Nightingale. Marina Kemp

it, Brigitte. I’m sure we can make her stall as successful as last year’s,’ Laure said, smiling. Brigitte laughed.

      ‘You’re awful,’ she said, but she felt relieved.

      ‘Poor girl,’ said Thierry.

      ‘Yes, poor girl,’ said his brother. ‘She looked like she was having a breakdown.’ He laughed, not unkindly.

      ‘I didn’t think Parisian girls swore like that. I should have covered your ears, Rémy. I don’t think you’ve even heard those words before.’

      ‘Shut up,’ Rémy said, grinning.

      ‘It was kind of hot actually. Boss?’ he asked, leaning forward between Rémy and Henri’s seats.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Is the old man really that bad?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean does he make everyone have a nervous breakdown?’

      ‘No,’ Henri said. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

      ‘It’s just, she looked pretty wound up.’

      ‘Be quiet,’ said Rémy, looking at Henri. ‘It’s not funny.’

      ‘Not funny at all, an attractive young woman all on her own, all wound up with no one to vent her frustration onto …’

      Rémy laughed and Thierry continued, encouraged. ‘She must need a shoulder to cry on. Boss, do you have Monsieur Lanvier’s number? I could call to just, you know, check everything’s okay.’

      ‘I said don’t be stupid,’ said Henri, too crossly. Rémy’s smile dropped; Thierry fell silent. Henri sensed their confusion, but he didn’t care. The expression on her face had been one of torment, and Henri was reminded once again of a teenage Thibault, kicking gravel in the driveway at Rossignol, staring out of the gates, eyes glazed with a vision of some other life.

      At home, he walked straight through the kitchen, barely acknowledging Brigitte and Laure as they greeted him. He walked through to his study and closed the door and sat down, staring at the wall. He’d been rude to the women, unreasonable with Thierry and Rémy. But it was intrusive, the boys joking about something even he was not qualified to understand. They didn’t know the Lanviers or the nurse, had no right to comment.

      He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes. He was bored, and frustrated, and the inevitable prospect of masturbation depressed him. He must be the most prolific wanker in the whole of the Languedoc, he thought; literally, the biggest wanker. Handsome Henri, who could have had his pick of all the women, had chosen instead to spend a life of loyal devotion to his right hand. Granted, he cheated occasionally on this life partner, the odd furious fuck coming between them – but deviation only made their relationship stronger, less suffused as it was with sordidness and shame.

      He opened his eyes, turned to see his face reflected in the glass of the painting beside him. He didn’t recognise his expression as his own: the grim half-smile, the tired eyes. He sighed and unfastened his trousers and let himself wank quickly, without enthusiasm. Then he cleaned himself carefully with a tissue, screwed it into a ball and threw it into the bin. Brigitte wouldn’t be best pleased when she emptied the bin out, but she could think what she liked. He’d given up caring.