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“What kind of shady stuff?”
“What do you think? Remember twelve years ago?”
Clem spends the rest of the meal discussing life, the weather, what’s on TV, the upcoming elections, the new Sézane collection, the latest episode of Peppa Pig, and the apartment she thinks Vadim should buy—carefully avoiding any mention of her situation. She doesn’t refer to Yann or Clarence even once.
So, I’m the one who has to go there.
“Hey, are your thoughts any clearer since Vegas? Are things better with Yann?”
“Yeah, he’s been more relaxed since we got back. It did us good to get back to our daily routine,” she answers distractedly, as though she wants to shut down the conversation right there.
“Clem…”
“What do you want me to tell you, Alma? I’m in deep shit. Period.”
“We don’t have to talk about it—”
“No, you’re right,” she says, cutting me off. “I need to stop hiding from the truth. I’m five months pregnant; it can’t wait any longer.” She stares at her stomach, looking dismayed.
“And Clarence?” I ask.
“He’s called me several times, but I need him to stop. To let me breathe. He knows he’s the biological father. And once the child is born, I don’t plan to stop him from playing that role, if that’s what he wants. But for now, it’s between my husband and me.”
“Do you really think Yann doesn’t suspect anything?”
“How could he suspect such a thing? That I’m carrying another man’s baby? That I got pregnant the one time I cheated on him? That I’m a filthy liar, a selfish bitch, a—”
“Clem, stop.”
“Well, once he knows the truth, that’s what he’ll think of me. I’m just trying to prepare myself for it.”
I give her a sympathetic smile, then offer her an untouched piece of my bread.
“In any case, I know exactly who’s going to tell him ‘I told you so, my poor angel!’” she mutters, alluding to her mother-in-law. “Seriously, who talks to their 32-year-old son like that? ‘My angel,’ ‘my boo-boo bear,’ ‘my sweet boy.’ At least, if we separate, I won’t have to put up with her during the holidays anymore.”
There she is, the real Clémentine D’Aragon.
***
Back in the elevator, I realize I didn’t have time to bring up the anonymous messages during lunch. But it’s better this way. Not telling anyone about them is the best way to forget they even exist.
As I approach my office, I see Adrian waiting for me in front of the door.
“Vadim warned me that punctuality wasn’t your strong suit.”
He smiles, then tells me he’s been waiting for seventeen minutes. The ex-agent in him is probably tempted to give me the exact number of seconds as well, but fortunately, he spares me that detail.
“My lunch ran a little long, sorry.”
We sit down on either side of my desk.
“I heard about the three texts. I’d like to take a look at them. Did you charge your phone?”
“Actually, I can’t find it. I must have left it somewhere or dropped it. Sorry about that…”
The former FBI agent studies me for a long time.
“That’s a problem. It would be wise to find it quickly.”
