She felt, as always in this village, that she was being observed, though there was hardly anyone around in this weather. And then she heard a whistle. She looked towards it and saw Suki dressed all in black, standing in the doorway of the grand house on the corner, her shoulders a little hunched in the cold. She was beckoning to Marguerite, who could do nothing but cross the street and join her.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Suki said instead of greeting her. She pushed the door open. ‘Come in, come in.’
Inside, the house was dark. Suki led her through a gloomy hallway to the salon, switching on table lamps and standing lights. There were strings of coloured bulbs across the old mantelpiece.
‘Sit down,’ she said, gesturing towards the sofa. ‘Will you have tea?’
‘I really can’t stay.’
‘Of course you can.’ She walked out of the room, and Marguerite heard her opening and closing cupboards. ‘Do you like Persian tea?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
The salon was a mess. There were heavy, faded curtains in the same mushroom velvet as the sofa and armchairs. Magazines were piled in columns on either side of the fireplace; there were cardboard boxes around the place filled to bursting, with various words scrawled on them: HOME VIDEOS, PHOTOS MISC., JOURNALS. There were at least eight lamps in a bizarre array of styles: ornate silver antiques, brightly coloured ceramics, a plain beige sphere that could have cost five euros from Auchan. The bookshelves were crammed with cheap-looking paperbacks and chaotic rows of figurines.
‘I’m sure you’re thinking, What a mess,’ Suki said as she walked in. Deftly, she kicked magazines off the coffee table to clear a space for the silver tray she was carrying. There was a bowl filled with sugar cubes, a teapot and two matching glasses. The set was exquisitely decorated: dark blue and gold, with tiny pink roses. ‘Persian tea is the best in the world. But I’m sure you know that.’
She sat down in the armchair opposite Marguerite, tucking her feet beneath her. She lit a cigarette, exhaled. ‘So, you never came to visit me,’ she said.
‘Sorry – I’ve been so busy with Jérôme.’
‘No apologies,’ she said, raising her hands. ‘You’re under no obligation.’ She looked around the room. ‘A little different from Rossignol, hm?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t live without clutter. It must be in my blood or something. It drives Philippe insane.’
‘Is that your husband?’ asked Marguerite.
‘The one and only.’ Suki stood to pluck a photo frame from the mantelpiece, which she handed to Marguerite. She started to pour the tea, all the time balancing her cigarette between two immaculate fingers, its long train of ash undisturbed.
The photograph showed a younger Suki grinning up at a plain, bored-looking man in a suit.
‘He looks – nice,’ said Marguerite.
‘Fat,’ Suki said immediately. ‘He’s so damn fat now. That was taken when he was still young and handsome.’ She smiled, finally flicking ash into a little dish. ‘Drink your tea.’
Marguerite took a sip.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Suki said. ‘Of course, the water should be heated in a samovar. That’s the traditional way. But now tell me how you’re liking your new job. Or is it new? You’ve been here some time, I suppose.’
‘Almost six weeks.’
‘Six weeks! What do you do all day? Aren’t you bored?’
‘No – it’s very busy.’
‘I suppose that’s a good thing. Keeping busy. Well, six weeks isn’t long enough to get really, truly sick of the place. I moved here in ’84. So what’s that, eighteen years now? I’m no use at maths. All I know is that it’s been a long time.’
‘Where did you live before?’
‘Marseille. Tehran, then Hilversum in the Netherlands, then Marseille. So I was used to life in a big city. I’m like you, I’m a city girl by nature. I’m not made for all this.’ She gestured at the window behind her and grimaced. ‘How old do you think I am?’
‘Oh, I never get this question right.’
‘Guess!’ she insisted. ‘I won’t be offended.’ She lifted her chin, turned her face a little.
‘Twenty-nine,’ said Marguerite, lying.
‘Thirty-eight!’ she cried. ‘People are always tricked by my skin, I don’t have any wrinkles. Even though I smoke like a chimney, I’ve got not a single wrinkle. It’s genetic.’ She leant forward for Marguerite to inspect her face, pulled with one finger at the skin around her eyes. Her eyeballs were a little pink. ‘See?’
There were lines, of course, but it was true that her skin was smooth. It seemed polished. Marguerite leant back so Suki didn’t inspect hers.
‘Anyway, so I married Philippe when I was twenty and came to this little dump. He was very rich, and handsome – you’ve seen the photo – and I thought I was going to have a terribly romantic life in the countryside. Instead, I sit here all day whilst he works in a technology park. A technology park!’ She smiled, looking down at her hands. Her nails were the palest pink, immaculately painted. ‘It’s not quite the glamorous set-up I had imagined, as you can see.’
‘Well, look at my set-up,’ said Marguerite. ‘I’m aware it’s not what most people would choose.’
Suki lit another cigarette. ‘And no doubt Jérôme treats you like absolute crap,’ she said.
‘No, he’s fine.’
‘Okay, I know what you’re like. You’re not going to admit it. Very professional. But everyone knows that he’s a tyrant.’ She topped up their glasses. ‘Just a little more,’ she said. ‘And I suppose you’ve met the gardienne? Brigitte?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And?’ She looked sharply at Marguerite. ‘All your evil spinster great-aunts rolled into one, right?’
‘Well …’ She paused. ‘She’s quite stern.’
Then she thought of the woman’s visit two days before and felt freshly irritated. Brigitte had walked around the ground floor, inspecting how clean it was. She had peered at the food in the fridge and cupboards, enquired into Jérôme’s diet, asked questions about his medication that were nothing to do with her.
‘Actually, she’s terrible,’ she said, and Suki threw her head back and laughed.
‘Still waters run deep,’ she cried. ‘I knew you couldn’t be as sweet as you seem. You’re right, of course. She is terrible. She can’t stand the sight of me. In fact, she can’t stand the sight of any good-looking female – that’s probably why she’s nasty to you.’
‘I really doubt that.’
‘Stop being modest. Look at you! So young. What are you? Twenty-five?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘And look at your little waist!’ She reached forward as if to pinch Marguerite’s waist, but Marguerite wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Are you naturally slim or do you diet?’
‘I really can’t stay,’ she said.
‘Won’t you wait for the rain to stop?’
‘I really can’t, I have to cook Jérôme’s dinner. It’s getting late.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a tour of the house.’
She stood up and took Marguerite’s glass