Relief sweeps across his face. ‘Ah,oui.’ He pretends to wipe sweat off his brow. ‘I was lost to wondering how on earth one would milk a chicken, and thenwhy, and how such a thing would be palatable.’
The earlier tension evaporates and we fall into easy laughter. I wonder why it’s called chicken milk; it’s never occurred to me before because I’ve always known it’s the French version of eggnog.
‘There’s a jugin the fridge,’ Manon says. ‘I made it this morning. I’m going to unload the car.’
We leave the lobby area and wander into the kitchen.
Manon’s not only bad at baking, but she also can’t mix drinks. She gets carried away and doesn’t measure anything, is always heavy-handed on the alcohol. It’s likely to blow our heads off and Noah’s already seen me not at my best after the death metal evening. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if Manon set me up with those drinks on purpose, and how do I know she’s not trying that again now? I’m suddenly tongue-tied around Noah and, by his silence, I guess he is too. If we’re not arguing, what else is there to do?
I find the eggnog and pour two glasses and we sit around the kitchen bench.
Noah holds his glass up to mine.
‘Santé. Fair warning, this might be the best drink you’ve ever had, or it could be the worst, and potentially lethal at that.’
He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘I’m a gambling man.’
We grin at one another and take a sip at the same time. It doesn’t taste lethal, so maybe Manon followed a recipe this time.
‘Not bad. Now, far be it for me to make assumptions, but I get the feeling that you despise me. Or is it all men in general?’
Says he, who then makes a huge assumption like that! Have I been a little hard on him? Hasn’t he deserved it? My first reaction is to tell him off again, but am I being unfair? I decide to lead with the truth and he can make of it what he will. ‘Manon already blurted to you that my husband, ex-husband, had an affair. Well, it was not once, not twice, but multiple times with multiple women. That betrayal has made me see the world through a slightly jaded lens when it comes to men.’
‘Where is he now, your ex? Still kicking or did you give him one of Manon’s concoctions?’
I laugh. ‘I wish I’d thought of that. No, the poor man went to Thailand and was crushed by an elephant in a freak accident. Very sad. For the elephant.’
Noah smiles. ‘I better be on my best behaviour around you. It’s strange, though, my wife also died under mysterious circumstances. She was struck in the left temple with a golf ball and died right there on the 9th hole.’
‘Wow, did you live near a golf course?’
‘Non, I wish. The man she was having an affair with did.’ We share a laugh over the joke about the fictional demise of our significant others, but Noah’s confession about his wife cheating gives me pause. I’m a little surprised he was once married, as I’d pegged him for the non-committal type. Not a settled-into-wedded-bliss sort. Well, until he wasn’t.
But I’m way off the mark with my assumptions about Noah. He knows what it’s like to be betrayed, and it does make me slightly soften towards him. If my heart wasn’t bruised, I’d probably admit that the man sitting opposite me is ratherattractive and makes my heart beat double time, but I can’t trust my own judgement. Not after Francois-Xavier.
‘Should we move into Library Anaïs?’ I ask. ‘I can light the fire. The chairs aren’t great. We’ll be replacing the cushion inserts eventually but they’re OK for now.’
‘Library Anaïs?’
‘I knew you’d latch on to that.’
‘I’m not saying a word.’
‘Go on,’ I say, gathering up our glasses and the jug of eggnog. ‘Tell me everything you know about her, like you wanted to the other day. It might spark more ideas with what to do for the room itself.’
26
5 DECEMBER
A couple of days later, I take notebooks back to suite nineteen to exchange for others. One thing is certain: the writer who resided in this room spent many hours a day in here, writing her thoughts in beautiful calligraphy. She also explored the many parks and gardens in Paris, so she wasn’t entirely reclusive. So far, I’ve learned that her marriage was not a happy one, even before she caught her husband philandering. According to her journals, he was a cold, cruel man who sailed through life on the back of her success as a writer – sounds familiar. But, back then, things were so much harder for women, and she suffered in silence for a long time, claiming she only survived because she had the outlet of her writing. She could escape inside her own mind and create fictional worlds where men like her husband didn’t have control. There are also many passages written in ode to being newly in love and being welcomed into a supportive environment. This love helped her slowly lower her guard and each day she wrote how she felt safer, more in control of her destiny.
Now, I sit at her desk and go through the papers that lay in messy piles. Where would her manuscript be? I feel suchan affinity with her, and the thought of a secret manuscript is intriguing.
A knock at the door interrupts me. Noah sticks his head around. ‘I thought I’d find you here.’
‘I’m obsessed,’ I say truthfully. While my own novel is coming along, the pull of this room is too much and I often find myself here, late at night, like now. ‘Is the bar closed?’
‘Oui.From tomorrow I have a Christmas function almost every day.’
