Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

“No, I’ll take care of it,” said Clarissa. “It’s my pleasure.”

With a timid wave, Mia White left, thanking her.

“Who’s she?” asked Andy, with her mouth full.

“A young fan.”

“You see her often?”

“This is the second time I have.”

“You like her?”

“To tell the truth, I’m not sure.”

“She’s pretty, but there’s something weird.”

“Yes,” said Clarissa. “Something weird, as you say.”

“What did you say her name was?”

“Mia White.”

Andy’s thumbs flew over her mobile.

“Strange,” she said after a while.

“What?” asked Clarissa.

“All the stuff she puts out there. It’s so obvious.”

“What do you mean, missy?”

“Well, no young person—I mean of her age, or mine—puts public stuff out there. Even people of my parent’s generation stopped doing it years ago. Only really old folks pour their heart out online. We do everything privately, through KingDam or Alamida. She’s using such outdated channels. It’s like she wants you to see who she is right away.”

“And what do you think that means?”

“No idea. Be careful, Mums.”

Andy wiped a cluster of crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

“Mummy is concerned about you. I heard her on the phone with Granddad the other day.”

In another life, at another moment, Clarissa would have tickled Andy’s chin and brushed away Jordan’s worries with a smile.

“I’ve already said this, Mums, but you know you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”

How she loved that fine and intelligent little face.

“I know, Andy. Being able to trust you is very precious.”

The rain had stopped at last. The umbrella cavalcade faded away.

“Remember what you said about my apartment?”

“Yes. That I felt someone was watching me all the time.”

“Well, that’s exactly what’s going on. The artists who live in the residence are all spied upon.”

“Have you talked to Mom about this?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your mom thinks I exaggerate. She worries about me. She thinks I forget stuff. She sees me as a disturbed old lady.”

“That’s because she loves you. And you do forget stuff, sometimes. You repeat things, too. It doesn’t bother me.”

Clarissa was just getting started.

“Why I am being watched? And the other artists? Why have I been staying awake ever since I moved in? Why are my sleep and dreams being tampered with? And Dr. Dewinter, what does she want?”

“Relax, Mums. I’ll help you. Dr. Dethingy doesn’t scare me. What do we start with? I can’t wait.”

“I’ll tell you more when you come next week. I’m waiting for some important news. Don’t say anything to your mother.”

“Cross my heart.”

Clarissa grabbed her granddaughter’s hand. She smiled at her.

“I’m so lucky to have you around.”

“You got it all wrong. I’m the lucky one, having a granny like you.”

 NOTEBOOK

The apartment obsessed me. I kept thinking about what my husband did within those walls. All the craziest scenarios ran through my head. I even imagined the young bearded guy was his lover.

The only way for me to understand what was going on there was to get inside.

I had to find the key. My husband no doubt kept it on him. But at night? While he was asleep? It was the only way. And then what? If I took it, he’d find out.

A key. A simple key.

It made me smile. Even if I happened to be ensnared by my own pain, I was able to capture the irony of the situation. The symbolism of this deplorable story.

I, the property examiner turned writer, fascinated by places, dwellings and their enigmas, was at the mercy of a key about to unlock a secret. Did I really want to know that secret? I could still turn back. I had that choice. I could protect myself.

I hesitated. But not for long.

My husband was at last fast asleep. I had waited. I had counted each minute. It had seemed endless. Without a noise, I got out of the bed. He had left his clothes rolled up in the bathroom. Slowly, I went through each item. Nothing in his trousers or shirt pockets.

Silently, I went to the entrance. His jacket, on a chair. Nothing in it, apart from his wallet, which I inspected.

His set of keys was on the small table. I checked. There were only the keys to our flat. Nothing else.

I began to feel desperate in the darkness of my home. Did he conceal the key here? There must be a hiding place. Where? I racked my brains, tried to stay calm. If I wanted to hide an object from my husband, where would I come up with? A place he’d never think of looking.

My husband was still fast asleep. I could hear a peaceful snore. He had no idea his secret was soon to be revealed.

I went soundlessly back to the bathroom. His shoes, on the tiled floor. Elegant loafers purchased in Rome.

I bent down and inserted my fingers into the left one. Empty. But I knew. I knew I’d find it.

The key was in the right-hand loafer, right at the top. A thin, flat key that took up no room. A very common sort. Easy to copy.

I heard the floorboards creak.

I just had time to slip the key back into the shoe and stand up.

My husband was standing on the threshold.

“You’re awake?” he asked in a drowsy voice.

I replied, lightly, that I was looking for medicine for my headache. I rummaged around in a drawer, found aspirin. My husband had gone to the toilet. I heard him urinate and flush. He went back to bed.

I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how I would go about getting the key duplicated. In the end, it had been easier than I thought. Every year, since his cancer, my husband had to undergo medical examinations. He was put through numerous tests, as well as an MRI scan in a specialized clinic. I always accompanied him.

During his checkup, which lasted two hours, while the doctor’s staff took him in charge, and as I supervised his belongings, stored in a locker, I was able to filch the key, which I found this time in his trousers. While he was having the scan, I left the clinic