CHAPTER 32
By a quarter of ten, Meredith was through eating.
She walked back into the tiled lobby. Although she was wiped out, there was no point turning in just yet. She’d never sleep and she’d got too much on her mind.
She looked out through the front door to the darkness beyond.
Maybe a walk? The paths were brightly lit, but deserted and quiet. She pulled her red Abercrombie & Fitch cardigan around her slim frame and dismissed the idea. Besides, she’d done nothing but walk these past couple of days.
Anyhow not after earlier.
Meredith pushed the thought away. There was a murmur of noise slipping down the passageway leading to the terrace bar. She wasn’t a great fan of bars, but since she didn’t want to go straight up to her room and be tempted to climb into bed, it seemed the best option.
Walking past display cases filled with china and porcelain, she pushed open the glass door and walked in. The room looked more like a library than a bar. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with books in glass-fronted cabinets. In the corner there was a set of sliding wooden stairs, highly polished, for reaching the higher shelves.
Leather armchairs were grouped at low round tables, like a gentlemen’s country club. The atmosphere was comfortable and relaxed. Two couples, a family group and several men on their own.
There wasn’t a free table, so Meredith took a stool at the counter. She put her key and the brochure down and picked up the bar list.
The bartender smiled. ‘Cocktails d’un coté, vins de l’autre.’
Meredith turned the card over, and read the wines by the glass on the reverse, then put the menu down.
‘Quelque chose de la région?’ she suggested. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous recommandez?’
‘Blanc, rouge, rosé ?’
‘Blanc.’
‘Try the Domaine Begude Chardonnay,’ said another voice.
Surprised by both the English accent and the fact that someone was talking to her at all, Meredith turned to see a guy sitting a couple of stools further down the bar. A smart, well-cut jacket was draped over the two seats between them and his crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black pants and shoes seemed at odds with his utterly defeated air. A mop of thick black hair hung over his face.
‘Local vineyard. Cépie, just north of Limoux. Good stuff.’
He turned his head and looked at her, as if checking she was listening to him, then went back to staring into the bottom of his glass of red wine.
Such blue eyes.
Meredith realised with a jolt that she recognised him. It was the same guy she’d seen earlier in the Place des Deux Rennes, walking behind the casket in the funeral cortège. Somehow, the fact that she knew that about him made her feel awkward. Like she’d been snooping, even though she hadn’t meant to.
She looked at him. ‘OK,’ then back to the bartender. ‘S’il vous plaît.’
‘Très bien, Madame. Votre chambre?’
Meredith showed him the fob of her key, then glanced back at the guy along the bar. ‘Thanks for the recommendation. ’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said.
Meredith shifted on her stool, feeling a little awkward, not sure if they were going to have a conversation or not. He made the decision for her, suddenly turning round and offering his hand across the expanse of black leather and wood.
‘I’m Hal, by the way,’ he said.
They shook. ‘Meredith. Meredith Martin.’
The barman put a paper mat in front of her, then a glass filled with a rich, deep yellow wine. Discreetly, he slipped the check and a pen in front of her too.
Acutely aware of Hal watching her, Meredith took a sip. Light, lemony, clean, it was reminiscent of the white wines Mary and Bill served on special occasions or when she came home weekends.
‘It’s great. Good call.’
The barman glanced at Hal. ‘Encore un verre, Monsieur?’
He nodded. ‘Thanks, Georges.’ He twisted round so he was half facing her. ‘So, Meredith Martin. You’re American. ’
The moment the words were out of his mouth, he dropped his elbows to the bar and pushed his fingers through his unruly hair. Meredith wondered if he might be a little drunk.
‘Sorry, what a ridiculous thing to say.’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled. ‘And yes, I am.’
‘Just arrived?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’ She took another sip of wine and felt the alcohol hit her stomach. ‘What about you?’
‘My father . . .’ He stopped, a desperate expression on his face. ‘My uncle owns the place,’ he finished. Meredith figured it was Hal’s father’s funeral she’d witnessed, and felt even worse for him. She waited until she felt his eyes come back to her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not a great day.’ He drained his glass, then reached out for the refill the barman had placed in front of him. ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’
Meredith felt like she was stuck in some kind of surreal play. She knew why he was so distracted, but couldn’t admit it. And Hal, trying to make small talk with a total stranger, missing all his cues. The pauses between comments were all way too long, his train of thought disjointed.
‘Both,’ she replied. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘A journalist?’ he said quickly.
‘No. I’m working on a book. A biography of the composer Claude Debussy.’
Meredith saw the spark go out of his eyes and the same hooded look come down again. Not the reaction she was looking for.
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ she said quickly, taking in the bar with her gaze. ‘Has your uncle been here long?’
Hal sighed. Meredith could see his anger in the way he clenched his fists.
‘He and my father bought it together in 2003. Spent a fortune doing it up.’
Meredith couldn’t think of what to say next. He wasn’t exactly making it easy.
‘Dad only came out here full time back in May. He wanted to get more involved in the day-to-day running of the . . . He . . .’ He stopped. Meredith heard the catch in his voice. ‘He died in a car crash four weeks ago.’ He swallowed hard. ‘It was his funeral today.’
In her relief that the information was out in the open Meredith reached over and took Hal’s hand before she even realised she’d done it.
‘I’m sorry.’
Meredith saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. They just sat there a while, hand in silent hand, then she gently slid her fingers away under the cover of picking up her glass.
‘Four weeks? That’s quite a time before . . . ’
He looked at her. ‘It wasn’t straightforward. Post mortem took a while. The body was only released last week.’
Meredith nodded, wondering what the issue had been. Hal sat in silence.
‘Do you live here?’ she asked, trying to get the conversation going again.
Hal shook his head. ‘London. Investment banker, although just handed in my notice.’ He hesitated. ‘I’d had enough anyway. Even before this. I was working fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. Great money, but no time to spend it.’
‘Do you have other family out here? I mean, relatives in this part of France?’
‘No. English through and through.’
Meredith paused a moment. ‘What are your plans now?’
He shrugged.
‘Will you stay in London?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Doubt it.’
Meredith took another mouthful of wine.
‘Debussy,’ Hal said suddenly, as if it had only just registered what she’d said. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know the first thing about him.’
Meredith smiled, relieved he was at least making an effort.
‘No reason why you should,’ she said.
‘What’s his connection with this part of France?’
Meredith laughed. ‘Tenuous,’ she said. ‘In August 1900 Debussy wrote a letter to a friend saying he was sending his wife Lilly to the Pyrennees to convalesce after an operation. Reading between the lines, a termination. So far no one’s proved the story one way or the other – and if Lilly did go, it sure wasn’t for long because she was back in Paris in October. ’
Hal pulled a face. ‘It’s possible. It’s hard to imagine it now, but I believe Rennes-les-Bains was a very popular resort at that time.’
‘It was,’ Meredith agreed. ‘Particularly with Parisians. And also, partly, because it didn’t specialise in treating only one kind of problem – some places were known for treatments for rheumatism, others, like Lamalou, for majoring on syphilis.’
Hal raised his eyebrows, but didn’t pick up the thread. ‘You know, it seems a lot of effort to go to,’ he said, in the end. ‘Coming all this way on the off-chance Lilly Debussy was here. Is it that important in the overall scheme of things?’
‘If I’m honest, no, not really,’ she replied, surprised at how defensive she felt. As if her real motive for coming to Rennes-les-Bains was suddenly painfully transparent. ‘But it would be a great piece of original research, something no one else has got. That can make all the difference to making one book stand out from the others.’ She paused. ‘And it’s an interesting period of Debussy’s life, too. Lilly Texier was only twenty-four when she met him, working as a mannequin. They married a year later in 1899. He dedicated a lot of his works to friends, lovers, colleagues, and it’s undeniable that Lilly’s name doesn’t figure on many scores, songs or piano pieces.’ Meredith was aware she was gabbling, but she was caught up in her own story now and couldn’t stop. She leaned closer. ‘The way I see it, Lilly was right there during the crucial years leading up to the first performance of Debussy’s only opera, Pelléas et Mélisande, in 1902. That was when his fortunes, his reputation, his status changed for good. Lilly was by his side when he made it. I figure that’s got to count for something.’
She stopped to draw breath and saw, for the first time since they’d started talking, that Hal was smiling.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘I didn’t mean to get so carried away, be so full on. It’s a terrible habit, assuming everyone will be as interested as I am.’
‘I think it’s great there’s something you’re so passionate about,’ he said quietly. Caught by the shifting tone of his voice, Meredith looked across at him and saw his blue eyes were fixed firmly on her. To her embarrassment, she felt herself colouring up.
‘I like the research process better than the actual writing,’ she said quickly. ‘All the mental excavation. All the obsessing over scores and old articles and letters, trying to bring to life a moment, a snapshot, from the past. It’s all about reconstruction, about context, about getting under the skin of a different time and place, but with the benefit of hindsight. ’
‘Detective work.’
Meredith shot a sharp glance at him, suspecting his thoughts were on something else, but he followed through.
‘When are you hoping to finish?’
‘I’m due to be done April next year. I’ve got way too much material as it is. All the academic papers published in the Cahiers Debussy and the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy, notes on every biography ever published. Added to which, Debussy himself was a prolific letter-writer. He wrote for a daily newspaper, Gil Blas, as well as producing a handful of reviews for La revue blanche. You name it, I’ve read it.’
Guilt hit her when she realised she was still doing it, going on talking when he was having such a hard time. She glanced over at him, intending to apologise for her insensitivity, but something caught her. The boyish expression, his expression, he suddenly reminded her of someone. She racked her brain, but couldn’t figure out who it was.
A wave of tiredness washed over her. She looked at Hal, lost in his own depressed thoughts. She lacked the energy to keep the conversation going any longer. Time to call it a night.
She got down from the stool and gathered her things.
Hal’s head snapped up. ‘You’re not going?’
Meredith gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course.’ He got down from his stool too. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know this probably sounds outrageous, I don’t know, but perhaps . . . if you’re around tomorrow, maybe we could go out. Or meet for a drink?’
Meredith blinked with surprise.
On the one hand, she liked Hal. He was cute, charming, and clearly needed company. On the other, she needed to focus on finding out what she could about her birth family – and in private. She didn’t want anyone else tagging along for the ride. And she could hear Mary’s voice in her head warning her that she knew nothing about the guy.
‘Of course, if you’re busy . . .’ he started to say.
It was the undercurrent of disappointment in his voice that made her mind up. Besides, apart from the time spent with Laura during the reading – and that hardly counted – she’d not had a face-to-face conversation with anyone longer than a couple of sentences in weeks.
‘Sure, why not,’ she heard herself say.
Hal smiled, properly this time, transforming his face. ‘That’s great.’
‘But I was intending to head out pretty early. Do some research.’
‘I could come along for the ride,’ he suggested. ‘Might be able to help out a little. I don’t know the area that well, but I’ve been coming here on and off for the past five years.’
‘It might be pretty boring.’
Hal shrugged. ‘I can do boring. Do you have a list of places you want to visit?’
‘I thought I’d play it by ear.’ She paused. ‘I had hoped to get something from the old spa buildings in Rennes-les-Bains, but they’re all closed up for the winter. I’d thought maybe if I went to the Mairie there might be a person who could help.’
Hal’s face clouded over. ‘They’re useless,’ he said savagely. ‘Like beating your head against a brick wall.’
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you of . . .’
Hal gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘No, sorry. It’s me.’ He sighed, then smiled at her again. ‘I have a suggestion. Given the period of time you’re interested in for Lilly Debussy, you might find something useful in the museum in Rennes-le-Château. I’ve only been there once, but I remember it gave a pretty good account of what life might have been like round here at that time.’
Meredith felt a spike of excitement. ‘That sounds great.’
‘Shall we meet in reception at ten?’ he suggested.
Meredith hesitated, then decided she was being too cautious.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Ten is good.’
He stood up and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Night.’
Meredith nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’
