Read Online Irene by Pierre Lemaitre - Free Book Online

she really beautiful? It was a question he had asked himself twice. The first time when they had had dinner together three years earlier. Irène had been wearing a midnight-blue dress buttoned from throat to hem, the sort of dress that men cannot help but imagine unbuttoning, which is precisely why women wear them. Pinned to the breast was a simple gold brooch.
    At the time he remembered something he had read long ago, something about “the ridiculous penchant of men for demure blondes”. Irène had a sensual beauty that gave the lie to such a thought. Was Irène beautiful? Yes.
    The second time he had asked himself this question was seven months ago: Irène had been wearing the same dress, only the jewellery was different, she now wore the brooch Camille had given her on their wedding day. She was wearing make-up.
    “Are you going out?” Camille had asked when he got home.
    In fact it was not so much a question as a probing statement, something particular to him which dated from the time he had believed that his relationship with Irène was one of those interludes which life has the good grace to offer a man once in a while, and the good sense to take away again.
    “No,” Irène had said, “I’m not going out.”
    Her work at the editing studio left little time to make dinner. As for Camille, his working day was dictated by the sorrows of the world; he arrived home late and left early.
    “You are extremely beautiful, Madame Verhœven,” Camille said, placing a hand on her breast.
    “A little aperitif first,” said Irène, slipping from his embrace.
    “Of course. So, what are we celebrating?” asked Camille.
    “I have news.”
    “What sort of news?”
    “Just news.”
    Irène sat next to him and took his hand.
    “Looks as though it’s good news.”
    “I hope so.”
    “You’re not sure?”
    “I’m not completely sure. I’d rather the news had come on a day when you didn’t seem so preoccupied.”
    “No, no, I’m just tired,” Camille protested, stroking her hand by way of apology. “I just need a good night’s sleep.”
    “The good news is that I’m not tired, but I’d happily go to bed early too.”
    Camille smiled. The day had been measured out in stab wounds, difficult arrests, screaming and shouting in the offices of the
brigade criminelle
, one vast gaping wound.
    But Irène was expert at making things right. She knew how to boost his confidence, how to take his mind off things. She talked about the studio, about the film she was editing (“complete rubbish, you wouldn’t believe how bad it is”). The conversation, the warmth of the apartment, the tiredness of the day slipping away. Camille felt a drowsy contentment welling up inside him. He was no longer listening to her words; the sound of her voice was enough. Irène’s voice.
    “O.K.,” she said. “Let’s eat.”
    She was about to get up, then suddenly seemed to remember something.
    “Two things, before I forget. Three things, actually.”
    “Shoot,” Camille said, draining his glass.
    “Françoise has invited us to dinner on the 13th. Does that work?”
    “Works for me,” Camille said after a moment’s thought.
    “Good. Second thing: I need to do the accounts, so go and get me your credit-card statements.”
    Camille clambered down off the sofa, took his wallet out of his rucksack, fished inside and pulled out a wad of crumpled receipts.
    “You’re not going to do the accounts tonight, are you?” he said, setting the receipts on the coffee table. “Today has been tough enough already.”
    “Of course I’m not,” said Irène, heading into the kitchen. “Come on, let’s have dinner.”
    “You said there were three things?”
    Irène stopped and turned, pretending to rack her brains.
    “Oh, yes – one last thing: how do you feel about being a father?”
    She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Camille stared at her stupidly, his eyes automatically resting on her belly which was still completely flat.