Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre Read Free Book Online

handbag. She gives the ghost of a smile. Sophie is not even surprised.
    She looks at her for a moment
    “It’s alright,” she says. “Forget it. We all have bad days.”
    “I’m so sorry,” the woman says again.
    “It’s not your fault. Forget it.”
    But still the woman stands there awkwardly. Sophie studies her for the first time. She is not really ugly, just sad. About thirty, a long face, fine features, keen eyes.
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “Get my suitcase back! That would be a start, get me my suitcase back.” Then Sophie stands up and pats the woman’s arm. “I’m just a little angry. Don’t worry about it. But now I have to go.”
    “Did you have anything valuable?”
    Sophie turns.
    “In the suitcase, I mean, did you have any valuable things?”
    “Valuable enough to want to take them with me.”
    “Whatare you going to do?”
    Good question. Anyone else would say: I’m going to go home. But Sophie is all out of ideas, she can think of nothing to say, nowhere to go.
    “Can I buy you a coffee?”
    The young woman looks at her imploringly. It is not a suggestion, it is almost a plea. Without knowing why, Sophie says simply:
    “With the day I’m having . . .”
    A brasserie opposite the train station.
    The girl makes for the terrace, probably because it is in the sun, but Sophie wants to be inside. “Not by the window,” she says. The girl returns her smile.
    They do not know what to say to each other as they wait for their coffee.
    “Arriving or departing?”
    “Hmm? Oh, just arrived. From Lille.”
    “Into Gare de Lyon?”
    Things are off to a bad start. Sophie feels like stalking off and leaving the girl with her belated scruples and her hangdog expression.
    “I took the
métro
. . .” Sophie ad-libs, then immediately asks, “What about you?”
    “Me? No, I’m not travelling.” The girl hesitates about what to say next and decides to change the subject: “I live here. I’m Véronique.”
    “Me too,” Sophie says.
    “Your name is Véronique?”
    Sophie realises this is going to be more tricky than she anticipated, she has not had time to prepare for this sort of question, she has to think on her feet. Get herself in a differentframe of mind.
    She gives a vague nod that could mean just about anything.
    “Weird, huh?” the girl says.
    “It happens.”
    Sophie lights a cigarette, holds out the pack. The girl accepts with a graceful gesture. It is extraordinary how this woman in her grey suit seems when seen close up.
    “What do you do?” Sophie says. “For a living.”
    “I’m a translator. You?”
    In a few short minutes of conversation, Sophie has invented a new life for herself. It is a little scary at first, but then it feels like a game – you just have to remember the rules. Unexpectedly, she can be anyone she chooses. Instead she behaves like those lottery winners who could completely transform their lives, but then buy a little suburban house like everyone else. Now she is Véronique, an art teacher at a secondary school in Lille, single, arriving in Paris for a few days to visit her parents who live in the suburbs.
    “Has the Académie de Lille broken up for the holidays?” asks Véronique.
    This is the problem: a follow-up question that could wrong-foot her . . .
    “I took a few days’ leave. My father is ill. Well, actually . . . [she smiles], between you and me, my father’s not really ill: I fancied a couple of days in Paris. I should be ashamed of myself.”
    “Where do your parents live? I can drop you off. I’ve got a car.”
    “No, I’ll be fine, honestly, but thank you.”
    “It’s no trouble.”
    “That’s very sweet of you, but it’s really not necessary.” She says this in a sharp tone and for a moment they are both silent.
    “Are they expecting you? Maybe you should give them a call.”
    “Oh,no!”
    She has answered too quickly: be calm, composed, take your time, Sophie, don’t just say anything . . .
    “The thing is, I