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CHAPTER 22
Tom had no idea what it was like to be married. His father died when he was a kid, so he never really saw his parents together. He had an image in his head, though, which was all about sharing – doing stuff together. If that was accurate, Agnès and he had turned into a proper Darby and Joan. They did everything together: shopping, eating, and sleeping. They hadn’t spoken directly about him moving in; they’d each assumed it was what the other wanted. She’d even had a separate key cut, so he could come and go as he pleased.
He was desperate to know what happened after he left the print studio. It turned out that she’d spent the whole night there, working on designs for various posters. In the morning, she presented them to the collective, which then convened a meeting, and decided “collectively” that her designs were insufficiently engagés, her politics insufficiently radical; she was therefore of no further use to the collective. Apparently, she’d repeated Tom’s tirade word for word. He was only sad he hadn’t seen the look on George’s face when she told him he was an idiot and his revolution a waste of time.
A couple of days after he settled in, Agnès got up early to practise the piano. He took the opportunity to head into town in search of materials for the portrait. At the art suppliers on avenue Pasteur, he bought an easel, a box of oil paints, linseed oil, turps, brushes of various sizes, a palette and a large, primed canvas already pinned to a stretcher.
He couldn’t wait to get started. They’d already discussed the pose. It was going to concentrate on her head and shoulders. In a book of Renoir paintings, they found a portrait they both liked: La Chevelure. A young woman in the act of braiding her hair. He suggested they use the same pose to show off her fantastic curls. They chose the outfit she’d sit in – a simple scoop neck blouse in indigo. The colour was a perfect complement to her skin.
While Agnès made coffee, he mixed up some raw umber and sketched in a rough outline to show her the position he wanted her to adopt. It involved her turning sideways towards the light, with her hair hanging over her left shoulder, hands entwined. Handing him his coffee, she took up the pose. The great thing about having an artist as a model was that she knew precisely what to do. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’ They grinned at each other.
Two days of concentrated work produced the preparatory drawing. He used visual memory to free her up for other activities. She practised the piano – some old favourites, which she used to exercise her fingers, but also some stuff he hadn’t heard before – compositions of her own, piano accompaniments to songs she’d written. Their tempo was different from anything he’d heard her play before. Quieter. More sinuous and sexy. ‘Bossa nova,’ she explained. ‘Brazilian music. Seems to fit my lyrics. More poetic somehow.’
‘Sing them to me.’
‘They’re in Portuguese. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You need to try them out on someone. Why not me?’
She thought for a moment, then replaced her hands on the keyboard.
She was right, he couldn’t follow the meaning, but he knew that what he was hearing was very special. Her voice was low and husky, and there was melancholy in every note.
She came to the end of the song. They heard applause. Down in the street, a small crowd of passers-by had gathered. Showing herself at the window, she gave an ironic bow.
It was late afternoon. Agnès was back in the pose. The sun had already disappeared behind the opposite building. The light was changing fast, so his productive day was almost over. However, he was on a roll; he had nearly completed the underpainting. But he had underestimated how much of the base colour he’d need and was about to run out. Such mean little tubes of paint. He’d always used Schmincke Mussini and was superstitious about changing. Also, he liked the fact that they were mixed traditionally. Most of all, he loved the name – he took pleasure in saying it out loud. Putting down his palette and brushes, he announced, ‘Just popping out to the shops.’
She relaxed out of the pose. ‘Why?’
‘Run out of paint. Won’t be long.’
Who should be standing on the doorstep, about to ring on the bell, but Patrick. In a dinner suit, starched white shirt and black bowtie.
Taken aback, Tom asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’re supposed to be at Madou’s in half an hour.’
Tom’s belly did a back flip. He’d completely ignored the fact that it was the day of Madou’s big reception.
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’ Registering Tom’s paint-spattered jeans and t-shirt, he added, ‘Is that how you’re going?’
‘I need to shower. Is there time?’
‘We’ll just have to be late.’
Tom rushed up the stairs and straight into the bathroom. After a quick rinse, he towelled himself dry. When he ran back into the room, Patrick was standing by the door. Behind him, Agnès was going through her clothes rail.
‘Agnès is coming, too,’ Patrick announced.
‘What?’
This was Tom’s worst nightmare. The issue he thought dead and buried was very much alive. He couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than gate-crashing Madou’s party with Agnès. What would he say when he made the introductions? Madou, this is Agnès, light of my life and source of my joy… Agnès, this is Madou, whom I would have shagged but for a sexual malfunction. The prospect was too awful to contemplate; he felt like he was running headlong off a cliff.
‘Don’t worry,’ Patrick said airily. ‘Agnès will be my partner for the evening. I’ll wait for you in the car.’
Patrick had decided, and Tom had no say in the matter. From that moment on, it was a case of damage limitation.
What to wear? A straight choice between jeans and the suit Madou bought him. If he didn’t wear the suit, he’d be forced to explain why. He took the line of least resistance. Agnès watched him dressing without saying a word. She chose a dark green shift that showed off her figure to perfection, then sat on the bed to hook the straps of her sandals over her heels. ‘How do I look?’ She stood and twirled around.
‘Exquisite.’
‘Exquisite? You’re exaggerating.’
‘Absolutely not.’
Checking the hem of her dress, she asked nonchalantly, ‘Tell me again who this Madeleine De Clairefontaine is?’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Old friend of Patrick’s family; she’s immensely wealthy.’
As the Alfa pulled up outside Madou’s house, people turned to stare – maybe it was the incongruity of Tom perched on the luggage rack or the fact that he was the only guest not wearing a dinner jacket. A large crowd filed through the door. Of all ages, but an obvious common factor linked them – they were all filthy rich, old money and new, businessmen and politicians.
The house looked magical, lit with candlelit wall sconces. Security men flanked the entrance, checking invitations. Tom flashed his and was waved through.
Outside the grand salon on the first floor, a solitary woman stood beside the door. She was familiar, but Tom had to rack his brains to place her. Then he remembered: she was the old biddy leaving no. 9 rue Rifle Rafle when he first knocked on the door. Clutching a tumbler of whisky, she looked like she’d had a few already; her eyes were unfocused and blurry. However, they lit up when she saw Patrick. She stepped forward, arms outstretched. Patrick swept past her as though she didn’t exist. She swayed, on the point of losing her balance, then emptied the contents of her glass down her throat.
Through the crowd, Tom saw Madou chatting to her guests, Coco in her arms. His palms were already clammy with nerves.
The grand piano had been moved to the middle of the room. A youth of uncertain gender was playing and singing a medley of Cole Porter and Irving Berlin songs. He attracted no attention whatsoever because the level of conversation was so high. They threaded their way through the groups of guests, all bellowing at each other. Waiters patrolled the room carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
As they approached, Coco greeted Tom with teeth bared. Madou gave Patrick an air kiss, flashed Tom a dazzling smile and, in a single look, gave Agnès the once-over. Tom would remember the moment as one of the worst of his life, but for the time being, there were no consequences.
Patrick did the introductions: ‘Agnès Toussaint, Madeleine de Clairefontaine.’
‘Welcome.’ Madou beckoned Marius to receive their drinks order.
‘Agnès is a pianist,’ Patrick continued. ‘One of the most gifted you’ll ever hear. She should play tonight.’
Tom flashed a look at Agnès. It was clear she’d been thrown onto the back foot. What was going on? Why hadn’t Patrick mentioned this before?
Madou’s lips twitched in a smile. ‘From your expression, this is the first you’ve heard of it.’
Recovering, Agnès said, ‘I’ll play if you want me to.’
‘That would be lovely. When the pianist takes a break, perhaps?’
Patrick steered Agnès towards the piano. She looked at Tom, helpless. What could she do?
‘He’s incorrigible,’ Madou said. ‘Always some scheme or another, and always involving a pretty girl. This is a new one. I wonder where he found her.’
‘No idea,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve only just met her.’ He wished the ground would open and swallow him up. It had been only a week since he’d been up close and personal with his host. But for his deficiency in the trouser department, it would have been even closer and even more personal.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you,’ she said. ‘And you’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?’ She pulled him closer, filling his nostrils with expensive perfume. What could he say? ‘We must be friends, Tom. We have a lot in common, you know. And there’s so much to show you. Not just Aix, but the whole area around. So many interesting places to visit.’
They were nose to nose, with her looking deep into his eyes. He stepped back – to prevent Agnès getting the wrong idea – but he needn’t have worried. She was already at the piano, hammering out Zulu’s Ball. Conversation in the room stopped, then people began to tap their feet and clap their hands in time with the music. One couple, young at heart, started jiving, the man twirling his partner round and round. Guests from elsewhere in the house wandered in, attracted by the music; before long, the room was overflowing.
Patrick’s old biddy sidled up, empty glass in her hand. He cold-shouldered her again, pointedly turning his back.
As Agnès’s vamping left hand rolled away into silence, the room erupted into lengthy applause. To be replaced with a female voice slurring: ‘Patrick…’
The crowd parted to reveal Patrick’s rejected lover. Swaying before him, she said, ‘Pretend you don’t know me all you like, but don’t deny you recognise this.’ She lifted her skirts high into the air. Tom could only guess what people behind her saw, but he had the same view as Patrick – a full-frontal thicket of black pubic hair. Shocked gasps, then an explosion of laughter. One kind gent took off his jacket, draped it around her waist, and led her away. Stepping back, Patrick disappeared through a far door.
Madou shook her head, ‘That’ll clip his wings.’
‘You think?’ Tom could tell she didn’t believe it either.
The room resumed its previous level of conversation. Resting her hand on his arm, Madou said, ‘Living by myself means I must find a companion for social events. If I want to go anywhere – a concert, or the theatre – I must always find a partner…’
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Agnès heading to the same door as Patrick.
‘…People are so suspicious of a woman on her own. Patrick’s generous with his time, but as you can see, he leads a complicated life. I can’t always rely on him.’ Leaning in, she whispered, ‘Would you be my occasional companion?’
He swallowed. ‘Well… I… why not?’
‘Really? I can count on you?’
Boxed in like that, what else could he say? ‘Please don’t think me rude, but I need the bathroom.’
‘Of course. There’s one at the end of the corridor. I’ll be here when you get back. Don’t be long.’
He followed the direction Agnès had taken, pushing past a group of guests gathered around the spurned old biddy, now sobbing with drunken self-pity.
Hurrying, Tom turned a corner and stopped in his tracks. At the far end of the corridor, Patrick and Agnès were huddled in a whispered conversation. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the intimacy of their body language made his blood run cold.
Agnès noticed him first. ‘What are you doing here?’
Why behave so defensively? he thought. ‘I might ask the same of you.’
Patrick answered, ‘Her performance was sensational, didn’t you think?’
Tom’s reply was terse, ‘Yes, spoiled by the interruption.’
‘Sorry about that. Appalling bad manners, washing my dirty linen in public. What must you think of me, Agnès? I can smooth things over with Madou, but how can I make it up to you?’
‘Why should you?’ she said.
‘I’ve an idea… maybe you could join me at Les Châtaigniers? I promised my father I’d go up this weekend to sort out a problem with the bottling plant. Please join me if you’re free. Both of you. Tom knows how beautiful it is.’
Tom immediately thought of the copulating couple at the Scheherazade party. Patrick wouldn’t be as obvious as to try it on with his girlfriend, surely?
‘You can be completely on your own,’ Patrick said. ‘You don’t have to stay in the house. There’s a little cabanon my father uses to receive his guests. It’s very quiet. On its own, right next to a pond. Lovely, clear water to swim in. What do you say?’
Agnès answered for them, ‘It sounds idyllic. How could we refuse? Of course, we’ll come.’
Patrick had done it again, put Tom in an impossible position. Was it some fiendish game he was playing?