Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”
    “Oh,” Véronique says, stubbing out her cigarette. “Have you eaten?”
    This is the last thing on her mind.
    “No, not yet.”
    She glances at the clock on the wall: 1.40 p.m.
    “Maybe I could invite you for lunch? My way of saying sorry. For the suitcase. I only live round the corner . . . I don’t have much, but there’s bound to be something in the fridge.”
    Remember, Sophie, do things you have never done before. Go where no-one will expect to find you.
    “Why not?” she says.
    They smile. Véronique pays for the coffees. On the way, Sophie stops to buy two packs of cigarettes and catches her up.
    Boulevard Diderot. Elegant buildings. They have been walking side by side, making small talk. No sooner do they reach Véronique’s building than Sophie is regretting her decision. She should have said no, she should have walked away. By now she should be a long way from Paris, heading in some unexpected direction. She accepted because she was weak, because she was tired. She follows Véronique automatically, stepping into the lobby of the building, allowing herself to be led like a casual guest. Into the lift. Véronique presses the button for the fourth floor, the lift jolts, creaks and sways, but it moves steadily upward and comes to a juddering halt. Véronique smiles.
    “It’s not exactly a palace,” she says as she delves into her handbag for her keys.
    Itmay not be a palace, but stepping inside, it reeks of the moneyed middle class. It is a huge apartment. The living room is vast, framed by two windows. To the right, a russet leather sofa and armchair, to the left a baby grand piano, on the back wall a floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
    “Come in, please . . .”
    Sophie steps across the threshold as though into a museum. The décor, she immediately thinks, is like a variation in a minor key of the Gervais’ apartment on rue Molière, where at this very moment . . .
    Instinctively, she looks around to find out the time and sees a small ormolu clock on the mantel of the fireplace in the corner: 1.50 p.m.
    As soon as they arrived, Véronique hurried into the kitchen, suddenly animated. Sophie can hear her talking and answers distractedly as she studies the apartment. Her eyes flick back to the carriage clock. Time seems to have stood still. She takes a deep breath. Be wary in your answers, mumble the occasional “Yes, of course . . .”, try to gather your thoughts. It is as though she has woken from a night of restless sleep to find herself in a place she does not recognise. Véronique busies herself, babbling excitedly, opening cupboards, programming the microwave, slamming the door of the fridge, laying the table.
    “Can I help with anything?” Sophie says.
    “No, no.”
    The perfect hostess. In a few short minutes, the table is laid with a salad, a bottle of wine, a fresh baguette (“Actually, it’s yesterday’s”, “It’ll be fine”) which she carefully cuts with a bread knife.
    “So, you’re a translator . . .”
    Sophiehas been trying to think of a topic for conversation. She need not have bothered. Now that she is at home, Véronique is very chatty.
    “English and Russian. My mother is Russian, which helps.”
    “So, what do you translate? Novels?”
    “I wish. No, I do more technical stuff, letters, brochures, that sort of thing.”
    The conversation meanders, they talk about work, about family. Sophie invents relations, colleagues, a family, a beautiful, brand-new life, taking care to keep it as far from reality as possible.
    “What about your parents, where did you say they lived?” Véronique says.
    “Chilly-Mazarin.”
    She blurts out the name, she does not know where it came from.
    “What do they do?”
    “I persuaded them to retire.”
    Véronique has uncorked the wine, she serves a fricassée of vegetables with lardons.
    “I should warn you: it’s cooked from frozen.”
    Sophie realises that she is ravenous. She eats and eats.