November 2016
“Look at this.” Emma’s voice falters as she comes into the bedroom, mobile in one hand, a mug of tea in the other.
She hands me the drink. Still groggy from my injury, I spill some on the duvet, but Emma doesn’t notice. Her hair is damp as if she’s run through a rain shower. She insisted I stay in bed while she took Mollie to school but I’m expecting her to reopen last night’s conversation about my neck injury and urge me to go to hospital to have the wound checked.
I wriggle into a sitting position and she hands me her phone. “Screensaver’s come up.”
“Oh.” She takes the phone back, sits down heavily on the bed and enters her passcode.
“What am I looking at?”
She taps the Message icon with her thumb. “This text I’ve just received.”
My conscience is leaden after yesterday’s chaos—it can only be from Genevieve. My heart thuds but I force my eyes to focus as I read. The text is three words long.
British go home.
I look at her, bemused. “Is that it?”
She’s shivering so hard I can see the tremor running along her arm to her fingers.
“Who would send a message like that?”
Slowly, I shake my head and check the phone’s settings. “Unknown number. Not someone in your Contacts.”
She pushes herself up from the bed to a standing position and glares down at me as if I’m to blame.
“Did you get one?”
“Haven’t checked.”
I switch my mobile off at night to muffle the incessant vibration when Genevieve’s messages flood my inbox. I constantly fret Emma will intercept one of her texts.
I gather my wayward thoughts. Could it be from some sad local reacting to the continuing publicity around the UK’s vote to leave the EU?
Emma hasn’t been back to England since the Referendum. She rarely watches British TV and only reads French newspapers—it’s part of her strategy to immerse herself in life in France. She won’t know about the surge in racist incidents, trolling and abusive messages in the UK after the Leave vote.
Now isn’t the time for rambling explanations, or to upset her, so I say, “Just delete it and forget about it.”
She shrugs. “I suppose you’re right.”
She takes the phone back from me and presses delete but I can tell she’s still upset.
I swing my legs out of bed but they feel unsteady as I make my way to the bathroom. Emma’s face is etched with worry.
“We need to get you to hospital.”
“No. Really. I’m much better today.”
As I say this, pain needles my skull. I wonder if this is what a migraine feels like and wish I’d been more sympathetic to Emma when she was suffering.
“Stay home and rest.”
“I should press on with laying the floors.”
She clucks her tongue as if I were a recalcitrant child.
“Absolutely not. I insist. And don’t lock the bathroom door. What if you faint?”
I leave the door open while I turn on the shower, but my limbs feel too heavy to step over the side of the bath. I splash cold water on my face and glance back into the bedroom, where Emma is combing tangles out of her damp hair. In the mirror I see my reflection as it must appear to her—with the swollen purple neck of a vampire’s victim. I forget about showering and turn up the collar of my bathrobe.
Coffee revives me—and the prospect of the cigarette I’ll smoke as soon as Emma has left for the bar. I wait on the front doorstep as she un-padlocks her bike and rams her helmet on top of her hair, still frizzy from its earlier soaking. The rain has eased but the road is slick and greasy with soggy brown leaves clogging the gutters.
“Take the car,” I call, digging in my pocket for the keys.
She lifts her arm and waves. “It’s okay. I’m used to cycling.” Her backpack drags on her slight frame and she wobbles as she sets off.
“Be careful, it’s slippery,” I call after her.
I watch until she rounds the corner and disappears from view.
Retreating to the warm fug of the kitchen, I light my cigarette, something I never do indoors when Emma and Mollie are at home. A half-cup of coffee remains in the cafetière. I pour it out and stir in a spoonful of sugar. I don’t take sugar but whatever Genevieve gave me yesterday has wiped my brain. Perhaps nicotine and sugar will fill the vacant space. My neck throbs. I swallow a couple more paracetamol and do some serious thinking.
The dalliance with Genevieve has gone too far. I must end it and face the consequences. Can I risk telling Emma my version of the truth and beg her forgiveness? Perhaps, if I play up the blackmail angle—link my conduct to the stress of Dorek’s accident, when I wasn’t myself.
One thing in my favour is Genevieve’s behaviour—turning up in France, cosying up to my family, stalking me—does that sound like the action of a sane person?
Groggy with exhaustion, I turn on the TV and find a UK channel. I fall asleep in front of rolling UK news. When I wake up it’s past lunchtime and I ring Emma at the bar.
“I’ll collect Mollie this afternoon,” I say.
In the background, I hear the rise and fall of customers’ chat, the clink of glasses. She’s abrupt with me.
“No, I’ll fetch her. You need to lie low for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
She pauses. “I don’t think people will want to see your neck injury. It’s grotesque!”
I groan and tramp upstairs to peer into the bathroom mirror, shining a spotlight on my neck. Genevieve’s teeth marks are faint—but only visible if you know what to look for. The sick feeling stays in my stomach as I take a scarf from the wardrobe and knot it round my neck.
The next morning, I wake early and tune in to Emma’s soft breathing. When her alarm unleashes a cacophony of noise, she reaches out to cancel it and turns to me with a smile, stroking the bruise on my neck.
“No,” I lie. “Stay there, I’ll make tea.”
I clatter downstairs and as the kettle comes to the boil, Emma calls my name, her voice sharp and crackling with urgency.
“What is it? Is Mollie okay?” I call, running back up the stairs.
The rosy tint of sleep has drained from her cheeks. “Look.”
She tosses her phone towards me. It lands harmlessly on the bedcover and I scoop it up before the screensaver kicks in. Today’s text reads:
Trouble comes of your family.
I repeat the words aloud but reading them doesn’t dignify them with meaning.
“There’s another one.”
She crawls across the duvet towards me, threads her arm through mine and presses her body against my side.
Brit leave EU. Now you leave France.
She sniffs and rubs the back of her hand under her nose but tears slide, unchecked, down her cheeks. I put my arm around her, nuzzle her neck and whisper soothing words. Her eyes flash angrily.
“We can’t ignore it. It’s harassment! We have to tell the police.”
“I suppose we could report it,” I say slowly. “But I doubt they’d take it seriously.”
At the back of my mind nags a crazy idea that Genevieve is behind these hate texts. It’s not her style, but the way she’s behaving anything is possible. Emma gives me a frosty look.
I rationalise. “The police have their hands full—what with terrorist attacks—”
“Are you saying hate mail’s not important?”
“Well, in the scheme of things. . . look.” I take Emma’s phone from her and show her how to block the caller, even though the number is showing up as unknown. “There. They won’t bother you again.”
She sucks on her lower lip and asks, “Can you work with me in the bar today? I think Henri’s coming in later, but I can’t face customers—what if it’s one of them sending these horrible messages?”
“Of course. And I promise I’ll wear a scarf. All day.”
“Idiot.”
She kisses me and when she goes to wake Mollie, she’s still smiling.
When we arrive, Emma hides away in the kitchen but I’m more than happy to man the bar. Polishing glasses has a soothing rhythm as I set up for the lunchtime rush. Compared to laying floorboards and rushing into Limoges, bar work is therapy.
“We won’t need your help today,” I tell Henri when he arrives.
I stroll to the sink and fill the jug of water to go with Claude’s Ricard. He nods and hovers as if mulling over his next move, but he doesn’t order a drink. I continue my chat with Claude and don’t open a gap for Henri to enter our conversation. As the bar fills up, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, deals with a few messages, then turns to leave.
“Call me when you need me.”
He’s halfway to the door when Emma sprints out of the kitchen, wisps of hair escaping from her bun.
“Henri. Wait!”
He turns and his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Together they stroll outside and my heart bumps in my chest. Is she planning to confide in him about the texts?
Customers are queuing and soon I’m occupied with pouring beers and measuring rosé into 250 centilitre carafes, included in the menu du jour. With Lilianne tending meat on the grill, it falls to me to take lunch orders.
I call to Lilianne and she hurries through to collect the chits, drawing the back of her hand across her shiny forehead.
If I crane my neck I can see through the window to where Emma and Henri are sitting at a smoker’s table. He’s leaning towards her, elbows on the table, while she’s gesticulating with raised palms. She has her back to me so I can’t read her expression but their body language underlines how relaxed they are together. Henri lights a cigarette, turning his head to blow the smoke away from Emma. When she stands up, Henri hands something to her—presumably her phone. She slips it into her apron pocket.
Emma comes back inside, heading straight for the kitchen. Can’t she see I’m run off my feet? I nod towards a table of new arrivals. “Orders?”
She hesitates, pleating her apron into folds with her fingers, then reluctantly picks up a spare order pad. I overhear them asking for the rosé so I measure out a carafe.
“Did you tell Henri about the texts?” I ask when she comes to collect it from me.
She nods. “He thought it could be youths.”
“Youths?” I echo. It doesn’t sound likely to me.
“Henri told me a couple of holiday houses owned by Brits were broken into last week. Apparently, they pick an English-sounding name from the phone book and ring the numbers over a couple of weeks to check if the house is empty.”
“I hadn’t heard that.” How would I? I miss out on all the bar gossip. I’m either working on my own up at Les Quatre Vents or in Limoges at Genevieve’s.
“One of the houses they trashed was that gîte we rented last summer. Imagine!”
“I see.”
Henri’s done me a favour—calming Emma by planting the idea she’s not being personally targeted. Even if Genevieve did pull a trick like that, what would she achieve? She must know if she unsettles Emma and drives her away from France, I’d go with her.