, in—in the house. You know.”

    “With his mum just down the corridor and Estelle and Sidonie inspecting the sheets: right. You’d better okay this flat, however ghastly it is, then you and him can stay in it for a bit.”

    “No, it’ll need furnishing. –No, what I thought,” she said with a smile as Rose groaned, “was that Gilles and me could stay in a hotel for a bit.”

    “Good idea. Who’s gonna tell Roma tactfully to sling ’er hook?”

    “Not this week, silly! Um—well, after her birthday. He’ll tell her, don’t worry!” she added with a laugh.

    “Good. I bet he’ll be good at it,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s got that look about him.”

    “What look?” said Linnet weakly.

   Rose shook her head. “I can’t explain it. I don’t mean he’s the sort that eyes up everything in skirts... Nah, can’t explain it. But you’ll be right!”

    “I’m a bit nervous about it,” confessed Linnet.

    “Better get it over with, then,” she said simply.

    “Yes.”

    “Otherwise it might spoil the honeymoon!” gasped Rose, going off into a paroxysm.

    “Hah, hah,” said Linnet, smiling bravely.

    So Linnet and Roma went up to Paris to look at the flat that needed furnishing and be dragged to the Collections by Isabelle and Marie-Claire, Gilles went up to Paris to get on with his somewhat neglected business affairs, and Rose settled down for a peaceful few days of country life. She did look at the house near Catherine Langlois’s but couldn’t make up her mind, she did look at a couple of other coops in “Les Mues”, and she did have a couple of cosy feminine lunches with Catherine and her friends.

    Then she met the mysterious stranger.

    It was in Touques-les-Bains. It was a fine, crisp morning and Rose dropped Fergie off at the maternelle, promising to collect her at lunchtime—Fergie only went in the mornings, as yet—and then felt rather at a loose end. She didn’t like just to drop in on Catherine: she sort of had a feeling French people didn’t do that. There was nothing in the village shops she wanted to buy, though she did now have sufficient money in her purse for—well, say a jumper or a pair of shoes. But she didn’t really fancy going over to Tôq: it was a boring drive, lined with flat, ploughed fields in which grew, in season, the traditional local flax, the mustard that the contractors for Semences ULR produced, or the endemic sugar beet. In midwinter nothing could have been less exciting than this rural scene. Rose had subconsciously expected the countryside to look like a cross between the prettier parts of the Adelaide Hills and the prettier scenes in such epics as Brideshead Revisited and to be dotted with replicas of Anne Hathaway’s cottage. In spring and summer the poplar-lined roads and the fields of waving crops might have been pretty, but in winter they were anything but. She hadn’t yet been over to Touques-les-Bains, so even though there would undoubtedly, if Fabien’s description of it had been even halfway accurate, be nothing to buy there, she thought she might go over that way. There were a few hills over there, it might be prettier.

    So Rose drove west towards Touques-les-Bains. They had had no more snow lately and the road, which was a very bad road indeed, was rutted but negotiable. Sure enough, the land rose, scattered clumps of trees appeared, and although the fields were still bare, the landscape did start to look prettier.

    She was relieved to find on the outskirts of the little town that, unlike the maze that was Tôq, there was no sprawl of factories and grimy suburbs to negotiate before you got to the shops. You just drove past several blocks of rundown housing, and then you were in the square. She found a parking spot without difficulty and made straight for the nearest bar.

    The sun was shining and a few hardy souls muffled in their heavy winter overcoats were braving the little half-glassed-in space outside the bar, so Rose, finding this very sophisticated and almost like the Champs Elysees—unlike Touques Le Minard and even Tôq itself, where the tables were just set on the pavement without benefit of glass sidings—sat down at one of these tables. She ordered a coffee and, since she’d had breakfast early with Sidonie and Fergie, a croque-monsieur. Though the cheese they put on them wasn’t as tasty as Aussie cheese.

    The waiter was only a boy: a skinny kid who looked about fifteen. He brought her order in relays and while they were waiting for the croque’ asked her a string of more or less personal questions. Rose responded amiably: she was used to this sort of social intercourse and she didn’t resent the boy’s curiosity, in fact felt rather flattered by his reaction when he discovered she was actually staying at La Rance. So she told him that her sister was engaged to the Comte and that she was neither American (his first guess) nor English (second) but Australian. He had never heard of Australia and so she explained, with some difficulty, where it was. When he brought the croque’ he would have continued the conversation, but a cross voice from the bar called him inside.

    The other persons at the outside tables were a thin young couple in dark anoraks and jeans, two middle-aged men with overalls under their coats who were smoking pipes and talking about racing, one solitary, burly, untidy-looking man, perhaps around forty, wearing a heavy tweed overcoat and reading a paper—Rose didn’t notice that it wasn’t France-Soir or anything of that ilk, but Le Monde, and would not have understood the implications of this fact if she had noticed—and, last but certainly not least, a tall, handsome young man in a huge brown fur coat. None of these persons appeared to have anything better to do on a fine but cold winter’s day. They certainly weren’t looking at their watches or up and down the street as if they were expecting someone, or anything like that.

    It wasn’t in fact all that warm and Rose might have given up and gone inside, but for the fact that she could feel the handsome young man in the fur coat glancing at her from time to time. On first catching sight of him she’d wondered if he might be gay, because normal men didn’t wear fur coats, but what with the shoulders and the glances and the fact that there was nothing effeminate about him in spite of the coat... Rose sat on.

    She was unaware that two of the men present knew who she was. The burly, hatless man with the untidy greying brown curls who was reading the paper was Georges Vaks, the doctor from Touques Le Minard. He hadn’t been introduced formally to the château’s house-guests but they had been pointed out to him in the village. He had also heard all about Rose’s unstable mental state from Sidonie: her rather isolated little cottage was near the tumbledown old house of which he rented half, on the outskirts of the village. He therefore looked at Rose with a certain professional interest as well as a certain natural curiosity. And perhaps more than that: her round, pink-cheeked face and big blue eyes had struck a chord with the burly country medico.

    Dr Vaks also knew who the young man in the fur coat was: he had looked at both the coat and the wearer with distaste and had not drawn himself to the young man’s notice. Not that he expected to be recognized by him: the young man was not one of his patients, nor the sort of person who would bother to remember an obscure country doctor.

    The doctor was quite correct: the young man in the fur coat didn’t recognize him, in fact hardly glanced at him. He did glance, however, at the blonde young woman in the smart blue and fawn tweeds—Rose had done quite a lot of shopping in Paris and had been to Marie-Claire’s hairdresser, and was looking smart and pretty and much less foreign than she had on her arrival in France. He had taken her for a provincial housewife, perhaps one of the young marrieds from “Les Mues” but that hadn’t stopped his thoughts from wandering idly over the possibility of a brief fling to brighten up a boring winter’s day. Then he had overheard the conversation with the waiter and had realized exactly who she was. And that his luck was in today.

    The handsome brown-haired young man in the big fur coat was, in fact, Guy de Bellecourt.

    Guy wasn’t in Touques-les-Bains for the express purpose of meeting Linnet’s sister. He had business there: Fabien’s joking reference to the old spa hotel, which none of his family had taken any notice of, had been founded in fact: Guy and a group of friends were considering buying the big old hotel. Not to turn it into a another Motos Totos forecourt, but to do it up as a conference venue. Golf course, squash courts, and so forth. It was pretty well off the beaten track but that, they thought, could be turned to advantage with clever advertising. Well, they’d consider it. There was also some thought of dividing it into luxury apartments and, again with the golf course and plenty of swimming-pools, turning it into a time-share holiday facility. The drawback to that one being that there nothing much in the district that holidayers might want to see. Except the countryside itself, of course. Peace and quiet and the option of having your holiday fully catered? There could well be a market. So Guy, therefore, had legitimate business in Touques-les-Bains.

    It was true that this business didn’t have to be done this particular morning. It was also true that he’d discovered from the innocent Fabien that Rose would be by herself for a few days. And from the not-so-innocent Jean-Paul that she was pretty much the Marie-Claire type—mentally and physically. Maire-Claire had fallen for Guy without his having to do very much about it at all, so why shouldn’t this Rose Bayley? He had been intending—having also discovered that Fergie was attending the maternelle—to bump into her accidentally around lunchtime in Touques Le Minard. But as Heaven had decreed otherwise, why look a gift-horse in the mouth?

    Georges Vaks watched with quiet annoyance as Guy allowed his eye to be caught, smiled at Rose, and, with terrific diffidence, got up and introduced himself. Laughing deprecatingly and saying he was the “fils prodigue” of the family, and Oncle Gilles might be cross that he’d introduced himself to her. About two seconds after that he’d ordered them each a hot toddy and was looking into her eyes across the little table and generally being completely fascinating. Georges Vaks’s fists clenched. Should he get up and— And what? Offer Guy de Bellecourt the opportunity of cutting him down to size? Georges was a sensible, competent and intelligent man but he was no socialite and no pretty young trendy, and he knew enough about Guy de Bellecourt to be very sure that he’d not only seize the opportunity, he’d enjoy every second of it. Not that he gave a damn, he told himself, frowning. Only if she’d seen him put in his place by that nasty piece of work, how could he— Well, rescue her, frankly. Merde. Foist himself on the pair of them regardless? Bellecourt would ask him if he had nothing better to do, he could feel it in his bones. Merde again. Well, perhaps she’d have more sense than to be taken in by the bastard.

    He eyed them morosely over the newspaper and jumped when the waiter asked if he’d like something else.

    Rose wasn’t taken in by Guy to the extent of not being able to see that he was an accomplished flirt and pretty well up-himself. Even in a city the size of Adelaide she’d met his type before. Unlike Gilles, he was very definitely the sort that eyed up everything in skirts. On the other hand, she wasn’t averse to a mild flirtation with an extremely handsome and witty young Frenchman. –He wasn’t all that witty, as Georges Vaks for one could hear perfectly well, but then Rose, of course, wasn’t all that bright. But he was certainly extremely handsome. Lovely teeth, too. Kyle, like most young Australians of his generation, had had lovely teeth. Rose hadn’t thought much of Fabien’s, Mathieu’s or Jean-Paul’s, though Gilles’s were okay. Well, the top ones were nice and straight but the bottom ones were crooked. All of Guy’s teeth were beautifully straight. So was his nose, Rose didn’t like lumpy noses. And he had lovely light blue eyes and huge long lashes and a super smile and a really good tan. Well, why not?

    So she let him flirt with her and was duly impressed by his talk of the plans for the old hotel, and pleasantly fluttered by the way his jumper just sat at the base of his strong throat and showed a gleam of a gold chain and a wisp or two of brown curly hair and by the way the throat moved when he flung back his head and laughed.

    —Georges Vaks at this spectacle ground his teeth and got out the pipe he was giving up and bit down hard on its stem and clenched his fists even harder.

    The sun moved on and Rose shivered a little and Guy suggested she might like to look at the hotel? It did still operate as a hotel, but the days of its glory were long past. But he could explain what they were thinking of doing—

    Rose was thrilled. She accompanied him across the square eagerly. Left to herself she wouldn’t have noticed the ornate edifice which dated from around the 1860s, let alone wondered what it was or thought it might be turned to commercial advantage, but naturally she didn’t reveal this to Guy. And, also naturally, she was all the more impressed that he could see that it might be turned to commercial advantage. She didn’t wonder where the money to work this miracle of metamorphosis was coming from and Guy didn’t reveal that he and his pals were still looking for backers.

    Georges Vaks sat back in his chair scowling. Merde de merde, now he’d missed his opportunity completely!

    He jumped when the young waiter offered to get him some tobacco and sheepishly took the pipe out of his mouth, explaining he was giving it up. And how was François’s grandmother’s leg? François told Dr Vaks about the leg, not with much interest, and asked him eagerly if he’d noticed that man’s car?

    Dr Vaks himself drove an elderly Renault station-waggon. He agreed sourly that he’d seen Guy’s Porsche. François revealed it was a Motos Totos car! The doctor looked at him blankly. Hadn’t M. le Docteur seen the ads on TV? –No. –Oh. Well, surely M. le Docteur had seen the big billboard outside Tôq on the main road? “Motos Totos. Le ‘look’ total. C’est Vous. C’est Nous. C’est Motos Totos.”

    Shuddering slightly, the doctor admitted he hadn’t noticed it. –Oh. Well, Motos Totos was— Dr Vaks let him tell him. Down to and including the fact that his friend Victor had a Motos Totos cap! At this point the doctor was driven to remark sourly that that man hadn’t been wearing one. François thought he looked good. The driven Georges sighed and said he looked like un grand pédé and he could guess what François’s father would say if he caught him getting round Touques-les-Bains in a fur coat. François retorted that Touques-les-Bains was a real dump and— But at that moment the voice of François’s father himself was heard from the bar, so François urged a brandy on the doctor or at least another coffee, and retreated hurriedly with the order for the coffee.

    Georges Vaks brooded so long over the coffee that he was still there when the pair of them came out and crossed the square. He got up hurriedly. He couldn’t remember if he’d paid for his last cup so he left some money on the table: François could keep it if he had paid before—and hastened over to where his dusty Renault was parked, several slots down from her car. Bellecourt was making arrangements to meet her again—not in the village, the villagers gossiped so, but if she was sure she wanted to go out with le fils prodigue—? Rose giggled; Dr Vaks corrected it sourly in his head to “la brebis galeuse.” Then perhaps they could lunch in Tôq tomorrow? She accepted eagerly. The creep then got into the Porsche without bothering to help her into her car and drove off with an airy wave. Gunning the engine horribly.

    Taking his courage in both hands, the doctor went up to her as she unlocked her car.

    “C’est bien Madame Rose, n’est-ce-pas?” he said hoarsely.

    Rose was now, of course, in a very good mood. Nevertheless she looked somewhat warily at this untidy, not young man who was addressing her as the villagers did. She didn’t consciously register that his clothes weren’t those of a working man or that he didn’t have the local accent but she did feel some surprize that he was using the local terminology. For a moment she wondered whether he could possibly be Sidonie’s Léon.

    “Oui,” she said cautiously. “Vous êtes de Touques Le Minard?”

    Going very red, Dr Vaks introduced himself.

    Rose put out her hand, smiling, and said she was very glad to meet him, and that it was him who’d come up to the château to look after Monsieur Bertrand’s bruises, wasn’t it?

    He agreed and courteously asked after Monsieur Bertrand.

    Rose replied with a giggle that he’d seemed mobile enough when she’d last seen him. The doctor smiled but didn’t say anything further, so she added kindly that she was thinking of bringing her little girl to see him—just for a check-up. Dr Vaks agreed he’d like to see her and told her the surgery hours.

    Then there was a short silence.

    “Well, I must go,” said Rose brightly. “I have to collect Fergie—that’s my daughter—from the maternelle.”

    “Yes,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. “Madame Rose— I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname,” he added lamely.

    “Rose Bayley. Call me Rose,” said Rose happily.

    “Thank you; Rose,” he said, going very red.

    Rose looked at him kindly. He seemed quite decent as doctors went, not stuck up or superior like they mostly were if they were male, and not too smarmy and all-overish like the few that weren’t superior. In fact he seemed quite shy, which was funny for a doctor, wasn’t it? He didn’t go on so she said nicely: “What was your first name, again?”

    “Oh!” he said, jumping. “Georges.”

    “Georges, then,” said Rose kindly. “Go on: was there something you wanted to say to me?”

    “Yes. That young man,” he said, clearing his throat, “who—who was with you...”

    “He’s one of the Bellecourts, “ said Rose cautiously.

    “I know. I don’t really know him personally but I—I know his reputation.”

    “Do you? He said he was the fils prodigue!” she said with a laugh.

    “No-one is likely to prepare the fatted calf for him, I can assure you,” he said grimly.

    This was a bit too biblical for Rose: she puzzled over it for a moment. “Oh! I get you!” she said, laughing.

    “He has a dangerous reputation,” he said.

    “Has he, just?” replied Rose, laughing.

    “I know it’s none of my business,” he said, going very red again, “but please—be careful; especially if you’re seeing him without the family’s knowledge,” he added in a strangled voice.

    “Were you listening to us?” she replied incredulously—wanting to say “eavesdropping” but unable to think of the word.

    “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said stiffly. “It isn’t surprising that you hadn’t met him before. I know the Comte has a low opinion of him.”

    Rose couldn’t see Gilles confiding his opinion of a member of the family to a bumbling country doctor, quite frankly. Nor did she think that anything Georges Vaks considered beyond the pale would in fact be very dreadful. She looked at him kindly but with a certain irony in her eyes and said: “Well, it’s kind of you to warn me, Georges. It’s nice to have met you. I will bring Fergie to see you. I must go—ciao!” She got hurriedly into the château’s little Renault.

    Georges Vaks closed the car door for her carefully and waited to see she did her seatbelt up before going sadly back to his station-waggon. He’d made a mess of that. If anything, what he’d said had seemed to encourage her! And she’d clearly thought he himself was an old fuddy-duddy. Merde!

    Rose didn’t mention her meeting with Guy to the old ladies at the château. Having arranged that Sidonie would collect Fergie from the maternelle next day, she drove off to Tôq without telling anyone who it was that she was meeting there. It wasn’t that she really thought they’d disapprove: it was more that it was fun to have a secret, and exciting to be meeting the “mysterious stranger” from Touques-les-Bains, as she’d dubbed him to herself less than half seriously, who was apparently enough of a fils prodigue to shock the proper local doctor!

    It was colder than it had been the day before so Rose again put on her heavy new overcoat in the soft blue and fawn tweed, but this time added the big fluffy fawn Russian-look fake-fur hat and the blue leather gloves and bag that she’d got at Les Galeries Lafayette. With them she wore long blue boots, fawn velvet pants tucked into them as Marie-Claire wore her black outfit, a high-necked blue Cashmere jumper, and a wide, soft fawn leather belt that fastened in a smart knot. All the blues were soft shades, on the smoky side: it was a very pretty outfit.

    She was unaware that to Guy’s eyes it was a bit too pretty-pretty: Marie-Claire’s black and grey was more the sort of thing he was used to. He thought dispassionately that it made her look even more provincial then had the full set of blue and fawn tweeds she’d worn the other day. The hairdo, however, he very much approved of: Marie-Claire’s genius of a hairdresser had cut off the plait which didn’t suit Rose at all, and encouraged the curly hair to froth gently all round her face in a sort of chrysanthemum look. At the same time lightening it just a little, though not as much as his client had asked for. The honey shade suited Madame, he explained.

    Fortunately for the effect she wished to make on Guy de Bellecourt, the house fire had gobbled up all of Rose’s costume jewellery and most of her set of gold rings. Marie-Claire had led her firmly away from the costume jewellery at Les Galeries Lafayette, “nice” shop though it undoubtedly was, and taken her to Isabelle’s jeweller. Rose had just about passed out at the sight of the glorious things on display. Naturally the two girls hadn’t bought any of the more expensive pieces: Marie-Claire’s allowance didn’t run to that, and besides, she was trying to keep within the limits of her credit cards and, though she hadn’t quite admitted this to herself, please Papa. She didn’t realize that the desire to please Papa was a direct result of his decision to remarry. As Gilles had privately told her to get Rose a nice pair of pearl earrings, that was what they got.

    So Rose was wearing the nice pearls and her pale sapphire engagement ring and gold wedding ring, and besides that only the wee gold bow on the pinkie that, most fortunately, she had had on the day they went to Victor Harbor with Monica and Dean. Guy complimented her and passed a disparaging remark on the junk jewellery that most females cluttered themselves up with these days and Rose went bright pink and didn’t know where to look.

    He himself was again in the fur coat: he’d explained to Rose yesterday, laughing, that it was terribly warm: he’d got it second-hand: it was, he thought, a motoring coat that dated from the Twenties. This story was a lie: he’d had it made to order, which was why its wide shoulders sat particularly well on his wide shoulders, and the slightly ragged look of its hundreds of rabbit skins had been achieved at his orders, also. Much against the furrier’s own inclinations. The “second-hand” coat had cost a shocking sum, even though the skins themselves were not particularly good. The lie was one that Guy habitually told to his female admirers: why in God’s name they thought it was acceptable for a hetero male to wear recycled fur he had no idea, but he’d discovered they did. He’d told it so often that it had become automatic. And Rose certainly reacted to it in the expected way.

    The rest of his clothes definitely did not look recycled: laced pale fawn desert boots with heavy fawn corduroys, an oatmeal cashmere vee-necked sweater tucked into the trousers, which were belted with gold-buckled pigskin, and a shot-silk mauve and fawn shirt buttoned to the neck but without a tie. A large Paisley scarf in brown, gold and fawn with touches of violet in it hung in negligent folds just inside the open coat. Rose was blissfully unaware that the pale tones of Guy’s outfit, which didn’t strike her as strange, were chosen in order to make him conspicuous amidst his drab compatriots.

    He would not have waited for her outside the restaurant in the cold weather, even to show off his outfit in its full glory, but he’d stopped on the way to look in the window of a menswear boutique—schlonky junk—and arrived there just as she did. Even though he thought she was pretty much of a dumb little provincial bunny, the way she pinkened and smiled eagerly and admiringly at him made his heart beat a little faster; a slight flush rose under his smooth tan and he took her arm with a smile that was quite genuine, and led her inside eagerly.

    Exactly what Guy’s designs on Rose Bayley were at this precise moment even he could not have said. He’d just thought it would be a damn good idea to get to know her on the sly. And while he was at it find out exactly how financial matters stood at the château. If she didn’t turn him off completely then perhaps he would talk her into marriage—why not? He was nearly twenty-seven, he might as well think about setting up a home for himself. And there was certainly nothing else on his horizon that he fancied settling down with. A paysanne australienne might well make a good little wife, content to live quietly in the country bringing up his children, keeping his house warm and pretty for him and welcoming him whenever he chose to appear there. They would need to do some entertaining, too, especially as his business interests grew: well, he could train her well enough. And most men didn’t require a hostess to make witty conversation: so long as she could greet them nicely, look pretty, feed them well and listen to their boring stories with every appearance of appreciation they’d find her acceptable. Besides, he knew several men who’d married clever, demanding, intelligent women and the result, as far as Guy could see, was little better than sheer Hell. A continual tug-of-war of conflicting desires and interests. Not to say conflicting career schedules. No, not for him. He had never revealed his private picture of domestic bliss with a docile little home-body to any of his friends, and certainly not to his brothers: they would all have laughed their liberated heads off. A few slighting references to such an existence in the context of “ces Frazer” to Jean-Paul—yes, certainly. But Jean-Paul had no idea at all that in his heart of hearts, this was what Guy really fancied. And, indeed, Guy had scarcely admitted it to himself and didn’t in fact let himself think of such a scenario in any but the appropriately lofty, sneering tone.

    The conventionally feminine Rose in her soft blues and fawns with her pretty head of short curls and her big blue eyes was, in short, pretty much what Guy had been secretly hankering after for some time. He had no idea that, if she was manifestly no intellectual, she was not stupid, either, and that she’d sized him up reasonably accurately. The gear which had visibly impressed her today was only reinforcing her first impression: he was a flirt, he was a smooth yuppie, and he was pretty well up-himself. True, she found him more attractive than ever and was very glad she’d decided to come to lunch. But she certainly wasn’t prepared to take him seriously.

    Guy knew the little restaurant well and explained as he ordered the pâté and the moules marinière for them both that it was the only one worth patronising in Tôq. Rose could see it was a quiet, respectable sort of place: no flashy décor, but nice white tablecloths, and a couple of elderly waiters and one neat waitress. She’d have  thought that he’d go to the sort of place that was all glitz and dark corners, with the latest music playing loudly. This little place didn’t have any music at all, and most of the other lunchers were middle-aged and boring-looking.

    At home Rose and Kyle would normally have gone to one of the many family restaurants that Adelaide featured and, far from letting Kyle order her meal, she would very probably have superintended his. But she still wasn’t very sure of herself in France, or indeed, with a young trendy like Guy de Bellecourt, so she admitted she did like seafood and let him order the moules without asking what they  were.

    When the pâté came she commented on it admiringly and he launched into a long examination of the merits and demerits of the local pâtés de campagne. Then he told her all about various ways of cooking les moules. When they came she could see they were mussels, which she wasn’t particularly fond of, but she didn’t say anything, just waited to see how he tackled them, and then tasted them gingerly. She approved of them dazedly. Guy was rather pleased, and went on talking about food. Not just about how to appreciate it: how to cook it.

    Finally Rose said dazedly: “Can you cook, then?”

    He shrugged. “Why not?”

    “I suppose it’s a French thing,” she said weakly.

    “It’s certainly an Anglo-Saxon thing for men to know nothing whatsoever about the finer things of life and to care less,” he returned.

    This wasn’t the first time Rose had been referred to, directly or by implication, as an Anglo-Saxon, and she’d gathered from Fabien’s tone in particular that when used by a Frenchman the expression wasn’t intended to flatter. She went rather red and said: “Is food one of the finer things of life, then?”

    “It is in France: ouais,” he drawled.

    Rose reddened further, looking cross.

    Suddenly Guy laughed and, leaning forward, put his hand on hers. “Did you think only gays care about food?”

    “Eugh—well, yes, I suppose so!” she gasped.

    He raised his eyebrows. “Surely you don’t think I’m gay?”

    “No, of course not!” she gasped.

    “Good. Try not to think in Anglo-Saxon clichés,” he said, releasing her.

    Rose didn’t know whether to be cross or relieved. She smiled uncertainly.

    Guy could have gone on to wither her utterly. But for unaccountable reasons he found he didn’t want to. Telling himself it wouldn’t be politic to get off on the wrong foot with her, he said kindly: “In France, everyone cares about food, it’s our national pastime! Well, food and drink first; and then I’m afraid the other national pastime is complaining about le mal de foie!” He twinkled at her.

    “Oh! Yes! Mémé used to go on about that!” she gasped.

    “Of course: the second great national pastime,” he said solemnly.

    Rose giggled.

    Smiling, Guy changed the subject.

    Rose listened with interest to his exposition on the various salads over the course he’d ordered without asking her if she wanted it. Over the cheese he talked about music and shows. They weren’t what she thought of as shows; nevertheless she listened respectfully. It did not occur to Guy that she came from a social milieu in which it was the custom, particularly in mixed company and most particularly in a couple, for men to hold the floor, and exclusively on the subject of their own interests. Rose was used to men’s interests being cars, boats, football, and sports in general. She didn’t consciously make any comparisons with the experiences of her past life, but, although she didn’t understand the subject at all, she felt quite at home as he talked on. She made the appropriate noises of interest at the appropriate times, not even realising she was doing so.

    Guy talked on happily, not neglecting to look straight into her eyes from time to time, to pause to let her murmur “Oui?” from time to time, and to ask her if she’d heard of so-and-so or such-and-such from time to time, not expecting the answer “yes”. He would have been both furious and astounded had anyone suggested to him that Rose expected nothing else from young men and that, as all women did in the society from which she sprang, she was humouring him. Without knowing she was doing it, true. Nevertheless that was what she was doing.

    During that week they had a couple more lunches of this sort; after the third one he took her for a short drive in the Porsche and kissed her. Rose had been expecting this and responded eagerly. She wasn’t sure if he’d want to go any further at this stage and when he slid his hand up her jumper let him, but when he tried to slide it up her skirt said firmly: “That’s enough. It’s too cold to fool around in cars.”

    “But could we perhaps go somewhere warmer and fool around more seriously?” he said, crinkling his eyes a little and smiling into hers.

    Rose replied with the utmost composure: “That’d be nice. So long as you use condoms—you do, do you?”—He nodded dazedly.—“Good. Only I can’t this afternoon, I’ve got to get back. I’m going out for dinner.”

    “Eugh…  comme tu veux,” he said weakly.

    “What about next week?” she said.

    “Oncle Gilles and your sister are coming back, aren’t they?”

    “Yes. And it’s Roma’s birthday—are you coming over for that?”

    Guy shrugged, and shook his head.

    “No, I didn’t think you would. Your father and mother are coming, but just for dinner. Roma’s planning a much bigger party later on, she’s going to combine Gilles’s birthday party with an engagement party.”

    “Indeed?” he said weakly.

    “Yes. But Gilles and Linnet won’t want me tagging along with them all day: I’ll be able to get away.”

    “Hein? Oh: next week?”

    “Yes. And then the week after that, they’re going up to Paris to stay at a hotel,” said Rose, out of consideration for her sister’s feelings not saying why.

    “So you’ll be alone again?” he said eagerly.

    “Well, Roma’ll be there.”

    “Oh—yes.”

    “Don’t you want to let on to the family that we’re seeing each other?” said Rose with a grin.

    “It’s just that they don’t approve of me, you see,” he said, making a deprecating face. “They might try to prevent you—Oncle Gilles undoubtedly would!” he added with a comical shudder.

    “I wouldn’t take any notice of him!” she said with a robust laugh. “But I won’t let on, if you don’t want me to. Um... Well, I’ll be going to Paris some time soon myself: I have to see this doctor that your mother’s dredged up for me,” she said cheerfully. “But Pauline said I could just stay overnight at their flat in town. Or I could stay with Marie-Claire at Isabelle’s, of course.”

    “Ouais,” he said foggily.

    “In between times I’ll be quite free,” she added.

    “I see! So—so you do want to... I could rent a room in a hotel, okay?”

    “In Tôq?” she said cautiously.

    “We-ell... It is a reasonably large town. I think we might be recognized in Touques-les-Bains.”

    “Well, yes: that waiter knows me now, and then the doctor from Touques Le Minard was there that day we met!” she said with a laugh.

    “Who?”

    “Dr Vaks. He’s the local quack,” said Rose, confidently using the vernacular “toubib.” “He tried to warn me off!”

    “To warn you off me?” he said dazedly.

    “Yes, he said you were dangerous, or some such rubbish! Well, he’s pretty old, and I suppose—” She shrugged. “A little country-town doctor, he’s probably pretty old-fashioned!”

    “So you don’t think I’m dangerous?” he said, smiling, and putting a finger under her chin.

    “Just about dangerous enough!” said Rose with a loud giggle.

    Not surprisingly Guy was terrifically pleased by this response and kissed her eagerly, fondled her breasts some more and said into her neck, putting rather a lot of weight on her: “So, if I ring you some time next week... Non, merde, that vieux con of a Jacques knows my voice. Merde, how shall we arrange it?”

    “Can I ring you?”

    Normally Guy was extremely cautious about allowing his ladies the freedom to get in touch with him whenever they pleased. He’d been pestered by besotted females that he’d grown tired of too often in the past, and he now had an unlisted number. But he replied eagerly: “Yes, that would best! I’ll give you my Paris number, okay? As soon as you let me know when you can get away, I’ll book a room here in Tôq. D’accord?”

    “D’ac!” agreed Rose in the vernacular.

    This time when he kissed her she put a hand on his cock as she kissed him back and Guy gasped and laughed a little and said: “Mmm—lovely, I can’t wait! Pas toi?”

    Rose agreed happily: “Moi aussi. But I have to go, I can’t be late for this dinner. Can you start the car?”

    Guy kissed her again, and fondled her a bit more, and pressed her hand to him, shuddering with pleasure, and said he didn’t want to, but... He started the car obediently and drove her back to Tôq, where she’d left the Renault. He was aware that from time to time as he drove she glanced sideways at his erection. He was very pleased, and very naturally the fact that she was looking at him did nothing to calm him down; before he let her out of the Porsche he pulled her very hard against him, kissed her very hard and said breathlessly he wanted her very much.

    Rose cooperated fully in this operation and got out of the little car very flushed, straightening her hat.

    The sophisticated and dangerous Guy de Bellecourt drove back to Paris that evening with his heart beating very hard in anticipation. But his phone didn’t ring all evening. He felt horribly let down, though he denied this feeling angrily to himself, drank a large amount of whisky, and went to bed alone in a strange mixture of feverish anticipation, anti-climax and... he didn’t know what, quite, but fuzzily put it down to the Scotch.

    Rose drove home quite composedly, showered and changed, and had a pleasant dinner with Catherine Langlois, her husband, Pierre, and another young couple who lived two doors away from them.

    She was rather disappointed that Catherine hadn’t found a spare man to invite for her, and decided she would go on seeing Guy: he was terrifically attractive, and he was fun, and if he wasn’t serious—well, she didn’t feel like being serious, either, at this point in time! And it was about time she had some fun!

    The Saturday before Gilles and Linnet were due back, Rose took Fergie to the surgery to see Dr Vaks. Saturday morning was a busy time for the doctor and there were several people already in the waiting-room when they arrived. Rose greeted the room generally with a polite: “Bonjour, messieurs dames,” the way Mémé had taught her. The locals were very tickled at being addressed in this old-fashioned way by la jeune Madame Rose, and responded politely. Rose might have had her psychological problems but she had never been a shy person, and she beamed at them all and sat down composedly, taking Fergie on her lap as there weren’t many free seats.

    The plump woman next to her smiled and  nodded encouragingly so Rose remarked on the cold weather and she, the plump woman, the plump woman’s skinny daughter, the elderly man on Rose’s other side and a fat man in overalls sitting opposite were soon engrossedly comparing the winters in France to those of Australia. It didn’t occur to Rose that in the past certain members of the family from the big house had been accustomed, when they didn’t merely summon the doctor, to walk into the surgery and expect to be taken first. Dr Vaks’s patients, some of whom shared his political views, registered pleasedly that Madame Rose was most unlike Madame Isabelle, Monsieur Bertrand, or, indeed, feu M. le Comte, in this regard.

    After a little another young woman with a little girl came in and sat down, and the two children eyed each other uncertainly.

    Finally Rose smiled at the young mother, and said in English to Fergie: “Say hullo to the little girl, Fergie. –Dis bonjour à la petite,” she added conscientiously.

    The young mother encouraged the little girl, who was older than Fergie, perhaps five. She reddened and squirmed.

    Rose encouraged Fergie further.

    Suddenly Fergie slid off her mother’s knee and said to the little girl, holding out the new teddy which she’d brought with her: “Voici Nounours.”

    Rose gulped.

    The young mother beamed and said: “Tu vois, Angèle? Alors, dis bonjour! –-C’est ton nounours, hein?” she kindly to Fergie.

    “Oui, il est Nounours,” she piped.

    Rose got up at this and sat down next to the young woman, smiling at her, explaining that Fergie didn’t speak much French and introducing herself. Blushing, the woman admitted she knew who Madame Rose was, and that Simone who worked at the château was a friend of hers, and explained to her little girl that la petite didn’t speak much French.

    Soon the two little girls were playing happily, apparently ignoring any language difficulties, and Rose and Simone’s friend were deep in paediatric comparisons, what time the waiting-room looking on approvingly. Rose couldn’t have done better if she’d tried; but of course, being Rose, she’d just done what came naturally.

    When it was Rose’s turn to bring Fergie in, Georges Vaks saw at once that she was deeply suspicious of his competence. He didn’t refer to this, just chatted to her gently about Fergie’s health and paediatric history. Then he gave Fergie a lolly, listened to her chest and so forth, explaining as he did so that this was for hearing her heart go boum, boum—yes?—in very accented but reasonably fluent English. He then let her listen to herself, and then to his heart. Fergie gasped and crowed at finding the doctor was alive, and had to listen to Mummy’s and Nounours’s hearts, apparently with equal pleasure. She reported that Nounours’s heart was going “boum, boum!”

    Georges Vaks met Rose’s eye and they both laughed a little. He asked her some more about Fergie’s medical history and what inoculations she’d had and so forth, and Rose, by now feeling comfortable with him and forgetting that he was the elderly, old-fashioned man who’d warned her off Guy de Bellecourt, talked happily and fully. Like most young mothers of her generation she had a good grasp of paediatric terms and understood all about the medications Fergie had had. Even though she didn’t know all the French medical terms they communicated very well, and Dr Vaks looked at her with pleased approval.

    He then asked her gently if she’d care to tell him about her own medical history. He waited: would she merely confine herself to gynaecology and obstetrics? But Rose, flushing a little and biting her lip, confessed that she’d been pretty depressed after the accident and told him that it was Linnet, really, who’d looked after Fergie this past year.

    The village was aware that the La Rance opinion of Monsieur le Comte’s petite dame was favourable: nevertheless Georges Vaks was a little surprized that the young woman who had snared such a wealthy catch was apparently as self-effacing and dutiful a loving aunt and sister as Rose was painting her. He probed a little, and Rose, rather relieved that they were off the subject of her own depression, told him a lot about Linnet.

    “Aunty Linnet,” agreed Fergie pleasedly. “—C’n Nounours have a lolly?”

    “Nounours!” said Rose scornfully. “Toi, tu veux dire!”

    Dr Vaks didn’t understand “lolly” but he’d followed the direction of Fergie’s eyes, and he laughed and handed out lollies.

    “Alors, t’aimes Tante Linnet?” he said to Fergie. “Eugh... you love Aunt Linnet, Fergie?”

    “’Course!” she said scornfully.

    “Fergie, don’t be rude. Um—I suppose it is self-evident, to her,” said Rose apologetically to the doctor in English.

    He reddened a little and said he didn’t understand, so Rose translated all of it.

    “Ah, oui! Maintenant je comprends!” he said, laughing. “So Aunty Linnet is nice, is she, Fergie?”

    “’Esh,” she said thickly through the lolly. “Nounoursh lovesh her.”

    “Elle veut dire qu’elle l’aime, elle-même,” explained Rose, smiling.

    He nodded, twinkling at her.

    Suddenly Rose told him that Pauline de Bellecourt had found her a psychiatrist and she had her first appointment with him in just over a week’s time.

    Dr Vaks of course had heard all of this from Sidonie, but he nodded and asked her who the doctor was.

    Rose told him and he said: “I see! Well, you’ll certainly be in safe hands with him. He’s one of the best known men in the field.”

    “Good. –He hasn’t got a beard, has he?” said Rose with a silly laugh.

    Dr Vaks replied seriously: “I believe not. Well, of course I’ve never met him. But I heard him speak at a conference, once, and he certainly didn’t have a beard, then.”

    “That’s good,” she said with a sigh. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could take a French Dr Freud.”

    “I see... Rose,” he said, leaning forward earnestly: “if it ever gets too much for you—well, I know you have your sister here, but if ever you would just like a—a friend to talk to, you know, could you remember that I’m here? Not as a doctor, just as—as a sympathetic ear?” he ended hoarsely.

    “Thanks. That’s very nice of you,” she said politely.

    Georges Vaks swallowed a sigh. He couldn’t tell if she meant it, or was just being polite. “Good. Well Fergie’s very well, and I’m sure Sidonie is looking after her splendidly!” he said, smiling at the little girl.

    “Nounours aime Sidonie,” she piped. “Elle est sa copine, tu sais!”

    Rose gulped. “Her French is coming along in leaps and bounds.”

    “So I see! Well, children always love Sidonie,” he said, smiling. “But I am vairy glad, Fergie,” he said carefully in English, “to know that Nounours loves Sidonie.”

    “’Es.”

    “Yes,” agreed Rose, getting up and holding out her hand. “Well, thanks very much, Georges.”

    “Not at all—it was my pleasure.” He got up and shook hands with Rose, Nounours, and Fergie.

    “He’s nice, isn’t he?” said Rose to her offspring in English as they left.

    “Ouais. Il est sympa,” she agreed tersely.

    Even though she was glad Fergie’s French was coming along in leaps and bounds, Rose’s knees went a bit saggy at that one. She led Fergie off to the nearest bar and while she recruited her forces with un chocolat au lait allowed Fergie to have “un cake”. A small slice of very uninteresting English-style fruit cake, but at the moment she was past explaining this anomaly to her bilingual offspring.

    After showing the pair of them out of the surgery Georges Vaks didn’t immediately call for his next patient. He went over to the window and watched them retreat down the street: one tall blonde figure in the blue anorak which Estelle had washed after its long flight from Australia, and smart fawn velvet trousers tucked into long blue boots, and one short Poil de Carotte in a pale green anorak over a very French black stretch overall with a white bunny on its pocket. He sighed. Why the Hell hadn’t he been able to work up the courage to ask her if she was still seeing that shit of a Guy de Bellecourt? Not to say the guts to warn her off the bastard, if she was still seeing him.

    “Merde,” he muttered, feeling in his jacket pocket for the pipe that wasn’t there because he’d consigned it to the bottom desk drawer. “Lâche,” he added bitterly to himself.

    Rose, of course, wouldn’t have taken any notice of Dr Vaks if he had cautioned her again against her “mysterious stranger”. And she’d certainly have been confirmed in her earlier impression of the doctor as an old fuddy-duddy, and might have thought twice about taking Fergie to him again, so perhaps it was as well that he hadn’t spoken.

    Roma, Gilles and Linnet duly came back from Paris, Roma very full of the new flat and the furniture they might spare for it from the château and the few pieces they’d kept from the Paris house, Linnet placidly content to agree with everything her future mother-in-law suggested, and Gilles very apparently in a state of dazed happiness. Even though they hadn’t managed to do it, yet, as Linnet confirmed to her sister.

    Roma’s birthday came and went, and Rose duly went on seeing Guy. On their first encounter Guy found himself a bit over-eager and was terrified he’d make a fool of himself but Rose, not having had it for so long and having had the drive into Tôq in which to work herself up into a lather of anticipation, was even more over-eager than he was, and came with a shriek the minute he put it into her. She admitted a bit later, giggling, that she wasn’t always that quick and Guy admitted, with a relieved laugh, that nor was he, but it had been extra, tu trouves pas? Rose agreed she had found it extra and after a rest and a couple of drinks in bed they did it again, rather more elaborately. It was equally enjoyable, if different, the second time.

    When Rose had to go he actually got dressed and took her downstairs and put her into her car. Before she got in pressing himself to her tightly and kissing her passionately. Rose giggled and said there it was again! Guy groaned a little and said couldn’t she possibly—? But Rose said she couldn’t, she had to get back, or they’d be wondering where she was, and drove off, smiling and waving.

    Guy ran back inside, whistling, and told the receptionist that he would take the room for another two weeks, definitely. And perhaps another week after that, he’d let them know.

    Rose did go up to Paris and see the psychiatrist, who wasn’t in the least like Dr Freud, with or without a beard, but a pleasant, plumpish man of around fifty-five with a friendly twinkle in his eyes and a casual manner. They talked about her depression and a little about Kyle in a very non-clinical way and Rose did feel rather better for the visit and decided she’d go on seeing him. She didn’t mention the affaire with Guy to the psychiatrist: she didn’t feel it was relevant.

    For the time being Guy didn’t mention the affaire, either. He had more or less forgotten that he’d started it with malice aforethought, but he was enjoying the secrecy and the excitement of the clandestine meetings. But he was burning to tell someone and, without really consciously thinking about it, decided he might tell Jean-Paul if there was a propitious moment.

    January had turned into February, the weather was freezing with more snow and many hard frosts in the country; in Paris a bitter wind whipped the streets. Gilles’s engagement party was almost upon them; Guy thought he might go. Well, poor old “Pop” expected it. He didn’t quite admit to himself that the main reason he suddenly wanted to go was that it would be a further opportunity for seeing Rose.

    Rose was looking forward to the party with simple pleasure. A lot of Roma’s relations were coming, there’d be dancing, it would be a chance to wear a pretty dress—and she was fairly sure Guy would turn up for it: he hadn’t said definitely he would, but he’d said he might. It would be fun to dance with her “mysterious stranger” right under everybody’s noses, with no-one but themselves knowing what was going on between them!

Next chapter:

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