The wind was playing with her short, filmy dress, a summer frock even though it was a chilly autumn evening. She looked dark and sultry, like a latter-day matinee star. Hugo paid close attention to the wind gusts and was rewarded with glances of her thighs and higher. But when he did, he noticed large blotches of black-and-blue, fresh bruises that looked painful and angry.
Luc was in a polite gentlemanly mode, engaging Sara in neutral thoughts about the remnants of the town’s original thirteenth-century architecture. Later, when Hugo button-holed Luc to mention Odile’s bruises, Luc shrugged and informed his friend that it was clearly not their business.
The dinner itself was lavish and Hugo splashed out for some expensive bottles. Everyone drank liberally, except Luc who gladly accepted the role of designated driver and the discipline that went along with it. After all, until the excavation ended in a week’s time, he was Sara’s boss, and bosses had a certain responsibility of behaviour.
Hugo had no such duty. He and Odile sat next to each other, watching the sunset from their valley-facing table. They ogled each other, made suggestive jokes and touched each other’s arms whenever they laughed. Sara joined in the jollity as best she could, but Luc could sense an invisible barrier, a negative energy field of his own creation.
Hugo was telling a bad joke he’d heard him tell before and Luc’s mind drifted instead to a crazy thought: if he could go back in time just once, where would he go? To that night with Sara at Les Eyzies two years ago or to Ruac thirty thousand years ago? The decision was tolled by the arrival of the entrees.
Odile didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who liked to talk about herself but she responded perfectly well to a man like Hugo who placed himself at the centre of every anecdote and story. She laughed at his jokes and asked leading questions to nudge him along. Hugo was thoroughly enjoying himself and wanted a record of the evening so he snapped photos with his mobile phone and passed it across the table to Sara to take shots of him mugging with his date.
It was only when Hugo stopped talking long enough to chew his beef, that Sara could jump in with a question for Odile. ‘So I’m curious. What’s it like living in a small village?’
Odile squeezed her lips into an ‘it is what it is’ gesture and said, ‘Well, it’s all I know. I’ve been to Paris before so I know what’s out there, but I don’t even have a passport. I live in a cottage three doors away from the house I was born in – upstairs in my father’s cafe. I’m growing in Ruac like one of your plants. If you pull me out by the roots, I’ll probably die.’
Hugo finished swallowing in time to say, ‘Maybe you need some fertiliser.’
Odile laughed and touched him again. ‘There’s enough manure in Ruac. Maybe just some water and sunlight.’
Sara wondered, ‘It must be hard meeting new people in a tiny village.’
Odile wiggled the fingers of her left hand. ‘See, no ring. You’re right. That’s why I wanted to work for you. Not to get married! To meet new people.’
‘What’s your impression so far,’ Luc asked.
‘You’re all so smart! It’s a stimulating environment.’
‘For me, also,’ Hugo said, refilling her wine glass with a smile that bordered on a leer.
On the drive back, Sara was quiet but the two tipsy ones in the back seat were chatting non-stop. In the rear-view mirror Luc spotted a kiss here, a grope there. When they got close to the abbey, he heard Hugo whispering, pleading to come over.
‘No,’ Odile whispered back.
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘No!’
‘Why, do you live with someone?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’m old-fashioned. Date me some more.’
Hugo sat on his bunk, watching Luc strip down to his briefs then brush his teeth.
Hugo remained dressed. ‘Aren’t you going to bed?’ Luc asked.
‘I’ve got to see her,’ Hugo moaned.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’
‘Did you see those legs?’
‘This is like university redux. You used to go on like this all the time.’
‘So did you.’
‘I outgrew it.’
‘Did you?’
Hugo got up and fumbled around for his car keys.
‘Look, you had a lot to drink,’ Luc admonished.
‘I’m okay. I’ll go slow and I’ll keep my window open. Fresh air’s my friend. Are you my friend?’ His speech was too slurred for comfort.
‘Yes, Hugo, I’m your friend. I should drive you.’
‘No, believe me, I’m fine. You’ve got a dig to run.’
They went back and forth a few times until Luc finally acquiesced and said, ‘Be careful.’
‘I will. Don’t wait up for me.’
By the time Hugo got to the village he was sober enough to question his own sanity. All he knew was she lived ‘three doors down’ from the cafe. But which direction and on what side of the street?
If this was going to be an exercise in chance involving knocking on doors, the probability of looking like a fool was fairly high. Sorry to wake you, Madame, do you know where the mayor’s daughter lives? I’m here to screw her.
The main street was empty, not a soul in sight, not surprising since it was almost midnight. He slowly drove towards the cafe, counting doors. Three doors down on the same side, the cottage was dark. There was a large motorcycle by the door. Scratch that one, he thought. Probably.
He counted off three doors on the other side of the cafe. That cottage had lights burning on both floors. He stopped to have a better look. What was it she’d said about having an orchard? She’d made the comment at the peak of his inebriation, before dessert. And what kind of orchard – apple, cherry, pear? At this time of year without fruit how would he know? With his assemblage of city skills, he could hardly tell a bush from a tree. He parked on the side of the road and crept along the side of the cottage to get a look at the back garden. The moon was his friend. It was full and provided enough light to see at least a dozen trees laid out in rows.
It certainly looked like an orchard and that gave him hope.
The door was blue, the small cottage lemony sandstone. He knocked lightly and waited.
Then he knocked harder.
The curtains were drawn on the ground-floor windows. One set of curtains in the sitting room was parted just enough to see inside but there was no sign of her or anyone else.
He took a few steps back to look at the upstairs bedroom window. The curtains were back-lit. He picked a few small pebbles from the flower bed and tossed them against the window like a teenage boy trying not to wake the parents.
Again, nothing.
The rational thing to do was get back in his car and drive off; he wasn’t even positive this was the right house. But a wave of Parisian temerity swept him back to the door. He tried the knob.
It turned fully and the door unlatched.
‘Hello?’ he called out hopefully. ‘Odile? It’s Hugo!’
He entered and looked around. The sitting room was neat and pretty, like you’d expect from a single woman.
‘Hello?’ he called again.
He glanced into the kitchen. It was small and immaculate, no dishes in the sink. He was about to go in for a better look when he noticed mail on the hall table, an electricity bill on top. Odile Bonnet. He felt better.
‘Hello, Odile?’
He stood at the base of the stairs and hesitated. Only rapists ascended to a woman’s bedroom unannounced
