One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [88]
‘Or shall we get on? We could have one there, if you like?’
‘Sure, let’s do that,’ I agreed, not wanting to be under Monique’s interested gaze, and feeling, surely, like the one in the greatcoat as I lumbered after him, wishing I’d packed some heels.
The car, naturally, was a convertible Italian jobby, and as we purred out of the square very close to the ground, I found myself lifting my thighs off the seat to make them look thinner, something I’d done with Dom in a very similar car, I realized.
‘OK?’ he called above the roar of the engine. ‘Or d’you want the roof up?’ His hand went to a button on the dashboard.
‘You mean to protect my hairdo?’ I yelled, patting my cropped locks ironically.
He laughed and shrugged as if to suggest some girls might and, once again, I glimpsed Céline.
Little did he know, I thought, settling back into the leather, that I had a cupboard full of decent clothes back home and could be as committed to good grooming as the next Parisian lawyer, if I felt like it. The fact that I didn’t have to now was actually very relaxing. Was it always like that in a relationship, I wondered as the wind whipped through my hair. Someone making the effort, whilst the other party relaxed? I had the impression Hal had made an effort to seek me out, and it was not an unpleasant feeling to be in the courted shoes for once. In fact, as we left town and golden stubble fields swept by under a low sun, flickering on and off like a searchlight as it disappeared behind trees, I let my thighs spread defiantly on the seat.
Where are we going, was what I’d been about to say, when instead I caught my breath. We’d abruptly taken a left fork down a road so bumpy I had to hold the seat to steady myself. An old man wobbled on his bike beside us, knees at right angles to the wheels. Hal slowed down.
‘Bonsoir, Claude – ça va?’
‘Ah, oui.’ The old man’s livid face creased like a cheaper cut of beef as he smiled and we inched our way beside him down the potholed lane. ‘Ça va!’
‘Très mal, n’est-ce pas?’ Hal indicated the road.
‘Mais non, c’est charmant!’ Claude roared with laughter; had to pause his bike, in fact, to wheeze heartily. Hal smiled grimly as we bumped on, through fields of beefy white Charolais cattle.
‘I swear to God this is the next thing I do,’ Hal told me. ‘The very next thing. I’ll tarmac it from top to bottom, if needs be, Surrey style, with nouveau iron gates, which of course is what he wants.’ He grimaced as the car hit another rut.
I glanced at him, surprised. ‘This track is yours?’
‘And Claude’s. That’s his farm down there.’ He pointed. ‘But the last thing Claude Labert is worried about is his tractor tyres or his bike so, naturally, it’s down to me.’
‘We’re going to your house?’
‘Is that OK? Everywhere else is still so touristy at the moment and I thought you might prefer it.’
‘Oh, I’d love it!’ I enthused. I really would, actually. Would love to slot the pieces of Hal’s life together, but also knew, implicit in our coming here, was Hal’s wanting to show me. He must be aware I knew that, but it didn’t seem to bother him. I glanced at his profile, calm and impassive at the wheel. Well, after all, he was getting married in a few weeks, that surely gave him the impunity to bring any number of old friends back to his place while Céline was away. Would I mind, I wondered, if I were Céline? Obviously I’d be beside myself if it were Ivan inviting anyone: would stress and neurose about it for weeks, wonder exactly what sort of an old friend it was, as I had done when I saw his hand cover that girl’s on the table in the bar. I shifted in my seat. But perhaps