Mme Durebex was not happy the next day. From the staircase she screamed at Honorée for bringing in wet wood. Honorée stood in the foyer, nodding serenely. I watched, hidden in my doorway. Honorées serenity fascinated and appalled me. I wanted to go upstairs but was incapable of moving through this scene. Mme Durebex came down a few more steps and saw me. Battle weary, I shrivelled from the heat of her glance. Honorée continued vacuuming and Mme Durebex walked up to me, her hand over her mouth, muttering something I didn’t understand. There was laughter in her eyes – she seemed to have a joke to tell me. I asked her to repeat it.
– Honorée must never wash, she whispered. Don’t you think she smells?
– What? I said again, this time in surprise.
Repeating it for the third time, Mme Durebex began to look a little guilty.
– I’m sorry, I said, going back into my room. I just don’t understand what you’re saying.
Honorée smelt of maize – a sweet hot smell that made me long for Paris and the African quartier at the bottom of my hill.
Mme Durebex smelt of camembert, coffee and the usual halitosis – fetid smells that increased my claustrophobia.
I stayed in my room with my books. An hour or two later Laurent swished by my window, and I went to meet him at the front door. He looked like one of Matthew’s sculptures, innocent and aggressive, standing there with his skis and stocks poking in all directions.
Mme Durebex could be heard from down in the foyer, and by the time I took Laurent into the kitchen for his lunch she was in full swing. Françoise sat opposite her, expressionless.
– Look at the lunch we’ve prepared! Mme Durebex exclaimed. And Claudine just announces they’re having lunch on the slopes. If no one was here, I wouldn’t give a shit, I’d eat lunch on the slopes with my son too. But I have no staff, and now there’s Victor sick in bed the last two days!
Laurent poured salt all over his fish and demanded another serving. Then he demanded another plate for his rice. His mother waited on him, raving to Françoise.
– I’m sick of Claudine, smoking all through the chalet, and she—
– Maman! I haven’t got enough! Maman!
Mme Durebex piled food on his plate.
– You’ll be the death of me, Laurent, she said. You eat too much, far too much.
Françoise kissed him all over his face.
– Il ne pense qu’à la bouffe, ce gosse.
I got to use Mme Durebex’ ski ticket that afternoon. She was going out to dinner and needed to have her hair done. She stressed the importance of a proper meal for Laurent that night, and I promised I would be back in time to make a vegetable soup. Mme Durebex had taught me how to make a soup from leeks, carrots, celery, potato and parsnip. With just the right amount of each vegetable, it tasted so good you didn’t even need to add salt.
But Laurent and Françoise didn’t want vegetable soup. I sat with them at the kitchen table, picking at leftovers.
– Not even a salad? I said.
– Noooon!
– Shoosh, my little fish, Shona’s only being kind.
Mme Durebex swept into the kitchen reeking of Chanel, a tall cocktail glass in one hand. Her black velvet dress had a large teardrop cut out over the cleavage. She looked at the food: a smoked trout poking from its greasy wrapper, cold green beans in a pool of hardened butter, cheese crusts and turkey bones scattered across the table. Mme Durebex put her glass on the table. The ruby flicked like a hazard light as she wagged her finger at me.
– I’m not happy, Shona. You told me you were making a vegetable soup, and look at what he’s eating. If I’d known what you were eating I’d have made it myself, it would have only taken me five minutes.
– I was going to make it, but—
– Que des choses dégueulasses! It’s impossible – you have to force this boy to eat, don’t you see that, Shona?
Laurent sat up, wide eyed.
– I want vegetable soup!
– You do? said his mother.
– OUI!
– Mais non! He told me he didn’t want any. No one wanted any vegetable soup, so I didn’t make it.
– MAIS SI! Laurent bellowed.
– Tu vois? I hissed at Françoise when Mme Durebex left the room. You see how he lies? I won’t stand for it!
She ignored me and took Laurent to watch television while I made the soup. As I blended it, I imagined sticking someone’s hand in there. There were too many hands – I couldn’t decide which to stick in. I went to the top of the stairs and called them when it was ready, entertaining myself with fantasies of pouring it down through the foyer when they emerged from the study.
– Do you want some butter in it, mon petit poisson? Françoise cuddled him. Do you want some milk in it to cool it down?
– Oh, stop fussing over him, Françoise, I snapped.
– You’re not the one supposed to give orders! Laurent screeched at me.
He got up and began to waltz around the room, opening cupboards, singing.
– I want a strainer, I want a strainer.
Françoise got up and found him one. The worst one in the kitchen, I noticed. They strained the soup, each as clumsy as the other, and I watched a mess form that I would be cleaning up in an hour. Laurent flicked vegetable matter from his fingers, incanting.
– I want a strainer, I want a strainer!
I sat there, my foot on my knee, lip curled.
– I want a strainer, I mimicked. I want a strainer!
– Oooh, Françoise rolled her eyes. You’re not going to play kiddies, are you?
I turned back to the table and ate my unstrained soup in silence.
Laurent went down to tell his mother the soup was ready. Alone in the kitchen, I complained to Françoise.
– I’ve had it. He’s getting worse and worse. I wish you wouldn’t indulge him, it just makes it harder for me.
– Oh arrête! she shouted. I’m not his mother. I’m only here to make him happy. I’m not here to fight him!
Laurent tripped into the kitchen, saying his mother wanted a bowl of soup. She wanted to check my cooking again, and I felt deeply offended. I gave him one to take down. It was not such a great recipe. If I’d had the right ingredients I’d have added croutons fried in arsenic.
The bowl was empty when we went down to the study, where they had been drinking cocktails. Bitter triumph. We watched television, Françoise jigging Laurent on her lap, me picking the vegetable fibres from my teeth.
– Ah, the most beautiful little boy in the world, the one I love the most. Do you like skiing? Do you like sport? The snow? Shona’s soup?
– I adore skiing. I adore the snow. But I detest Shona’s soup.
Françoise was drooping but Laurent would not let her go.
– Play with me, Françoise! Play with me!
– No, I’m going to bed. Ask Shona. He glared at me. I glared back.
– Go on, ask your jeune fille. Ask Shona.
Reluctantly, Laurent asked me to play with him. Reluctantly, I said I would. I wanted a reconciliation, but I was so tired I didn’t know if I was up to it.
– Voilà! Françoise beamed. She’s nice, isn’t she, Laurent? See how nice she is?
– Yes, he said submissively. She is nice.
– You see? Françoise beamed at me.
I looked away, mortified. If there was going to be a reconciliation, it was going to be on my terms.
– I’m tired, I said. I’m going to bed too.