Inside the cemetery gates, I search for Minou, calling his name while I shake a container of cat biscuits. A few other darlings come running, but not the one I most want to see.
I find Guillaume on the bench and drop my handbag beside him. ‘Bonjour,’ I say, spreading the biscuits on the soft shaded grass.
‘Bonjour, Lilou.’ He gives me a wide smile while I wait for him to remonstrate me for not being punctual. I wait and nothing comes. Curious. Perhaps he too is distracted about our missing tabby friend.
‘No sign of Minou?’
He wrinkles his brow. ‘None. I dropped past yesterday and the day before too, early morning before they’d have a chance to be fed by anyone else, and no sign.’
A wave of sadness hits me. It’s silly, I know, being attached to an animal who roams free, but I’ve come to love him after so many visits. Without a goodbye, how will I ever know what fate he suffered? I’m embarrassed to find myself choking up when I go to reply.
Guillaume gives my shoulder a pat. ‘Don’t worry, Lilou. He’ll return. That cat has many a hang up about people. I can’t see anyone spontaneously adopting him because he’d make his displeasure known.’
‘Oui, that’s why I love him so. He’s not a lap cat, and he won’t bend his will for anyone, not even when there’s fresh fish on offer.’
Guillaume shakes his head. ‘He’s probably hiding from us on purpose. Revenge because you only brought biscuits again.’
The idea of a such a thing produces a small laugh because it rings true. I gaze around, expecting to see his furry face peeking out from a headstone. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Tomorrow I’ll stop by thepoissonnierfor some tuna. That’s his favourite.’
‘That ought to do it. And we’ll laugh about how worried we’ve been, you’ll see.’
Guillaume is trying to lighten the mood, but if Minou isn’t here, and most likely hasn’t been claimed by a local, where could he be? My mind goes to scenarios I don’t want to contemplate. If only his feline friends could speak and reassure me he’s just onan adventure elsewhere in the cemetery and will be back soon. I swipe at my eyes.
‘What have you got for me today?’
He takes a folder from his briefcase. ‘A range of decorative prayer books. One is written in Latin. A diary from the village Colmar, Alsace, known as the little Venice of France. Such a pretty town, with colourful cottages along the canals, like something out of a storybook. I’ve also got a postcard collection. If they don’t interest you, I’ll ask Benoit.’
I take the proffered folder and flick through photocopies of the range. The prayer books are exquisite. But it’s the diary I’m searching for. I find the passage he’s photocopied and I read it.
1988.How do you know when you’re in love? How do you distinguish it from general admiration for the person? There’s this new guy in my maths class, gorgeous, dreamy, utterly mesmerising. When I go to talk to him, my voice dries up. My knees go weak. I stutter and stammer, trying and failing to find my equilibrium. Try to make my mind catch up with my body. Is this love? And if so, how can I love someone without exchanging a single word with them? Is that even possible? I can’t see how I can ever find out unless my useless voice decides to work in his presence. My wobbly knees manage to hold me up long enough. What is wrong with me?
Puppy love! ‘This is adorable. Tell me, did her voice eventually work long enough for her to speak up?’
I’m expecting his usual faux gruff response, but he surprises me when he says, ‘I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you, Lilou. You’ll have to read it for yourself!’
‘Aha! Youdoread them, even though you claimed you don’t!’
He smiles. ‘I do no such thing. However, in this case, I’ll admit to being intrigued. When I photocopied that page, Ineeded to know so I skipped to the end and found my answers there.’
I gasp. ‘You skipped to the last page? Sacrilege!’
‘How did I know you’d say that, Lilou?’
It’s then I notice a marked difference in Guillaume. His shoulders aren’t as stooped as usual. There’s high colour in his complexion. Even the hollow in his cheeks isn’t as pronounced as it once was.
Could it be the first blush of romance? ‘You sent your letter, didn’t you?’
The obligatory head shake is back. ‘An old man gets whiplash the way you dart from one subject to another.’
I grin. ‘Ooh la la! I’m right, aren’t I?’
He hugs his arms around his middle section as if trying to stop the secret spilling out. To see his eyes sparkle with happiness is a huge relief. I wasn’t sure if he’d go through with the plan, and if he chose not to, I would have understood.
‘Fine, fine. I’ll tell you only because I’ll never hear the end of it, and here we are at a business meeting, discussing everything but business.’
I smother a smile. ‘Stay on track, Guillaume! You sent the letter when…?’
‘I sent the first letter a month ago, almost. That very day we spoke at the pâtisserie.’
