Page 78 of The Riviera House Swap
Something inside her stomach dropped. The spring roll tasted like sawdust in her mouth.
‘Pierre,’ she said. ‘There was no zoo.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There was no zoo trip, no monkey. I made it up.’
He flushed. ‘Why would you do this?’
‘Pierre, do you really rememberanyof this?’
He shrugged. ‘My memory is not good. Perhaps I need to go to the doctor…’ He lifted a forkful of rice to his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully.
‘But why would you say…’ she said. ‘I mean, why didn’t you tell me you…’
‘Ah, Nina,’ he said. ‘It was so long ago. And I suppose there have been many, many women since for me. And perhaps I forgot this or that. But when a beautiful woman comes up to me and I feel such a spark for her, you can forgive me for being a little… well, for imagining things to make her happy.’
‘You don’t remember me very well?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
His head dropped, his face turned towards his plate like a young boy being told off for not finishing his vegetables.
‘Pierre…’ she said, feeling nauseous. ‘Do you remember meat all?’
He looked at her and his face looked different, resigned.
‘A little, perhaps,’ he said. ‘I remember kissing girls who were here on French exchange. They came to our school each year. And I do remember writing to someone called Nina. But the memories, in my head. They are muddled. It is hard for me to know who is who.’
‘But you – I mean, you asked me to elope with you!’ she said. ‘And you don’t remember?’
‘Ah Nina, I was a child. I would perhaps have said anything to a beautiful girl to make her want to be with me. But this is all in the past!’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘It does not matter, because we have the whole future in front of us.’
Was she being ridiculous? she wondered. She’d harboured this dream of Pierre being a lost love – the one who got away. But if he hadn’t had similar feelings for her, hadn’t been sincere, then this relationship she’d seen as a connecting of souls was, to him, just a casual date or two.
She looked at his hand on hers. At his earnest eyes fixed on her face. Then, feeling a prickle run over her skin, back at the hand. Then, quietly, she said. ‘Pierre, what is this?’ She pointed to the red indentation on his fourth finger.
He whipped his hand back. ‘It is a little eczema,’ he said, rubbing it. ‘It always bothers me.’
She thought of his strange behaviour when she’d arrived, the clink of money on the floor. The waiter on their first date with a ring. And suddenly she knew. ‘Pierre, are you married?’ she asked.
He blushed. ‘What?’ he said, in a voice that sounded more like a squeak.
‘Are you married?’ she said. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
Oh my God, was the woman who’d been outside the restaurant hiswife? She wondered suddenly.
Something changed in Pierre’s face. ‘Well, maybe a little,’ he said.
‘You can’t be,’ she said, ‘alittle bitmarried. You either are or you aren’t.’
He flushed. ‘Well, perhaps I am not happy in this marriage.’
‘But you wear a ring. You take it off when it suits you, right?’ she said. ‘And sometimes you forget until the last moment.’
‘Well, yes, but…’
‘Pierre,’ she said, slowly. ‘What am I to you?’
‘Nina, what do you mean? We have this connection. From long ago. We…’
