The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain Read Free Book Online

different . Laurent’s ideas were prehistoric; back in his day there were no mobile phones and you had to be rung up on your parents’ phone; boys were terrified of pretty girls and the worst they ever did was get hold of Playboy and goggle at the double-page spreads of naked women in suspenders in sexy poses. It was nothing like that now. To listen to his daughter was to imagine that, apart from her best friend Charlène, her school was entirely populated by narcissistic bitches, who only ever talked about painting their nails. As for the boys, they were just a bunch of psychopaths who spent their entire time watching hardcore porn on the internet and then offering to practise what they’d watched on Chloé. But the scene in the café had rendered Chloé ‘untouchable’; no one would dare proposition her now; she would be left in peace. The news, now verified, that she had a handsome, much older boyfriend would be all over the lycée in seconds – in fact, it was probably already on Facebook.
    Yes, people had asked her who he was, on the few occasions he had come to collect her from school. Yes, one day she had said he was not her father; yes, she had asked him to sit in that exact spot in the café on purpose so that those bitches would see herwith him. No, she hadn’t thought they would actually dare speak to them. And thank you for going along with it, you’re awesome.
    ‘Awesome,’ grumbled Laurent.
    Then when he heard, ‘Anyway, you should be super flattered,’ he was torn between slapping her and forgiving her. In the interests of a pleasant evening, he opted for the latter.

     
     
    ‘What on earth is all this?’
    Laurent had gone into the kitchen to heat up the pot-au-feu and Chloé was at the card table.
    ‘The contents of a handbag,’ said Laurent from the kitchen, before joining Chloé in the sitting room. ‘I found it in the street.’
    ‘I’d love to have that lipstick, but Maman won’t buy it for me,’ murmured Chloé. ‘And that mirror, so pretty!’
    ‘It was stolen. There’s no ID, just the personal items – they’re all there.’
    Chloé was running her hands over everything, touching the keys, the dice, the Pariscope , the heap of stones. She opened the red notebook at random.
    More things I like:
    Summer evenings when it gets dark late.
    Opening my eyes underwater.
    The names ‘Trans-Siberian Express’ and ‘Orient Express’ (I’ll never travel on either).
    Lapsang Souchong tea.
    Haribo Fraises Tagada.
    Watching men sleep after making love.
    Hearing ‘Mind the gap’ on the Tube in London.
    ‘I’d like to find her,’ Laurent announced. ‘And the only clue I have is that,’ he said, indicating the dry-cleaning ticket. Laurenthad thought quite a lot about the issue of the dress. He had come to the conclusion that he would have to visit all the dry-cleaners’ within a radius of about a kilometre. His thinking was as follows: Laure had had her bag stolen; the man had run off with it, then, once he was a few streets away, he’d rummaged in it, removing the purse, the bank card and the ID, which could be sold. He’d also grabbed the mobile phone, and perhaps one or two other items of value, and then abandoned the bag on top of the bin, before making off. Laurent had found the bag in the morning, so the theft must either have happened shortly before, or in the night. If that analysis was correct, there were then two possibilities. Either Laure had been passing through the area, or she lived there. She would presumably have gone to a dry-cleaner’s relatively near her home, perhaps a dry-cleaner who knew her name. So if she lived in the area, the dry-cleaner’s would be nearby.
    ‘Look at the things, Chloé. You’re a woman – what do you see that I’ve missed? Perhaps there’s something there that could lead me to her.’
    ‘You really know nothing about her yet?’
    ‘I know her name is Laure.’ In the kitchen the pressure cooker began to hiss. ‘I’ll be