Page 134 of The Stranger

“For a big guy, Manu must have tiny feet.” My eyes drop to hers, and I notice her toenails no longer painted pink. Her toes curl as though reluctant to be seen, so I return my attention to her lovely face.

“Lol.” She gives a dramatic roll of her eyes, then she must notice me still staring at the space Felix just left. “He’s okay, you know.” She closes her mouth as though she didn’t mean to speak.

“I do worry sometimes.”

“Like all parents, I’m sure. Kids can be totally self-absorbed at his age. His empathy well is still under construction. Not that I’m trying to tell you about your own kids, of course.”

I make a gesture: go ahead.

“I just remember studying this stuff at uni.”

“As part of your medical degree?”

“My psychology one, actually.” She gives an uncomfortable looking shrug as something tugs at my memory. Something Jacques said.

“Impressive.”

“Not really.” Her nose scrunches adorably. “More like I made a mistake my first time.”

“Mistakes are how we learn. Don’t sell yourself short. People can see the real you.” I see the real you.

She looks pensive for a beat. “Anyway,” she says with a shake of her head as she reaches for the chair, her shoes under it.

I grasp the back of it before she can and pull the chair out.

“Sit,” I instruct, putting my hand to her shoulder. In my mind’s eye, I see my fingers sliding down her tan arm, my fingers eventually twining with hers. “Stay, please.” I reach for the rosé, ignoring the white service cloth and the water that drips over the table. The wine gurgles from the bottle as I top up her almost empty glass.

“Roofies?” A smile sneaks into her response.

“You know I wouldn’t cheat either of us of the experience.” She gives a low, huffing laugh. “Enjoy the peace.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’d better make sure my children don’t need a referee.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying. You don’t need leave on my account.”

“I think I do. Thank you, Primrose. For being here. For all that you do.” I turn away before I get any more sentimental. Dieu, there must be something in the air. Besides the sounds of the cicadas and chirp of geckos.

“They’re good kids.”

I pause, but I don’t turn.

“You’re doing a good job with them.”

“That means a lot,” I say, rotating to face her. She looks so lovely. Her skin seems to shimmer, sun-kissed, her hair falling in soft honey waves around her shoulders.

“There is one more thing.” She gives a tiny grimace as she reaches for her glass. “Sylvie is sort of expecting Felix to have to muck out the llama stalls.”

I give a soft laugh as I turn away. “No doubt.”

I’m halfway to the stairs when the thought strikes me: did she mention the llamas to make me think of the viticulturist? Has she been on a date with him—or more? My footsteps falter at that thought, but I push on, telling myself I would’ve known if she’d left the house. Maybe they didn’t leave the house. Maybe they’ve been having late-night picnics, looking out for shooting stars. And fucking.

My hand squeezes the balustrade. I will not imagine that. I’ll buy a vineyard far away and banish the fucker to it.

C'est n'importe quoi! I’m being ridiculous. But before I can chastise myself further, from below, I hear a piercing scream.

33