Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre Read Free Book Online Page B

The wine gives her a woozy feeling of well-being. Thankfully, Véronique is very talkative. She sticks to small talk, mainly, but she has a talent for conversation, mixing everyday details with little anecdotes. As she eats, Sophie picks up information about her parents, her education, a younger brother, a recent trip to Scotland. After a while, the flow trickles, then stops.
    “Married?” Véronique asks, gesturing to Sophie’s right hand.
    There is an uncomfortable silence.
    “Past tense.”
    “Butyou still wear it?”
    Remember to take off the ring.
    “Habit, I suppose,” Sophie improvises. “What about you?”
    “I was all set to get the habit.”
    She says this with an awkward smile, hoping to forge a sisterly bond. In other circumstances, maybe, Sophie thinks. But not here.
    “But?”
    “It didn’t work out, but who knows . . .”
    Véronique brings out a platter of cheeses. For someone with nothing in the fridge . . .
    “So you live on your own?”
    Véronique hesitates.
    “Yes.” She bows her head over her plate, then raises it and looks Sophie in the eye almost defiantly. “Only since last Monday. It’s still a bit raw.”
    “Oh.”
    All Sophie knows is that she does not want to know. Does not want to get involved. She wants to finish her lunch and go. She does not feel well. She needs to leave.
    “These things happen,” she says inanely.
    “Yes.”
    They talk a little longer, but something in the conversation is broken. A small, private grief has come between them.
    Then the telephone rings out in the hall.
    Véronique turns towards the hall as though expecting someone to appear. She sighs. The telephone rings once, twice. She apologises, stands, and goes to answer it.
    Sophie drains her glass of wine, pours another, stares out of the window. Although Véronique has closed the door behind her, her muted voice is still audible. An awkward situation. WereVéronique not in the hallway, Sophie would grab her jacket and leave right now, without a word, like a thief. She can make out a few words and, without meaning to, pieces together the conversation.
    Véronique’s voice is grave and harsh.
    Sophie gets up, takes a few steps away from the door but it makes no difference, Véronique’s words are so clear now that she might as well be in the same room. The terrible words of a banal break-up. Sophie is not interested in this woman’s life. (“It’s over, I told you: I’m through with you.”) Sophie does not care about this failed relationship. She moves to the window. (“We’ve been through this a hundred times, let’s not rake over it again.”) On her left, there is a little writing desk. An idea begins to form in her mind. She cocks her ear to listen to the conversation. It’s got to the point of “For Christ’s sake, just leave me alone”, she still has a little time, she pulls down the central panel of the writing desk and finds two rows of drawers. “Save your breath. I don’t fall for that kind of emotional blackmail.” In the second drawer she finds a few 200-euro notes. Four of them. She stuffs them into her pocket and goes on searching. Her fingers (“I suppose you think that’s going to upset me?”) locate the stiff cover of a passport. She flicks it open but postpones examining it until later. She slips it into her pocket. She picks up a half-used chequebook and a driving licence. By the time she has reached the sofa and crammed everything into the inside pocket of her jacket, she hears: “Sad loser!” Then there is “A pathetic excuse for a man!” and finally “Scumbag”.
    The receiver is brutally slammed down. Silence. Véronique stays in the hall. Sophie tries to look suitably casual, laying one hand on her jacket.
    Finally Véronique reappears. She apologises clumsily, tries to smile.
    “I’mso sorry, you must have felt . . . I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Sophie says, quickly adding, “I’ll leave you to it.”
    “No, don’t,”