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Rémy would have liked her, would perhaps have seen the young Mireille in her, but it was easier – may he rest in peace – that she had never been forced to tell him her secret, just as it was easier that she had never forced Rémy to reveal his own. He had taken her in and given her a home. That was enough.
What would Antoine say, if she told him? No,whenshe told him. Edith wanted to meet him. Mireille must tell him soon. But she was glad she had arranged to meet Edith in Paris. She had wanted her daughter all to herself for a while, having waited so very patiently for such a very long time.
Mireille unzipped the inner pocket of Rémy’s weekend bag. With an indrawn breath of immense relief, she extracted the stiff cream envelope that had appeared in her postbox, with its American stamps and American handwriting, only a fortnight earlier. Since then, she had kept the letter always within reach, in her pocket by day, under her pillow by night, and she had read it so many times that it was already getting softened at the edges. It wasn’t a secret anymore, though out of habit she threw a furtive glance at the closed door before reading:
Chère Madame,
You do not know me, but I hope that when I tell you my story, you will forgive this intrusion into your life.
I believe that you were a bridesmaid to my mother, Odette Laurent, at her wedding to Charles West in Paris in 1961. Sadly, I must inform you that both of my parents have died. Dad passed away in 2019 and Mom this July. Her death has hit me hard.
I have spent this last month sorting through her things. I happened to look at the back of her wedding photograph and so discovered your name. My daughter, who is alarmingly proficient at googling things, found your address.
I am curious, you see, because my mother, in her final days, told me about a woman called Mireille, and the name – it is so sweet – stayed with me. The story she told me was about a school friend of hers who became pregnant. This friend, Mireille, was not married, and the father of the baby could not or would not marry her. Mireille knew her parents would never accept an illegitimate grandchild, and she feared she would be drummed out of her village if the truth was revealed. Distraught, she wrote to her friend in America, Odette, and asked for help.
Mom told me that Mireille came to America and stayed in our family’s beach house for the remaining four months of her pregnancy. Mom knew a couple who were desperate for a child and only too happy to adopt Mireille’s baby girl, with only one condition. Mireille must never visit or attempt to contact the child. It would have been too painful for Mireille, they said, and too confusing for the child.
Madame, I was born in September 1965, when my parents had already been married for four years. I am an only child. I’m afraid I could not summon the courage to ask my mom, as she lay dying, if I was the child of Mireille. Perhaps I am mistaken, but when I looked at that woman in the wedding photograph, I saw my daughter’s face.
If this letter brings only painful memories, I am sorry. It is not my wish to cause you distress. Please, don’t worry. I will not turn up at your doorstep unannounced, and I shall not pursue you further if I do not receive a reply to this letter. My contact details are attached. I have plans to fly to Paris for my birthday on September 20th. I could travel to Dijon to visit you over the weekend of the 24th, if that would suit you. Only if you would like it.
Meilleurs sentiments,
Edith West
It wasn’t merely the fact that receiving this letter – a request for contact – was what she had dreamed of, every day, through fifty-seven years of clandestine motherhood. And it wasn’t even the kindness of it, the empathy so delicately offered in those words. For Mireille, it was the thing itself. It was the paper her daughter must have laid her hand on while she wrote. It was the shape of the letters, those long f’s and fat b’s. Most of all, it was the knowledge that Edith, her girl, had composed these words, had written Mireille’s name and address on the envelope and had launched the thing, like a message in a bottle, across the ocean that lay between them.
* * *
The door swung open and crashed into the bin that was situated behind it. The young officer was back. Mireille thought he looked as though he’d just had a growth spurt; he was all legs and arms. He had a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand and a scruffy child in tow. He blushed as he handed the sandwich to Mireille, which made her think that providing it had been his own initiative.
‘Merci,’ she said.
He nodded and wordlessly indicated to the child, a girl of about ten, that she should wait there. The poor creature looked terrified. Mireille moved her hat from where the commissaire had left it, so that the girl could sit at one seat’s remove from her. She unwrapped the sandwich, took one piece and offered the other half to the girl.
‘As-tu faim?’ Was she hungry?
The girl shook her head. Mireille took a bite of the sandwich. The girl was wise to avoid it, she thought. Reaching down, she once again pulled Rémy’s weekend bag onto her lap. She was pleased with herself that she had bought those lemon pastilles.
Bomb Scare
When Claire got back to the bar, the same woman was polishing a glass behind the counter, the same football match was playing on the giant TV set, and Ronan was still sitting in the corner booth.
He looked up warily as she approached.
‘Is that the same match?’ she asked, for want of a better opener.
‘Yeah,’ he said dryly. ‘Highlights.’
Claire leaned towards him and lowered her voice, conspiratorially. ‘Is that the same glass she’s wiping?’
His smile was a half-baked combination of relief and hope.
Claire nodded towards the door. ‘Will we get out of here?’
* * *
Five minutes later, they were sitting on the Métro, waiting for it to leave Porte de Clignancourt. The carriage doors remained open, and bodies continued to file through, squeezing into every conceivable space, pressing everyone closer together. Claire hugged her handbag on her lap. She was alive to the warmth of Ronan’s body next to hers and aware that he was doing his best to avoid leaning in to her.
