The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) by Anna Jaquiery Page B

listened to Henri’s footsteps above. Her gaze never wavered from
his.
    ‘Long day?’ she said.
    ‘Very.’
    Morel reached over and pulled down the straps of her dress. It fell easily around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He sighed as he sat back and stared at her.
    ‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked through the door.’
    She leaned back, letting her hands rest on the sofa and the dress fall further down her hips. He could tell there was nothing else on her, besides the thin silk dress.
    ‘What else?’ she said, while he let his eyes travel from her breasts down to the curve of her hips. ‘What else have you been wanting to do?’
    Later they got dressed and she offered him another drink. His mouth felt dry and he didn’t really want another glass of wine but he took it anyway. After sex, Solange
seemed to shed one skin in favour of another, more self-assured.
    Out on the balcony the air was barely any cooler. Down below there was a shout, and Morel thought there might be trouble. Perhaps a fight had broken out. But then there was laughter. Still, it
made him edgy.
    Solange touched his arm. The pressure of her hand was proprietorial. She left it there, unmoving. Gradually, his breathing slowed down. He found himself looking out at the night without trying
to guess what it might conceal.

N INE
    Elisabeth Guillou closed her book and yawned. She looked at her watch. It was still only 8.30. She would usually be ready for bed around 9.30, but it had been a particularly
tiring day. Her son had come for lunch with his wife Clare and their two children. The boy had just turned six and was never still; forever looking for an opportunity to do the things he should
not. Clare had spent most of the afternoon barking at him while he ignored her with an air of such complete indifference that his grandmother found something to admire in it, though the
child’s mother clearly did not. Meanwhile Elisabeth Guillou’s own son sat there like a sack of potatoes, grinning like a lunatic at some joke only he was privy to. She’d looked at
him and wondered when exactly his face had lost its shape and character. It was as inexpressive as a loaf of bread. He and Clare, they were both that way. They both dressed, too, as though
appearance no longer mattered.
    Elisabeth Guillou yawned again. She wondered what it was about her son’s family. She had raised two children herself and could not remember it being as exhausting as they made it out to
be. The pair of them looked as though they’d lost their spirit and the children were not much better. Well, the boy was quite lively. He had spent an hour bouncing up and down on the
trampoline, so gleeful it had gratified her. Though it wasn’t long before she started wondering how her grandson filled his days to get such manic delight from a trampoline. The girl said
little and spent her time drawing stick figures with oversized heads. She had a mild form of autism, her father said. Something Syndrome – Elisabeth couldn’t remember. Nowadays
everything had a name.
    She stood up and found herself swaying for a moment. This happened to her when she’d been sitting for a long time, and when she took her glasses off. Her doctor had told her this was quite
normal, nothing to do with age, just an adjustment of perspective.
    She headed towards the bathroom. It was warm but she didn’t like to leave the windows open. Since her husband’s death, many years had gone by but still she had not got used to living
alone. She did a good job of hiding just how fearful she was. The truth was she only felt safe in her own house, with the windows shut and the door locked. She thought of the inspector whom she had
sat with the day before, the handsome one with the dark, thoughtful eyes. She had felt safe with him too.
    An attractive and elegant man. Just because she was old didn’t mean she couldn’t tell a good-looking man when she saw one. Was that why she hadn’t been