Chapter 11
Soon conventional introductions were made. Nora decided to invite the neighbors over. She mentioned it one morning to her daughter, who thought it was a cool idea, and then that same afternoon she happened to run into Tiphaine on the sidewalk as she was leaving the house. She went straight up to her and asked her to dinner on Friday evening. An opportunity to get to know each other.
Caught off guard, Tiphaine tried to hide her surprise by pretending to figure out if she and Sylvain were free on Friday. In truth, it wasn’t an issue: their social life had long been as ruined as their relationship.
“How nice,” she said. “I don’t think we have anything planned, at least not that I know of...I’ll check with Sylvain and let you know.” And with that she let out a small laugh that was meant to be casual but betrayed her awkwardness. It was hard for her to be on familiar terms with people, at least anyone she didn’t know well, whether her own age or younger. Over the last eight years, there had been no frivolity in her life: a kind of barrier, that she no longer tried to push away, had been established between her and other people.
She promised Nora she’d call that evening, once Sylvain was home from work. The two women exchanged cell phone numbers and said goodbye as they parted.
As Tiphaine closed the front door behind her, Nora’s invitation sounded in her like a warning: the idea of returning to her old house made her feel nauseated, even though she knew the walls held no trace of their former life. Perhaps that was what she dreaded most, being confronted with the ruthless power of time passing, indifferent to her grief. Even before she told Sylvain about the invitation, she knew she could never set foot in the house again.
She had to find an excuse that allowed her to keep up appearances, hang on to the fragile thread that linked her to an ersatz normality, the pleasing image reflected back by Nora of an ordinary neighbor, an anonymous woman, a potential friend.
By the time Sylvain had gotten home, Nora’s invitation had taken on a disproportionate magnitude in Tiphaine’s mind. Sylvain sensed at once that something was wrong—how well he knew her—and tried to get her to talk. Tiphaine resisted for a few moments, saying, “Everything’s fine, I promise,” before giving in as though announcing a catastrophe.
“Nora, you know, the new neighbor next door, has invited us over on Friday evening.”
Sylvain looked at her for a moment, waiting for her to continue. But Tiphaine said nothing more, just stared at him with a troubled expression in which he could read her fear.
Over the next hour, he used all the power of his imagination to find the right words, comforting images, effective arguments. He talked about it as if it were an opportunity to move forward, to chase away the ghosts without denying the past, to turn the page without forgetting Maxime. To give herself the chance to start enjoying life again. Not like before, not as if nothing had happened, but to find a way to get beyond the fear, deal with the pain. He promised her that if she couldn’t cope, if the memories came flooding back too intensely, he’d find an excuse for them to leave.
Eventually Tiphaine agreed.
When Milo found out he was going to spend Friday evening at his pretty neighbor’s house—Tiphaine and Sylvain offered him the option of coming too—he concealed his delight with a blasé shrug.
“I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”
“You have to tell us if you’re coming, Milo,” Tiphaine insisted. “Nora needs to know how many she’s feeding.”
Of course he was coming! He wouldn’t miss it for the world. But he was paralyzed with anxiety at the prospect of spending an entire evening with Inès. What would they talk about? Would she make fun of him for cowering behind the curtains? What did she make of him? Was he worthy of a girl like that? What was he going to wear? Even though the invitation was like the fulfillment of his wildest dreams, Milo pretended to accept it without any particular enthusiasm.
It was all set, then. Tiphaine, reassured by Sylvain’s promise, searched for Nora’s number in her cell phone and made the call. Nora sounded delighted they were coming. They agreed on a time (8 p.m.), what to bring (a bottle of wine), and the tone of the evening (no fuss, it’ll just be us).
On Friday evening, the three gathered on Nora’s front step. As he rang the doorbell, Sylvain prayed the evening would go well. Tiphaine was trying to control the knot of anxiety in her stomach, and Milo was simply scared to death.
When Nora opened the front door the Geniots understood that “no fuss, it’s just us” didn’t mean the same thing to them as to her. Nora had pulled out all the stops: the food, the tableware, her outfit. She looked dazzling. Her Moroccan looks were the perfect complement to her European elegance. She welcomed her guests with a brilliant smile, inviting them in as if they were good friends she hadn’t seen in a while. She did it all with artlessness and ease.
As she walked into the living room, Tiphaine took a deep breath, as if to give herself courage. What struck her immediately was that there was no lingering trace of their life there. The rooms were, of course, the same size, and the layout hadn’t changed—the living room at the front of the house, the dining room at the back, the kitchen to the side. But everything had been redone: the paint, the floor tiles in the entryway, the parquet in the living room. The furnishings and decor reflected Nora’s style. It was as if this were the first time Tiphaine had ever set foot there. The avalanche of memories she had been expecting, each more painful than the next, didn’t materialize. Gradually, she relaxed.
Nora invited them to sit down, then asked what they’d like to drink. She went through what she had, and Sylvain cracked a joke that made everyone laugh. Milo sat there looking uncomfortable and said nothing. Nora noticed his awkwardness and called up the stairs, “Inès! Nassim! Our guests have arrived!”
Nassim was the first to appear. He hid behind his mother, pretending to be shy, peeking out curiously at the three guests with a timid smile on his face. Nora introduced him to Sylvain, since Tiphaine and he had already met, and told him to say hello. The boy complied with good grace. Tiphaine and Sylvain were so busy lauding the boy’s manners and charm, it slightly spoiled Inès’s entrance.
But not for everyone.
Milo was the first to see her. His heart gave a little leap at the sight of her, an unwelcome quickening that he tried to control. If he let himself be impressed, he was lost. As she walked into the room their eyes met, and Milo thought he detected a teasing glint in the teenager’s eyes.
“Hey there, Connor Kenway,” she said.
Connor Kenway! She knew Assassin’s Creed, which, for a girl, was really something. Milo was so surprised he felt silly. What did he know about what she liked?
“Hi!” he replied.
“This is my daughter Inès,” said Nora, pushing her forward.
Inès embraced first Tiphaine, then Sylvain, and then found herself in front of Milo.
“Shall we go upstairs?”
