Free Out of Sight by Isabelle Grey Page A

have her contraceptive cap with her. ‘I could be a while,’ she hedged. ‘I haven’t seen Audra in ages, and we’ve not even ordered any food yet.’
    â€˜Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting.’
    The insubordinate ripple made itself felt again. ‘Okay.’
    â€˜See you soon, then. Bye.’
    She returned to her companion, making out the call was work related, but her earlier lightness and ease had gone. They ordered, and, while they ate, Leonie asked diligent questions about Audra’s business, what she’d managed to buy at a recent auction, whether the Dutch were still chasing after old enamel cookware. But all the while she couldn’t help wondering how late it was, and when she could decently leave.
    When, at last, Leonie parked outside Patrice’s house, she sat in the car, trying to work out why she was feeling so ambivalent about going in. It was already eleven o’clock, and they both had to work the next day. He hadn’t wanted to fix an arrangement for another night, yet invited her now when there was no time for anything other than sex. Was that all he wanted? On the other hand, she could hardly blame him: she wanted to be in his bed every bit as much as, it would appear, he wanted her to be there. She reminded herself that this was exciting, a midnight assignation with her lover.
    She thought back to when she had last doubted him, remembering the restored bicycle. She had been naïve then in assuming that because he didn’t call straight away it was over, never going to happen. But it wasn’t. And two or three times since then they’d taken their bikes at weekends and pedalled to various places together: nowhere special, but it had been lovely to cover some distance yet cycle slowly enough to look at hedgerows and clouds, the immaculate
potagers
and sloping vineyards. One day, returning home, they had stopped at the gates to the local cemetery, set among fields of mown hay. Patrice dismounted and, holding out his hand, had led her to a simple headstone.
    â€˜My grandfather, Patrice Broyard,’ he told her.
    â€˜Your grandmother, too,’ Leonie had said, pointing out the other name, the newer letters below carved more sharply into the stone.
    He sighed. ‘I idolised his memory when I was a kid, but now I wonder what the true story was – about his death.’
    Leonie had been surprised. ‘Does it matter now?’
    â€˜Josette was always disappointed in me, as if I could never measure up to him. But then once, when she was really cross, I remember her shaking me, scolding that I was just like him.’ With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the stone edging around the grave. ‘I’d never seen her so full of spite, like I had something really bad and evil in me. So maybe he wasn’t such a hero after all.’
    â€˜Grief makes people angry. Maybe it was just that. Nothing to do with you.’
    He had shrugged and turned away. ‘Maybe.’
    There, surrounded by the sun-kissed fields, she had taken his arm to walk back to where they’d left their bikes, following his lead in talking of other things. Now, in her darkened car, she breathed more deeply. There was nothing bad in him. Whatever his demons, he was not trying to conceal them from her. She had doubted him before, and it had been all right: he had wanted her to have the bicycle so she could ride beside him. She must try not to let herself get into quite such a state. Patrice would surely have heard her car draw up and must be wondering by now why she hadn’t come inside. If she wasn’t going to turn around and go home, she must resolve to take what he offered at face value.
    When Patrice opened the door, Leonie was touched to find that he seemed as nervous as she. Greeting her withlittle more than a peck on the cheek, he made for the kitchen, asking if she wanted coffee. It occurred to her how, once he’d made his phone call,