In spite of the compliments, the cat struggled, let out a sharp growl, managed to spring out of Ève’s arms onto the floor, and slid, tail erect, along the walls, furious at having wasted her time, getting back as quickly as possible to her lookout post on the window ledge.
Ève placed the tall panels of glass in the right position around her. The little that a woman knows about her appearance, she learns not from mirrors, but from the words of men. Gazing at herself surrounded by mirrors, twisting in order to see her profile or her back, Ève was trying to connect what she saw with what she had heard. Her well-rounded ass . . . her irresistible rump . . . the hollow of her lower back . . . her slender torso . . . her breasts that stayed up without support . . . What she herself most admired didn’t always provoke comment; for instance, she was very fond of her feet, but not a single man seemed to have noticed them, and the most they noted with surprise when she pointed them out was that they were “quite small.” Poor men! They really lacked the vocabulary to describe female beauty.
She went closer to a round enlarging mirror next to the washbasin and gazed at her long lashes, like those of a china doll.
“Better hurry up, girl, you only have an hour.”
She went as fast as she could, although doing things quickly wasn’t in her nature, especially since the time she devoted to getting ready was the time she cherished most of all.
Dressed in a light beige suede pantsuit bought in Saint-Tropez, she jumped in her car and drove to the café in the Galerie de la Reine, where her meeting was due to take place.
Staking out Philippe had brought her the contact details of the famous Fatima, his most recent mistress, the one Rose Bidermann had told her about. She had called her the previous evening, introduced herself as “Sonia, a friend of Philippe Dentremont,” and had suggested they meet in a public place “with peaceful intentions, for your good, my good, and his, I beg you to believe me.”
Ève sat down at the far end of the room, between the old Art Deco posters advertising long forgotten liqueurs and the dessert cart. She kept on her dark glasses, just to accentuate the storybook flavor of the encounter.
Fatima didn’t show any hesitation. As soon as she entered the room, she spotted Ève and came toward her.
Ève cursed inside. Fatima looked great, with ebony hair, ardent eyes, a noble bearing, and a peach-like complexion. Should she be upset or pleased?
“Good morning, Fatima, I’m Sonia.”
“Good morning,” Fatima replied, without any effort to be friendly, and sat opposite her.
“What are you drinking?” Ève asked.
“Fresh lemon juice.”
“Oh, that gives me heartburn.”
Fatima shrugged, as if to say she didn’t care.
Everything’s going well, Ève thought. She thinks I’m stupid.
When the drink came, Fatima dipped her lips in her glass, then looked straight at Ève. “What am I doing here?”
Ève took off her dark glasses and put them down on the table. “I haven’t told Philippe I was seeing you. I wanted to meet you because I know we won’t change him, and this isn’t the first time I’ve had to share him with another woman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, another woman apart from his wife.”
Fatima’s eyes had filled with rage.
“I’ve been Philippe’s mistress for years,” Ève continued with studied nonchalance.
“What about now?”
“Where do you think he goes every other day at about six o’clock? Do you believe him when he says he works or joins his family?”
Fatima couldn’t speak.
“First of all, Philippe hardly ever sees his family—his relationship with Quentin, his eldest son, leaves a lot to be desired—and secondly, Philippe works very little. He’s a shareholder in the company created by his father, the multinational we all know. He lives off his private income, even though he tries to convince the world that he’s still an entrepreneur.”
Ève was enjoying saying all this in a honeyed voice, first of all because it was the truth, then because she liked making fun of Philippe.
Aghast, Fatima stared down at her glass, around which her hands had tensed.
“So basically, don’t worry. If you want to hold onto Philippe, which I quite understand, you have to accept him as he is. But what he is, he won’t reveal to us. I’m here to help you.”
Fatima shuddered. She felt like running away.
Without further ado, Ève went on, “Does he ever talk to you about his wife?”
“No. He told me she was a dull and fat.”
“On the contrary, Odile is stunning and, even though he cheats on her, he’s still crazy about her! The power she has over him is incredible. And what about me? Has he ever mentioned me?”
“Never!”
“Sonia?”
“Never.”
“Or Ève?”
“Who’s Ève?”
“You see what he’s like! Secretive, underhand . . . He can’t help himself! But he’s a good man, a generous man. I’ve had proof of that a hundred times. You just have to see the way he behaves with the children.”
“What children?”
“Our children.”
“Your children?”
“The children we’ve had together.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We have a boy and a girl. Thelma and Louis.”
Immediately, Ève realized how casual she was being about inventing names, but it was obvious that Fatima, who was getting angrier with every passing moment, wouldn’t even pick up on it.
Determined to deal the final blow, she took a photograph from her bag. “Look at my little darlings.”
She held out a snapshot showing her and Philippe with two children aged three and five.
“They look like him, don’t they? He has strong genes, does Philippe, Dentremont genes.”
The blood drained from Fatima’s face. She started cursing in Arabic.
Ève let her lose control then grabbed her arm. “I’m not jealous, Fatima. You can see him, you can have children with him, just doesn’t bother me. If need be, demand that he gives them a sufficient sum of money. It took me years. A real battle. He refused to start with, for fear of putting his legitimate children at a disadvantage. In any case, there’d be no point in my children, or yours, competing for the inheritance because, first of all, it won’t happen for another twenty years, maybe thirty—as long as possible, I hope—and secondly, how many children will there be, demanding their share? If we don’t take precautions now, we’ll have to be content with scraps when the time comes. I finally managed to get him to open me a bank account in Switzerland and put money in it.”
Fatima got to her feet. “I’m leaving the son of a bitch!”
“Oh no, Fatima! Don’t do that! He’ll be so sorry to see you go!”
“I’m leaving the son of a bitch, He never told me anything. For the past six months, he’s been saying he’s going to leave his wife.”
Ève looked genuinely upset. “Did he tell you that? No, that’s not good. He’ll never do it.”
“When I think I was planning to come off the pill! What an idiot!”
“Don’t blame yourself, Fatima!”
“Why don’t you just shut up? I’m not like you. I don’t share. Either he’s mine, or he goes. I’m going to have it out with him tonight.”
“Fatima!”
She was already leaving the café, in a hurry to admonish the man who had betrayed her.
Ève sighed and took out her compact; as she opened it, she saw herself in the mirror and winked.
“Poor Fatima, she really doesn’t measure up. Too neurotic.”
When she got home, she sat down with a nice thick novel on the new couch she had been bought b
y Philippe Dentremont. In an excellent move, she asked the cat, who ventured onto her belly, “Do you know this book by Bob, darling?”
The cat miaowed somewhat irritably.
“It’s the kind of beach novel I like. I don’t have the beach, but I have the novel.”
She knew she’d have a quiet evening, because Philippe was seeing Fatima. Even though she was interested in what she was reading, she couldn’t help imagining the scene: Fatima must be a real fury when she lost her temper, Philippe was going to suffer, to receive blows, have things thrown at him, be called names, and he wouldn’t understand a damned thing of what she was talking about—Sonia, the mistress with two children, the others. Ève chuckled with satisfaction. Hurting Philippe gave her joy.
The amorality of her conduct didn’t even occur to her. She was so self-absorbed that she never judged herself. Generally speaking, her conscience knew no guilt because it lived in the moment.
At around eight o’clock, Philippe called. His tone was sullen. “I’ve just left work,” he said quickly. “Can I drop by?”
“Oh, Roudoudou, that makes me so happy!”
When he appeared, wild-eyed, hair disheveled, exhausted by Fatima’s violent attack, he could not have imagined that sweet Ève, lying on her couch, her cat on her belly, a book in her hands, might have the slightest share of responsibility in the disaster he had just endured.
“How wonderful, my Roudoudou, to get an impromptu visit!”
“It was pure chance. I had a meeting that didn’t last as long as expected.”
“Come here and kiss me.”
Preoccupied, he obeyed and lightly brushed her forehead with his lips.
Ève noted this coldness, but was unperturbed. “I love the book I’ve been reading while I was waiting for you.”
“Who’s it by?”
“Bob Bob, the American writer.”
As he picked up the book, Philippe Dentremont reflected that Ève had lousy taste in literature, but he pursued this thought no further because a sheet of yellow paper stuck between two of the pages stopped him dead.
On the letter, someone had written by hand: Just a note to say I love you. Signed: You know who.
He grimaced. Ève was delighted to see that her ploy was producing the desired effect. Philippe could only desire a woman desired by others. The lust of strangers and competition between males constituted the most effective spurs to his appetite.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, that note . . . Is that where it ended up?”
“Ève, what is it?”
“I got it this morning. Flattering, isn’t it?”
“Who’s it from?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Maybe it’s the start of a beautiful romance . . . ”
To silence her, he kissed her on the mouth.
11
To find Oxana: Victor had never before wanted anything as much as he wanted that.
She had left the hotel where she had stored her bags while she was staying with Victor: neither the receptionists nor the porters nor the doormen could tell him where she had gone; they had seen her get in a taxi but hadn’t heard the address she had given the driver, so had no idea if she had gone to the station, the airport, or a new residence.
Stubbornly and systematically, Victor had drawn up a list of hotels in Brussels, phoned the receptionists, and asked to speak to Oxana Kourlova; each time the switchboard operator replied in an assured voice, “One second, monsieur, I’ll put you through,” he had hoped he would reach her; but each time, they came back and told him that unfortunately no one of that name was currently staying in the establishment. Although he explored all categories of accommodation, from five-star hotels to youth hostels, by way of bed-and-breakfasts and furnished apartments, he didn’t find her.
In spite of this failure, he didn’t give up. He went to see his uncle Baptiste and explained the situation.
“Just as I was ready, for the first time in my life, to tell a woman the truth about my condition, she vanishes into thin air.”
“Why did she leave?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you quarrel?”
“No.”
“Did you have a difference of opinion about something?”
“No, none.”
“Did she blame you for anything?”
“Not that I recall.”
“What about you?”
“Me neither.”
“Did you ask her for something she couldn’t give you?”
When his nephew shook his head, Baptiste’s eyes shone wickedly.
Victor, his nerves on edge, was offended. “Anyone would think you found this funny.”
“I have the feeling I understand the situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, we’re going to find this Ukrainian girl of yours. You know Isabelle works in the media? I’m going to suggest she call Oxana’s agent for a photograph.”
“Brilliant! But what if Oxana isn’t in Brussels anymore?”
“Something tells me she’s still here.”
“Baptiste, stop acting as if you’re a clairvoyant.”
“I have experience, Victor.”
“Experience of finding missing models?”
“Especially Ukrainian models.”
“Are you joking?”
“Don’t forget I’m a novelist. So I’ve lived a hundred lives.”
“In your imagination.”
“What difference does that make?”
“You think a novel is reality.”
“No, I think reality is like a novel.”
“Life is dull.”
“Life is much more inventive than any writer. If you want proof of that, just look at this threesome it’s given me at the age of forty.”
“Maybe, but you don’t learn about life through imagination.”
“How else do you learn about it? If you’re informed by your experience, you’ll never know much; but thanks to stories, confidences, daydreams, virtual journeys, you begin to find your way through the maze.”
“I reject your theory.”
“You’re talking only about yourself, Victor. You use your imagination. Apart from the moments when you’re absorbed in reading, your prophecies have merely served to worry you, to fear the worst, to bring on the end of your relationships.”
“All right, I give in. Let’s get back to Oxana.”
Baptiste burst out laughing. “Don’t force yourself. I’ll help you even if you don’t agree with me.”
The very next day, Victor got a call from Baptiste confirming that Oxana was still in Belgium.
“I’m hoping to set up a preliminary interview with a press photographer from the newspaper, and that photographer will be you. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Where?”
“The greenhouses at Laeken.”
Victor had come out with the name without thinking, simply because he’d read that morning that the royal greenhouses, in accordance with a tradition established a century earlier, were opening their doors to the public for three weeks.
“A good idea,” Baptiste concluded, “and above all very credible.”
When, two days later, Victor made his way through that transparent city of glass and iron, he had a strange feeling of familiarity; not that he was at all accustomed to these gigantic palm trees, these giant ferns, these camellias, these azaleas, nor did the mingled scent of cinnamon and lemon geraniums recall anything either.
Taking advantage of the fact that he was ten minutes early, he sat down on a bench, looked up at the graceful dome that protected trees and columns from the sky, and at last realized the source of his impression: the sounds! He was hearing the birds from Place d’Arezzo . .
. Amused, he started searching, but couldn’t see any parrots or parakeets; letting himself be guided by the cries, he followed a path that led to . . . a loudspeaker. When the greenhouses were open to the public, the gardeners played a recorded sound track to enhance the visitors’ experience.
He sat down again.
Oxana appeared, frail but regal, dressed in light linen.
She was looking for a photographer and didn’t notice Victor.
He gazed at her, heart pounding, mouth dry. He had never been so much in love.
“Here I am, Oxana.”
She stumbled, stopped dead, twisted her legs hesitating on the direction to take, flapped her arms, then froze and turned pale. “Please, Victor, go away.”
Without waiting for his reaction, she sped away. In spite of the visitors and the guards, Victor raised his voice. “Don’t go!”
“I have an appointment.”
“I’m your appointment.”
She carried on along the gallery joining two of the greenhouses. He caught up with her and stood in her way. “Oxana, I’m your appointment. It was Baptiste who put the call through to your agent so that we could meet here.”
“That’s not very honest.”
He bowed his head. “I wanted to see you again. And I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew it was me.”
“You were right. I wouldn’t have come.”
“So I was right to be dishonest.”
Oxana was shaking. She kept repeating the words honest, dishonest, then stopped and moaned in discouragement.
Victor pointed to the white wrought-iron chairs, sat down, and gestured to her to join him. Wearily, she obeyed.
He took her hand. She quickly pulled it away, as if his fingers were burning her.
“I love you, Oxana.”
She shivered, then, breathless, deeply moved, said, “And I love you too, Victor.”
“Well, then?”
“Well, what?”
“You love me, and you run away?”
She shook her head, searched for her thoughts, her words, took a deep breath, gave up, and bowed her head. “It’s better if we part soon! In a year, in a month, I wouldn’t have had the courage to leave.”