The Betrayals(43)

‘Whereas you would be?’ It takes all the breath she has to say it, and all the composure.

‘It would be understandable if you were curious about me, that’s all. And you did take those games, I wasn’t born yesterday.’ He smiles. ‘Look, I’m not saying …’

She draws in her breath, furious: at him and at herself, because he thinks she is at a disadvantage and she has only herself to blame. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time on you.’

Perhaps she did say it too sharply, but it’s no more than he deserves. He has no right to flinch. ‘How kind,’ he says. ‘But don’t spare my vanity, will you?’

Spare his vanity? Who does he think she is, a Party wife? No, just a woman. ‘I’m sorry your vanity can’t face the truth.’

‘Look, there’s no need to be unpleasant. I’ve made something of myself. It’s not a laughable idea that you – that someone might be interested—’

‘Something? Yes. You’re an exiled ex-minister. The sooner you go home, the better.’ She nods, her neck tight, towards his chaotic notes. ‘Aimé was a genius. You’re still struggling with diacritics.’

He catches his breath. ‘I may not be a grand jeu player any more but at least I didn’t cut my own thro—’

Something ignites behind her breastbone like a spark. ‘How dare you? You of all people have no right to laugh at him – you’re so arrogant, you – he died, my brother died. And you stand there telling me he was nothing. Well, fuck you, Léo – fuck you—’ She stops.

There’s a silence, like the gap between two ticks of a clock.

Then she turns away, unable to look at his face.

No time passes, and yet when she looks back at him he has aged. The creases around his mouth are deeper, the shadows and pallor of his face starker. He is still staring at her but she knows that he is seeing someone else, another face superimposed on her own. He says, ‘Your brother?’

She swallows. He hadn’t realised. Of course, he hadn’t realised.

But there is no point denying it now. It isn’t a secret, exactly. She’ll admit it to anyone who asks. She had enough of secrets long ago. She opens her mouth but her throat feels sore, her tongue swollen. ‘Aimé Carfax de Courcy was my brother,’ she says.

He bows his head, as though someone has put a weight around his neck. ‘I see.’

The words almost make her laugh: he didn’t see, did he? It was staring him in the face, and he never even looked at her. She glances away. ‘I remember him mentioning that game. The Danse Macabre. He was pleased with the way it ended up.’ It’s true; let Martin think that’s all she knows. No need to mention Léo’s diary, and the endless jokes about the de Courcys, and his sheer childish nastiness … When she read it, the first time, it stung like acid: he’ll pay for that. Well, Aimé did pay, didn’t he? But she can’t say it aloud. She bites her lip and tries to stare Martin out.

‘Yes. Well.’ He nods again, his chin sagging lower as though the weight has grown heavier. ‘I didn’t realise … Your name, you’re not a …?’

He can’t even say de Courcy. ‘I changed it after – after he died. I went to live with my cousins in England. I wanted to make a clean break.’

He makes a small sound that isn’t quite amusement. ‘And did you?’

She doesn’t answer. For a second, in spite of everything, something flashes between them, some fleeting warmth. Understanding. He hasn’t made a clean break any more than she has. But swift on its heels comes the thought: he didn’t deserve one.

‘You look … I should have known. Even if I didn’t see it at first. When I saw you that night, without your glasses, in the dark, I nearly realised … But I didn’t trust – after he died I saw him everywh—’ He stops. His jaw tightens, as though he blames her for his having said too much. ‘That is, I can see the resemblance,’ he says, more smoothly. ‘When I arrived here … Forgive me, I should have guessed.’

‘Not at all. He died ten years ago. More. We’ve all changed.’

‘We certainly have.’ Silence. Is he inviting her to sympathise? ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘After he died … I never …’

She stares past him at a knot in the panelling beside the window, the age-smoothed wood at the level of her eyes.

‘I was his friend.’

‘Were you?’ she says, and her voice twangs like a cello string. ‘Were you, really?’

And he blushes. She can’t remember the last time she saw a grown man blush. The flush runs right up to his hairline and seeps down below his collar. He stares at her, speechless. She’s glad she’s silenced him. But the chord of triumph that rings in her head has a lower, softer harmonic. It isn’t pity, but it’s an echo of it.

‘Did he ever talk to you about me?’ he asks. ‘Your brother?’

She takes a moment, not to consider whether to tell the truth, but to be pleased that she can. She says, ‘Not once.’

He reaches down, picks up his pen from the desk and examines it as if he’s never seen one before. He flicks the clip with his thumbnail until she expects it to break. ‘I see.’