So what if the Hotel de Ville was haunted? It was pleasant enough sitting outside on the wall with the crumbling majesty of the grey facade behind me, dangling my legs, watching the heavy lorries pass, and the bold little Deux Chevaux; as the hot day relaxed into its pleasant evening, and the sky tinged from a red haze to orange streaks and then dimmed into misty boredom, and the yellow French headlights came on, and I could only tell from the thunder and rumble what was a lorry and what was not.
I kicked my heels against the wall and considered the nature of possession, and whether it was my own eyes, or a demon’s, which regarded the world. Would I, to any passing observer, have the kind of cunning, sideways look I saw on my mother’s face, from time to time, and on Robin’s? Or my father’s cold eyes? I assumed he had cold eyes. Nazis always do. Though how exactly a cold eye is defined I can’t be sure. How is it recognised? My mother’s eyes were brown and people described them as warm and kind, but to me, when not animated by their demons, they looked simply blank. I once saw an optician bring down a tray of glass eyes of all possible shapes and sizes and colours from a top shelf. He blew the dust off them, and there they were, blues, greens, browns and in between: some red veined, some rheumy, some young and clear; eyes for all possible matches. He sold them to an antique dealer who said they were in demand for ear-rings. And I tell you, the expression, the mood, the warmth, the chilliness, was there in these eyes, just waiting to be brought to life. They were invested by sleeping demons. I wouldn’t have worn them to parties, not on your nelly, not ever.
The Citronella Jumpers returned. I could tell them from afar. Their headlights were white, in the English style: a source of annoyance to French drivers. The van was painted acid yellow, but the street lights switched the colour to green. It pulled up behind me. Jack embraced me. Everyone was in fine good humour. A good night’s playing, a receptive audience.
‘I met this feller,’ Frances confided in me. ‘His name’s Jock. He’s one of the Scots Guards. He’s the one who heel-and-toes it round the swords when they cross them on the ground.’
I did not regret not going. I did regret my phone calls to Alison and Jude. Cowardice. Hand in hand with Jack I went into the Hôtel de Ville, and his love, or at any rate, lust folded itself round me like a protective cloak.
Jennifer had contrived sausage, bread, carrot salad and bottles of wine. We sat round the table and ate and if the telephone rang I couldn’t hear it, nor if somewhere Anne wept, and the babies stirred in Clare’s womb, and the fax machines chattered in Jude’s office with their messages from distant Time Zones: ‘Where is she? Where is she?’