The Widow by Nicolas Freeling Page B

at a desk takes practice: Arlette didn’t have it yet. The girl seemed to know that. She’d taken a cigarette out of the box without being asked, and picked languidly at a punished finger. One can look very world-weary at eighteen.
    â€˜I’m Marie-Line Siegel,’ she’d said coming in. ‘Sorry about being a bit late.’ Irritated at having been uncontrolled and vulnerable on the phone.
    â€˜D’you need that thing on?’ stabbing a finger at the tape recorder.
    â€˜Not if you prefer it off,’ said Arlette.
    â€˜I don’t mind. Irritating that’s all; thing going round. But what’s the use of coming at all, unless I’m prepared to trust you? I don’t know you. But one must trust somebody.’
    â€˜What made you decide to trust me?’
    â€˜I don’t know. You’re a woman, I suppose. Not that that… skip it. Are there woman detectives; I mean are there many?’
    â€˜I have no idea.’
    â€˜Then what – oh well, let’s not quibble.’
    â€˜Let’s come to the point.’
    â€˜You’re so right. Anyhow, my father’s Doctor Armand Siegel.’
    â€˜What sort of doctor?’
    â€˜Dentist. Lots and lots of sophisticated equipment. Great big panoramic radiograph. Squads of assistants and nurses, eligible females. Boy, do you appreciate it when the bill comes in, typed in a beautiful huge IBM typeface. Sorry; gassing rather. Sorry too, bit uptight about my father on the whole.’
    â€˜And your mother?’
    â€˜Is, better said was, Véronique Ulrich; that’s another great doctor dynasty. She was a disgrace though; ran away. I kept on being told how wicked and ungrateful. I don’t see her, so don’t know how wicked she is. Average, I suppose. Leaves me alone; that was part of the bargain.’
    â€˜Divorce bargain?’
    â€˜No, you don’t know my family; they don’t divorce. Too Christian and forgiving and suffering. Divorce is shocking. Be a sight better if they did. Then he could marry his exceedingly respectable mistress, Catherine-Rose Pelletier, who’s in the cabinet of the Prefect, a career woman you see, pure and single-minded.’
    â€˜You sound a bit uptight about her too.’
    â€˜Cathy’s all right. Makes rather a fuss about being cultural; Bach and stuff. But she doesn’t pretend she’s my new mummy. Quite cool and detached. Loathes me, I dare say, but too Christian to allow that. All these people are very honourable, but they’re to piss on, you know.’
    â€˜Why?’
    The abruptness made the girl give a short uneasy laugh, turned adroitly into airy.
    â€˜You’re right, I’m being unfair. And talking too much. And sounding sorry for myself?’
    â€˜Be as sorry for yourself as you like if you deserve it.’
    â€˜Just that this is all very hupperclawss Strasbourg. Very right wing. You very right wing?
    â€˜You mean do I vote for all those people calling themselves Republicans? No. Will I show you credentials? No. Take me as you find me.’
    The girl laughed with less tension.
    â€˜Good. Sorry. You know, that’s how one gets corrupted. They want to know who you are, meaning where you fit in, meaning how they’ll behave. Wouldn’t do to upstage somebody who might have a brother-in-law in Paris, knowing people.’
    â€˜I don’t. But where do you fit in?’
    â€˜I like you,’ with a real laugh. Big compliment.
    â€˜Great.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m still at school, in the last class, terminal A you know, philo and languages. Should be in C, where the bright ones are supposed to be, doing maths, if I’d been willing to do medicine. It wouldn’t have been looked at askance, if you get me. Biology or something, that’s suitable enough for a woman; they’d have admitted that. I wouldn’t be seen dead with it, and maths bores me silly. Or I could have done B.