Ken Follett – Jackdaws

Flick looked more closely. The razor and brush were a set, with polished bone handles. She recognized them. She had given the set to Michel for his thirty-second birthday.

So that was it.

She was so shocked that for a moment she could not move.

She had suspected him of being interested in someone else, but she had not imagined it had gone this far. Yet here was the proof, in front of her eyes.

Shock turned to hurt. How could he cuddle up to another woman when Flick was lying in bed alone in London? She turned and looked at the bed. They had done it right here, in this room. It was unbearable.

Then she became angry. She had been loyal and faithful, she had borne the loneliness-but he had not. He had cheated. She was so furious she felt she would explode.

She strode into the other room and stood in front of him. “You bastard,” she said in English. “You lousy rotten bastard.”

Michel replied in the same language. “Don’t angry yourself at me.”

He knew that she found his fractured English endearing, but it was not going to work this time. She switched to French. “How could you betray me for a nineteen-year-old nitwit?”

“It doesn’t mean anything, she’s just a pretty girl.”

“Do you think that makes it better?” Flick knew she had originally attracted Michel’s attention, back in the days when she was a student and he a lecturer, by challenging him in class-French students were deferential by comparison with their English counterparts, and on top of that Flick was by nature disrespectful of authority. If someone similar had seduced Michel-perhaps Genevieve, a woman who would have been his equal- she could have borne it better. It was more hurtful that he had chosen Gilberte, a girl with nothing on her mind more interesting than nail polish.

“I was lonely,” Michel said pathetically.

“Spare me the sob story. You weren’t lonely-you were weak, dishonest, and faithless.”

“Flick, my darling, let’s not quarrel. Half our friends have just been killed. You’re going back to England. We could both die soon. Don’t go away angry.”

“How can I not be angry? I’m leaving you in the arms of your floozie!”

“She’s not a floozie-”

“Skip the technicalities. I’m your wife, but you’re sharing her bed.”

Michel moved in his chair and winced with pain; then he fixed Flick with his intense blue eyes.”! plead guilty,” he said “I’m a louse. But I’m a louse who loves you, and I’m just asking you to forgive me, this once, in case I never see you again.”

It was hard to resist. Flick weighed five years of marriage against a fling with a popsie and gave in. She moved a step toward him. He put his arms around her legs and pressed his face into the worn cotton of her dress. She stroked his hair. “All right,” she said. “All right.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I feel awful. You’re the most wonderful woman I ever met, or even heard of. I won’t do it any more, I promise.”

The door opened, and Gilberte came in with Claude. Flick gave a guilty start and released Michel’s head from her embrace. Then she felt stupid. He was her husband, not Gilberte’s. Why should she feel guilty about hugging him, even in Gilberte’s apartment? She was angry with herself

Gilberte looked shocked to see her lover embracing his wife here, but she swiftly recovered her composure, and her face assumed a frozen expression of indifference.

Claude, a handsome young doctor, followed her in, looking anxious.

Flick went to Claude and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “We’re truly grateful.”

Claude looked at Michel. “How do you feel, old buddy?”

“I’ve got a bullet in my arse.”

“Then I’d better take it out.” He lost his worried air and became briskly professional. Turning to Flick, he said, “Put some towels on the bed to soak up the blood, then get his trousers off and lay him facedown. I’ll wash my hands.”

Gilberte put old magazines on her bed and towels over the paper while Flick got Michel up and helped him hobble to the bed. As he lay down, she could not help wondering how many other times he had lain here.