two

The light came on at the top of the front steps, and the door opened. A man’s imposing silhouette advanced toward me, carrying an enormous umbrella. When he drew closer, I could make out a long face, good-looking despite the wrinkles. He was one of those men who had aged well: a kind of Gallic Sean Connery. I noticed dimples at the corners of his mouth, which gave him a friendly air. One that put me at ease. He was at least sixty, but it didn’t look as if it had taken much effort to get there. His pale gray eyes had a lively twinkle to them, and his salt-and-pepper hair was surprisingly thick for a man his age, only slightly receding in a way that suited the shape of his forehead. A beard as well tended as the gardens finished off his stylish appearance. He invited me to follow him inside.

“Come in. You’re soaked through!”

“Tha-thanks. It’s really kind of you. Again, I’m so sorry to disturb you . . .”

“Don’t be. It’s not a problem. Take a seat while I fetch you a towel.”

Just then, an elegant woman who I guessed must be his wife appeared. Her pretty face was creased with a frown, which she quickly suppressed when she saw me.

“Is everything all right, darling?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. This lady had a car accident and couldn’t get a signal in the woods. She just needs to use the phone and to recover a little.”

“Oh yes, of course . . .”

When she saw how cold I was, she kindly offered me a cup of tea. I accepted on the spot.

As she disappeared into the kitchen, her husband came back downstairs, holding a towel.

“Thank you, you’re very kind, Mr. . . .”

“Call me Claude.”

“Ah, OK. My name’s Camille.”

“Here you are, Camille. The phone is over there.”

“Wonderful. I won’t be a minute.”

“Take your time.”

I went over to the telephone, which stood on a pretty inlaid wooden table beneath a piece of modern art. These people had taste, and they were obviously well-off. What a relief I had come across them and not some monster who devoured desperate housewives in distress.

I picked up the receiver and dialed my insurance company’s roadside assistance number. Since I couldn’t give them my car’s exact location, I asked the mechanic to come to the house, after Claude gave me the address. I was told they would be there within the hour. I breathed a sigh of relief: things were looking up.

Then I called home. Claude was considerate enough to go over to the fire crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room and poke the logs while I did so. After eight seemingly endless rings, my husband picked up. I could tell from his voice that he had fallen asleep in front of the TV. He didn’t seem surprised or worried that I was calling: he was used to me sometimes coming home quite late.

I explained all the catastrophes that had occurred, but he kept interrupting me with annoyed grunts and tuts of exasperation, before asking technical details: How long would it take the tow truck to come? How much was it going to cost? My nerves were frayed enough as it was, and the way he was behaving made me want to shout down the phone. Couldn’t he show a bit of understanding just this once? After telling him that I would sort it out and he needn’t bother to wait up for me, I slammed down the phone.

Despite myself, my hands were trembling and I knew tears were welling in my eyes. I didn’t hear Claude coming back over to me, so I jumped when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Everything OK? Are you all right?” he asked gently. I only wished my husband’s voice on the phone a few moments earlier had sounded as concerned.

He bent over me and said again, “Are you OK?”

At that, something in his face brought my defenses crashing down: my lip began to wobble, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. My mascara ran down my face as I released all the pent-up frustration that had built over the previous hours, weeks—months, even . . .