The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain Read Free Book Online Page A

back,’ he said. The pot-au-feu was beginning to bubble. In a few minutes he would add the vegetables he had part-cooked the night before: carrots, potatoes, leeks, turnips, celery, and two marrow bones.
    ‘It’s signed!’ cried Chloé.
    Laurent smiled as he took the plate of vegetables out of the fridge. He had introduced his daughter to reading from a young age. They had progressed from Marcel Aymé’s Des Contes du Chat Perché to Harry Potter, and from there to Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories and then on to poetry – Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Prévert, Éluard – before returning to fiction and Proust, Stendhal,Camus, Céline and others before finally tackling contemporary authors. If he had achieved one thing with Chloé’s education, it was to instil in her a love of literature. Now Chloé made her own literary discoveries without his guidance. Recently she had been on a ‘Mallarmé trip’, declaring his epic poems ‘better than Alain Baschung’.
    He tasted the broth off the tip of the ladle, added a pinch of salt and then tipped in the vegetables. Twenty minutes on a low heat and they would be cooked to perfection. He opened a bottle of Fixin and poured himself a glass just as a text came through on his mobile. Dominique. She hadn’t replied to his text of the evening before, nor the one two days earlier. ‘See you this evening?’ she had written. Laurent took a sip of wine. ‘Having dinner with my daughter,’ he texted back. There was no reply.
    Chloé appeared in the doorway and leant against the door frame.
    ‘Taste this,’ he said, holding out his glass to her. ‘Burgundy, Fixin, Reserve Monseigneur Alexandre 2009, a gift from a customer.’
    She swirled the wine about and breathed in the aroma as he had taught her, then drank a mouthful, indicating her approval with a slight nod, just as her father did in restaurants.
    ‘She must be in her forties,’ began Chloé. ‘Judging by her make-up, never mind her choice of chic designer bag. A thirty-year-old wouldn’t choose that, and an old hag wouldn’t even know about it.’
    ‘Don’t talk like that, Chloé. You’re not at school any more. But go on,’ said Laurent, taking another sip.
    Chloé sighed, then continued, ‘She’s very attached to the past – the mirror is ancient, a family heirloom; perhaps it was her grandmother’s. And she uses an unusual perfume – no one wearsHabanita any more – she writes weird things in her notebook, she has a book signed by an author you admire …’ Then she concluded with an ironic smile, ‘She’s the woman for you.’
    ‘I expected more from you when I let you see the bag,’ replied Laurent coldly.
    ‘OK,’ said Chloé, ‘no need to get worked up. You’re probably on the right track with the dry-cleaner’s, but you can do much better than that.’
    ‘I’m listening,’ commented Laurent, attending to the cooker.
    ‘You should go and see Modiano.’
    When Laurent shrugged, she said, ‘I’m serious, you have to ask him. He’s the only one who’s seen her, he must remember her.’
    ‘I don’t know Modiano, Chloé,’ said Laurent, lowering the heat under the pressure cooker.
    ‘But you know hundreds of writers. He lives here in Paris – surely you must have a way of reaching him?’
    ‘I think he lives near the Luxembourg Gardens, but I don’t have his address.’
    ‘Ask his publisher.’
    ‘Chloé, they would never give it to me.’
    ‘You’ll have to find a way, he’s the key.’ Chloé grabbed his wine glass from the table and took a sip.
    ‘Are you in love?’ she asked after a moment’s silence.
    ‘Who with?’ replied Laurent, lifting the pressure-cooker lid.
    ‘The woman with the red notebook.’
    ‘Of course not. I’d just like to give her bag back. Bring the plates through.’
    Chloé put the glass down and picked up the plates from the worktop. ‘How’s Dominique?’ she asked quietly.
    ‘She’s not really speaking to me at the moment,’ Laurent said