The Critic

V

Enzo had sobered up a good deal by the time they got back to the gite, forty minutes in the passenger seat of Bertrand’s van, the window down, cold air blowing in his face, the best part of a litre of mineral water poured down his throat.

He could feel the swelling at the back of his head where it had cracked off the cobbles, and his elbow was distended and stiff where it had broken his fall. He had no idea, now, whether he’d had simply imagined everything on the hilltop at Cordes, or whether in fact there had been someone there. But it left him feeling unsettled and vulnerable again. For there was no doubt that someone had tried, and failed, to kill him on his first night here. Why wouldn’t they try again?

Bertrand drove past the line of parked cars opposite the chai and pulled his van up at the foot of the steps. Enzo climbed stiffly down on to the gravel and shrugged aside offers of help from Sophie. ‘I’m fine,’ he said tetchily, and climbed up to the terrasse to unlock the door.

The room was filled with the glow from his computer screen, and he crossed to the table to switch on the desk lamp and drop into the seat in front of it. He got rid of his screensaver and saw that there was an e-mail waiting for him. He opened up his mailer. It was from Al MacConchie in California.

Hey, Magpie…

It was a long time since anyone had called him that. It was the nickname schoolfriends had given him when, as a teenager, his Waardenburg syndrome had manifested itself in a silver stripe running back through dark hair from his temple.

Bring your samples. I’ll see what I can do. Let me know what flight you’re on and I’ll pick you up at the airport.

‘We’re going to bed, Papa.’ He looked up as Sophie and Bertrand climbed the stairs to the mezzanine. ‘You should, too.’

‘I’ve got to book a flight.’

‘Where to?’

‘California.’

She stopped mid-step, and Bertrand nearly bumped into the back of her. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain tomorrow.’

He waited until the light went out upstairs and he thought they might be sleeping before he got up to pour himself a small whisky sprinkled with a dash of water.

‘You’re not having a drink, are you?’ Sophie’s voice came out of the dark like a reproach from the gods.

‘Sophie!’ He tried to imbue her name with all the gravitas of an adult chiding a child. If he was going to make this booking tonight, he needed something to keep him awake. He heard her sighing.

It took him nearly half an hour of internet searches, and a dozen small sips of whisky, before he found a flight that wouldn’t bankrupt him. Paris to San Francisco with Air France in four days’ time. Non-stop. Eleven hours and forty minutes. He groaned at the prospect. Then he remembered Charlotte’s suggestion that he stay over with her the night before flying out, and his stomach flipped over.

He sent an e-mail back to MacConchie with his flight details and put the computer to sleep. His head was throbbing and his eyes felt full of grit. He turned off the light, and waited for his pupils to dilate before standing up and making his way to the door. The moon was still dispensing its light across the lawn and through the glass. He opened the door and stepped out on to the terrasse to breath in fresh air. The night was filled with the sound of warm wind in the trees. He could see the dark shape of them swaying against the sky.

A movement distracted him and drew his eyes towards the line of parked cars beyond the pigeonnier. And with a shock, he realised there was someone sitting in one of them, a flash of white face caught in the moonlight. Alarm bells began ringing in his head and he was about to call for Bertrand when the car door opened, and by its courtesy light he saw that it was Michelle. She stepped out of the car and stood looking across the grass towards him.

He closed the door of the gite and went down the stairs. They met beneath the pigeonnier, the child’s swing turning in the wind. Her hair blew about her head, and she swept it back out of her face. She seemed very pale.

‘How long have you been sitting there?’ He searched her face for some clue as to what might be in her head, but there was an opaque quality in it, an evasive cloudiness in her green eyes.

‘Most of the evening.’

‘Why?’

‘I was waiting for you.’ She glanced towards the gite. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’

‘She’s gone back to Paris. I thought you were leaving.’

‘So did I.’ She scuffed the gravel with the toe of her shoe. ‘Then I got to thinking. About that kiss. Up at Chateau de Salettes. And about whether I really wanted to go or not.’ She looked up from her feet, into his eyes, and reached up to touch his face.

He shook his head. ‘I’m old enough to be your father.’

‘My father’s dead.’ Her voice was flat, emotionless. ‘I’m not looking for another one.’

She pushed herself up on tip-toes towards him and her nose crinkled in a smile.

‘I smell whisky.’