Fraud Read online

  They had met many years ago, when Marie-France had been an assistante at Anna’s school, and had formed a friendship straight away, the ten years between their ages being obliterated by a similarity of experience: widowed parents, comfortable circumstances, a general inability to see the world in anything but hopeful terms. Marie-France had been taken home to meet Anna’s mother: Anna in due course had been granted an audience by Marie-France’s father. Together they permitted themselves a little mild impatience with the demands of elderly parents, but this was offered humorously, as if to suggest any hint of rebellion would threaten not only the terms of their friendship but of their separate individual lives. The thought that they never voiced to each other, at least in each other’s presence, although it may have been hinted at in a letter, was that one day they would be free. No serious consideration was allowed to mar this prospect, for example that they might be free but untrained for any other way of life, or that they might encounter difficulties which had never occurred to them in the days of their claustration. Marie-France, patiently smiling, sweet-natured in the face of various privations, rubbing her cold hands together in a gesture which was entirely characteristic, had long been a nun-like presence in Anna’s life: absent or present, in her letters or in their too rare meetings, she was the same unchanging friend. Absent, she was present through the medium of her letters, which usually arrived at the rate of one every two or three weeks, and to which Anna replied with never failing pleasure.

  The letters were elevated, amusing, giving no hint of loneliness or pain. They might have been written by two acquaintances who had met in the Pump Room in Bath, for it was Marie-France, whose English was perfect, and who was devoted to the works of Jane Austen, who best captured the tone. Lately Anna had felt the strain of such a correspondence, had felt unable to harness the carefree flippancy which masked their more serious exchanges. But their friendship demanded that each be forbearing and resilient, capable and good-humoured, that negative moods should never be voiced or even alluded to, above all that seriousness should be kept at bay. What united them was a long habit of celibacy. They were accustomed to regard themselves as spinsters, and gallantly shouldered the burden, knowing, but never acknowledging the fact to each other, that spinsterhood was the reason why Marie-France was despised by her family, why Anna had, finally, disappointed her mother. They extolled the joys of spinsterhood, never hinting at its pains. Anna had supposed that this would continue throughout the rest of their lives until at last, as she hoped, they broke through to the reality of who each of them was and remade their friendship on an entirely different basis. She found herself approaching that time with dread but also with some curiosity.

  Marie-France, sweet friend, sweet sister, the only unmarried girl in a crowd of cousins, tolerated by all, feared by none. The cousins were the only visitors her father would allow. Each year a holiday was spent at the home of one or other of the cousins, or more usually in a villa at Les Sables-d’Olonne, which had belonged to Forestiers since the grandparents’ day and which was now shared between two families who found it convenient to occupy it for the month of August and to let it for the rest of the year. Every Christmas or New Year a cousin or two, complete with wife or husband, would travel to Meaux from Neuilly, from Viroflay, or from farther afield, from Montpellier or from La Rochelle. On Bertrand Forestier’s birthday the same cousins, or their delegates, would bring greetings to the flat in the rue Huysmans, pay a few well-placed compliments, drink a glass of champagne, and depart with relief, having kissed Marie-France in the hallway and warmly pressed her hand. Marie-France’s letters were filled with references to Aline, to Nicole, to Emmanuel and Solange, to little Julie who was so charming, and Anna had learned to distinguish them, although news of Marie-France’s family left her feeling that her own life was underpopulated. The thought occurred to her that Marie-France’s sixtieth birthday would probably be celebrated in a familial setting, and that she herself might not be entirely expected. But she had announced her impending visit some time ago and saw no reason to revise her plans. For safety’s sake she wrote again, suggesting that they should meet at a tea-room in the rue Monsieur-le-Prince: there she could offer her invitation to lunch on the day of Marie-France’s actual birthday, thus avoiding the idea that she might come to the flat. She would take Marie-France to lunch at the Restaurant Voltaire and leave her to her family for the evening. This slight evidence that she might, out of sheer tact, have to observe that others had the priority saddened her, until she reflected that it was an act of friendship on her part to comply with Marie-France’s putative engagements, and that Marie-France would be flattered and grateful for her delicacy.

  She telephoned the small hotel in the rue de Fleurus where she usually stayed and was astonished to be told by a disembodied voice that it was closed for refurbishment and that no bookings could be accepted until the spring. Thoughtfully, she replaced the receiver. She glanced out of the window at the icy sun which had replaced the earlier drab weather and reflected that that particular hotel had never been very warm or indeed very comfortable, that she was now a comparatively rich woman, picked up the telephone again, and, this time successfully, booked a room at a hotel in the rue du Colisée which she had read about in an article in a magazine. It was wholly uncharacteristic of her to stay on the right bank, so far from Marie-France, but she had a feeling, which she realized had been growing on her for some time, that nothing much would come of this visit. She might be left to herself a great deal, a prospect which did not frighten her but which had certainly not been foreseen. Some very slight feeling of dispossession, which she could not entirely attach either to the past or to the future, guided her to neutral surroundings, whereas had she been more confident she would have sought out a familiar landscape. But she reminded herself that no welcome had been forthcoming, that maybe she was not entirely expected, that it was more becoming, at a time of celebration to which she had not been invited, to keep her distance. It was with a slight feeling of coldness, as distinct from the physical coldness which daily oppressed her, that she set out for the airport. Her composure, which so disconcerted others, ensured that no-one addressed a word to her throughout the early morning flight.

  The reality of Paris unsettled her, as it always did, so different was it from the nostalgic Paris which she carried around in her head. Here on the right bank, near the Champs Elysées, she was more aware of rushing traffic than she had ever been in the rue de Fleurus. After her silent flat in silent Cranley Gardens it came as a disagreeable surprise, and her attempts to cross the few streets leading to the Rond-Point were clumsy. ‘En arrière!’ yelled a policeman, blowing his whistle at her, and she nervously jumped back onto the pavement. The same icy sun shone over Paris, but its light was northern, cruel: it would vanish abruptly in a pool of carmine, to be instantly replaced by frost and fog. Momentarily cheered by the broadness of the space around her, by the brief brilliance of the light of early afternoon, she turned her thoughts to her forthcoming meeting with Marie-France, wondering with a certain melancholy why she felt so unsure of her welcome. Nothing has changed, she told herself: nothing that she could see had changed. That she herself was growing older she did not take into account, for she had felt the same age for as long as she could remember, neither young nor old, because she was sometimes the one and sometimes the other. She had dressed as carefully as usual, and as far as she could see she looked no different. She was puzzled as to how she would spend the rest of her time, if Marie-France were too busy to see her every day. In a way their friendship proceeded better when they corresponded than when they met: she knew that once she got home again she would fashion even her melancholy into something amusingly philosophical, that she would describe this very bus ride in her most carefully chosen words.

  There was always her work, of course, that not altogether invalid project to write a series of articles, or even, if she were capable of it, something more substantial, on the great salons of Paris during the Se
cond Empire. The research had given her some agreeable moments, but she could not quite hide from herself the knowledge that until now the work had been more alibi than pastime, enabling her to escape, if only to Colindale, to read old newspapers, or to the library of the Victoria and Albert Museum, where she liked to sit and look over the formal garden while her hands lay idly on the notes which she had meant to transcribe. Now there was nothing to prevent her making this work the main purpose of her life, but she took no joy from the prospect. The moment for its completion had long passed, although she would dutifully visit a few museums while she was here. But more than work she wanted pleasure, and knew that she was no longer capable of procuring it for herself. She looked out of the window of the bus at the immensity of Paris. She remembered it as being so small, so intimate and charming, so warmed by the friendships of her student year, when it was still possible to be a student and not to be controversial, or contestataire. 1964: her wonderful year. And within what seemed like a brief space of time poor Marie-France, in the rue Huysmans, was sending bulletins of street battles and tear gas. They had asked her to stay with them in London, but she had replied that she could not leave her father.

  Marie-France was there, suddenly, in front of her, the worn gold ring flashing briefly as she raised her thin brown hand in greeting. She half rose from the small marble-topped table, and then, laughing, subsided. They kissed, and ordered coffee, overwhelmed into wordlessness by being together after a year’s absence. Anna felt comforted by the conventions of this friendship in which so little was demanded of her, and repressed the thought that on this occasion she was more demanding than usual, exigent even, that although she had so little to say she nevertheless wanted to be interrogated, interviewed, or at least subjected to searching questioning. She wanted a witness to herself, as she existed in this place, at this time. Someone should make it their business to find out how she was, how she felt, whether this or that pleased or displeased her. Her opinion should be sought on many subjects, and in an ideal state she would feel free to express distaste, rejection, as in fact she had never done in the course of her real but increasingly nebulous life. She felt a moment of panic as she realized that she was far from home yet still imprisoned by the silence of home, and that no-one would seek her out or help her to break that silence. With an odd presentiment she felt that her recent interview with Lawrence Halliday had pre-empted the intimacy she had expected to feel in the company of Marie-France, or that Marie-France in her turn might confer. Something had imperceptibly changed, yet she could not imagine what it was. She looked at Marie-France: the same brownish unadorned skin, the same lightless brown hair. Only the fine brown eyes, her best feature, seemed wider and brighter, the wide thin mouth more ready to break into a smile. The red jacket was new, certainly, and a surprising choice in one so reserved by nature, so like a saint in her acceptance of her reduced share of the world’s delights.

  Aloud she said, ‘You’re looking well, ma mie. Surprisingly well. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’ The English was still fluent, still barely accented, although perhaps the accent was a little stronger than it had been. ‘Tell me about yourself, Anna.’

  She could think of nothing to say, although when she got home she would write a decent account of herself. Again she felt a very slight surprise and alienation, as she watched Marie-France glance about her, as if their meeting were simply a pretext for drinking a cup of coffee in agreeable surroundings, a pleasant but unimportant interlude in an otherwise quite ordinary day. Her hand played with a necklace of small pearls, and then with the brown and red silk scarf inside the neck of her sweater.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Marie-France repeated, but her expression denoted a smiling absence.

  ‘Marie-France, what has happened? Something has happened—do tell me.’

  The absent smile grew blissful.

  ‘Yes, Anna, something has happened. I wanted you to be one of the first to know. I couldn’t bring myself to write: I waited until you got here.’

  At once the conventions were shattered. For Marie-France to be unable to write was significant enough. There was a restlessness, a brightness about her that was even more significant; her hands were very slightly febrile, contrasting with the voice, which was an insistent monotone. Anna sensed that she was no longer a confidante; indeed, this had just been made clear to her. She understood now why this visit was to be so different from all the others, and why she had sensed this from the unusual silence which had greeted her last letter.

  ‘Are you in love?’

  Her tone was neutral, polite: she could not quite manage the collusive roguishness which might, she thought distantly, have been in order.

  ‘Isn’t it ridiculous? At my age?’

  ‘I’m very glad for you. Who is it?’

  She now had Marie-France’s full attention.

  ‘You remember I told you when Aline died? Early last year?’

  Indeed this death of a cousin had been made the subject of a very affecting account, one of Marie-France’s best letters. Aline had died of cancer in Montpellier: Marie-France and her father had gone to the funeral. And there, incredibly, the widower, Philippe, had cast his eye around in the search for a replacement, and in a very short time it had lighted on Marie-France.

  ‘But Marie-France, wasn’t that a little precipitate?’

  ‘We are not children, Anna. Philippe is five years older than I am. We have known each other nearly all our lives; he tells me that he had always liked me. Naturally, when Aline was alive we never spoke of this. In fact I never suspected … But he needs someone to look after him, and he made his decision. Et voilà.’ She smiled delightedly.

  Yes, thought Anna, you will look after him, as you have always looked after Papa, and what man, seeing your loyalty, would not wish himself to be the object of a similar devotion? Why should a grieving widower not seek immediate consolation, particularly if he had nursed a secret affection while his wife was still alive? And what glory for Marie-France, the virtuous spinster, about to astound her family with news of her unsuspected apotheosis! Who could begrudge her her moment of triumph, even if it included this infinitesimal triumph in a tea-room in the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, on a day of sunshine as ruthless as the workings of the human heart? She could have written, thought Anna, and she knew that the thought would persist.

  She said aloud, ‘And when will you be married?’

  ‘Oh, not until Papa … He is nearly eighty-seven, Anna. He relies on me for everything. He knows, of course. I told him, and I think he was quite pleased. But we agreed that I shouldn’t leave him. Not yet, anyway. Of course, Philippe is impatient, but we agreed to wait. Aline has only been dead for a year. He had a Mass said for her a few days ago.’

  ‘Marie-France, don’t wait. Don’t let anything stand in your way.’

  Marie-France looked at her in surprise.

  ‘But it is all agreed, Anna. After all, we are not children, not adolescents, although I feel … It is not as if there were anything physical between us, though there too I must confess …’

  She laughed awkwardly, and coloured.

  ‘In that case it would be quite wrong to wait,’ said Anna composedly, although she felt Marie-France’s confession to be untoward. But that is precisely what she wanted me to know, she reflected, and she is too excited to conceal it. She signalled the waitress for the bill, busied her hands with change for the tip.

  ‘Where will you live?’ she asked. ‘And what must I call you in future?’

  ‘Well, eventually in our flat in the rue Huysmans, when Papa … Dunoyer,’ she pronounced, her face radiant, the humiliations of a lifetime forgotten. ‘Mme Dunoyer.’

  And do you love him? Or was the temptation so great that to resist it would have been unthinkable?

  Aloud she said, ‘I’m very happy for you.’

  ‘But I want you to meet him, Anna. He is coming for my birthday tomorrow: he is taking me out to lunch. And we are having a few frien
ds for a glass of champagne in the evening. Of course you are invited.’

  ‘And of course I’ll be delighted.’

  ‘What will you do with your time in Paris? I expect you’ll want to get on with your work, now that you’re free.’

  Anna reflected that Marie-France would not until this moment have made so brisk a remark. Marie-France evidently felt the same, for she coloured slightly.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.

  ‘On the right bank,’ replied Anna, pulling on her gloves. ‘It’s handier for the Louvre. Yes, I’ll do some work. And I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’ For there was to be no lunch, she thought.

  ‘Six o’clock. Oh, Anna, I am so happy.’

  But there was a note of panic in her voice, and for a second or two she looked her age, even haggard.