Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

A couple had walked onto the terrace and were shown to a nearby table. A man and a woman in their fifties, tall, fantastically elegant. They both had silver hair-hers was whiter, his more salt-and-pepper-and tanned faces, the kind of tan that comes from sailing or riding, not just lying around on deck chairs. They were so astoundingly beautiful that a hush had come over the terrace. All the diners had turned to look at the couple. Impervious to the attention they were getting, they sat down, and soon champagne was on its way to them, brought by the waitress. Antoine and Mélanie watched as they smiled at each other, made a toast, and clasped hands.

“Wow,” said Mélanie quietly.

“Beauty and harmony.”

“True love.”

“So it does exist.”

Mélanie leaned forward. “Maybe they’re phonies. Just a couple of actors playing a part.”

Antoine laughed. “You mean, to make us jealous?”

Her face lit up. “No! To make us hope. To make us believe it is possible.”

His heart went out to her as she sat there in her black dress, clasping her champagne, the lovely line of her shoulders and arms etched against the fig tree in the background. There had to be a man, he thought, a good man, a nice, intelligent man, a man who could fall for a woman like Mélanie. He didn’t have to be as perfect as that man sitting at the next table, he didn’t have to look half as handsome, but he could be strong and true and he could make her happy. He wondered where that man was right now. Thousands of miles away, or just around the corner? He could not bear the idea of Mélanie growing old alone.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

“I want you to be happy,” he answered.

Her mouth twitched. “I want the same for you.”

They sat in silence for a while and ate their meal, trying not to stare at the perfect couple.

At last she said, “You have to get over Astrid.”

He sighed. “I don’t know how to do that, Mel.”

“I want you to, so much.”

“I want to as well.”

“I sometimes hate her for what she’s done to you,” she muttered.

He winced. “Don’t. Don’t hate her.”

Melanie played with his lighter. She said, “I can’t. You can’t hate Astrid. It’s impossible to hate Astrid.”

How right she was. It was impossible to hate Astrid. Astrid was like sunshine. Her smile, her laugh, her perky walk, her chuckle, her singsong voice held light and movement. She hugged, she kissed, she crooned, she took your hand and held it tight, she was always there for her friends, for her family. You could call Astrid anytime. She would listen, nod her head, give advice, try to help. She never lost her temper, or if she did, it was for your own good.

The cake came, its candles lighting up the dusk. Everybody clapped, and the beautiful couple raised their champagne flutes to Mélanie, as did all the other diners. Antoine smiled and clapped.

Behind his smile, the old pain was still there. It seared into him so precisely he nearly gasped. He had let Astrid go. He hadn’t even realized she was slipping away. He had seen nothing coming. It had been like a head-on collision.

As they were having coffee and herbal tea, the chef came out to greet his guests table by table to ask whether they had enjoyed their meal. When he turned to them and saw Mélanie in her black dress, he suddenly cried out, startling them. “Madame Rey!”

Mélanie’s face flushed scarlet. So did Antoine’s. This sixty-year-old man clearly thought he was looking at Clarisse.

He snatched up Mélanie’s hand, kissed it rapturously.

“It has been such a long time, Madame Rey. Over thirty years, I’d say! But I’ve never forgotten you. Never! You used to dine here with your friends from the Hotel Saint-Pierre. It seems like merely yesterday. I was just starting out in those days.”

There was a tight silence. The chef glanced from Mélanie to Antoine, his eyes dancing. Then he slowly began to understand. He gently released her hand.

Mélanie still said nothing, a small, embarrassed smile floating around her lips.

“Mon Dieu, what an old fool I am! You cannot be Madame Rey, you are far too young…”

Antoine cleared his throat.

“Yet you look so much like her… You can only be-”

“Her daughter,” Mélanie said at last, calmly. She smoothed down a lock of hair escaping from her ponytail.

“Her daughter! Of course! And you must be-”

“Her son,” said Antoine laboriously, wishing this man would go away. He probably didn’t even know their mother was dead. Antoine couldn’t bear telling him. He hoped Mélanie wouldn’t say anything either, and she did not. She held her tongue as the man rambled on. Antoine concentrated on the bill and left a good tip. He and Mélanie stood up to leave. The chef insisted on shaking their hands.

“Please give my respects to Madame Rey. Tell her how honored I am to meet her children, although her coming back to see me would be the most splendid surprise.”

They both nodded, murmured their thanks, and fled.

“Do I look that much like her?” whispered Mélanie.

“Well, yes. You do.”

You have just left your room, and I am slipping this under your door, not leaving it in our usual hiding place, and I pray you get it before you catch your train back to Paris. I slept with your roses, and it was like sleeping with you. They are soft and precious, like your skin, like the secret places of your body where I love to go, those places that are mine now because I want to imprint myself upon them so that you may never forget me, never forget our time together, never forget how we met here last year, that first glance, that first smile, that first word, that first kiss. I am sure you are smiling as you read this, but I don’t care, I don’t care at all, because I know how strong our love is. You think sometimes I am young and very foolish. Soon we will find a way to face the world, you and I. Very soon.

Destroy this.

They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sea slide slowly over the Gois. Mélanie spoke very little, her dark hair moving about in the wind, her face glum. She hadn’t slept well, she explained when she came down for breakfast, and her eyes were small slits this morning, giving her an almost Asian appearance. He hadn’t bothered about it at first, but as the morning drew on and she became more and more silent, drawn up in herself, he’d gently asked her if something was wrong, and she’d shrugged away his question. She had turned off her phone, he noticed, something she rarely did. She was usually riveted to it, constantly checking for text messages or missed calls. He wondered whether this had something to do with Olivier. Maybe he had telephoned her for her birthday or left a message, and had reopened the old wound. Clumsy bastard, he thought. Or was it the aging beau who’d forgotten to call her yesterday?

With the same fascination he’d felt in his youth, he watched the water hungrily eat up the paved road. There. It was done. No more road. A small shooting pain went through him, as if a special moment had been lost forever, never to happen again. Maybe he preferred watching the Gois passage emerge from the sea, firm and gray-a long strip slicing the waters-rather than seeing it slip under the frothy waves, like witnessing a drowning. He wished they had chosen another moment to come here. There was something sinister about the place today, and Mélanie’s strange mood did nothing to alleviate it.

This was their last morning here. Was that why she remained silent, heedless of what was going on around them-the gulls circling ahead, the wind biting at their ears, and people turning back inland now that the Gois had closed over? She had drawn her knees up to her body and was resting her chin on them, arms tight around her legs. Her green eyes looked dazed. He wondered whether she was getting a migraine, like their mother used to, those powerful, bad ones that would literally cripple her. He thought of the long drive back to Paris, the inevitable traffic jams. His empty apartment. Her empty apartment. Maybe she was thinking about that too. Going back to a still, silent place. No one waiting up for you. No one to greet you as you walked in, drained after hours behind the wheel, no one to hug you. There was of course the lecherous old lover, but he was probably with his wife during this long holiday weekend. Maybe she was thinking about tomorrow, Monday, going back to her office in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and dealing with the neurotic, egotistic authors she had told him about, or her impatient, demanding boss and his depressed assistant.