A/N: just a shortish chapter to keep things angsty...thanks to those who are reading, reviewing, following or otherwise enjoying this fic!
The laid-back sounds of reggae, mingled with the noises of happy people enjoying themselves, come down the line loud and clear, as Catherine answers the phone in her unmistakable voice. "Oui, La Kaz" she purrs, before holding the instrument away from her ear as a torrent of stressed-sounding English assaults her. She puts the receiver down carefully, serves a couple of locals at the bar, picks up glasses from several nearby tables, then judges it time to retrieve the handset. He is still speaking loudly, so she cuts across him. "She's gone, Richard." Catherine listens, unsurprised, to the sudden silence at his end, before continuing, "She left on the last flight to Paris tonight. No, I don't know when she will be back, Camille didn't say. Perhaps if you come down here, I can explain it better?" and then she hears a sharp click as the call disconnects. Richard is on his way.
Fifteen minutes later, Catherine mixes herself a strong rum and lime cocktail and pulls a pint of beer, then carries both drinks to the quietest corner of the patio. "So, let's talk," she invites the very anxious and nervous-looking Englishman, perched on the edge of a wicker chair. As soon as she is seated, Richard repeats his earlier question, "What do you mean, she's gone back to Paris?" Catherine studies him for a moment, trying to understand exactly what her daughter sees in this strange, awkward Englishman, and failing. She looks him in the eye, but he is unable to hold her gaze, flinching away within seconds. She knows this is because he is pathologically shy, but tonight Catherine's thoughts are all for her daughter, and so she steels herself to be brutal, a lioness defending her cub.
Finally, she speaks, her tone direct. "I mean exactly that. Camille had a life in Paris, before her undercover assignment, and she has gone back to that life." Richard's eyes flick up to meet hers, surprise evident in his expression, and his mouth drops open soundlessly. Such an idea has never occurred to him, Catherine can tell. This realisation angers her, and she laughs mirthlessly at his reaction. "Camille had friends, an apartment, even a lover there, why would she not return? She loves Paris, she has a long-standing offer of work with the Sûreté, a chance to build a brilliant career. She would not even be here, except that you arrested her…she was never meant to stay! There's nothing here for her except a dead-end job, and as for me, I can fly to France whenever I need to see her. I want her to have a happy life, Richard, and she's very unhappy here."
Catherine sits back in her chair and watches the Englishman as he opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times, his eyes wide with shock, his hands actually trembling slightly. After Richard's initial glance up at her, he looks back down fixedly at his hands, clasping them in his lap to stop the trembling. He keeps his eyes down as he asks hesitantly, "Did...did she say why she was unhappy? She's always very…professional at work, very helpful. I couldn't do without her, really…" His nervous little speech is cut off as Catherine slams her glass down onto the table with a bang. "You can't do without her, maybe, but she can do without you! She's capable of so much more than just being your subordinate. She deserves so much more in her life, Richard. So much more than being 'professional' or 'helpful', and I hope that you will understand when I say, so much more, too, than acting as a go-between for you and the rest of the world." Catherine gives him a long, level look, challenging him to say anything, her face set in hard lines. Richard can't meet her eyes; his shoulders hunch defensively and he seems to shrink into himself. Finally, he says in a voice he barely recognises as his own, "I…I had better go, I think. Goodnight", and getting up, he fumbles some money onto the table and leaves, stumbling blindly through the swaying dancers on the terrace, past the tables inside where groups of friends sit laughing, and out into the night.
Catherine watches him leave as she gathers their glasses (his, untouched), then heads back inside. She leaves his money on the table with a philosophical shrug. She doesn't think she has heard the last of this, but whatever Richard might say to her, once he has recovered from the shock of hearing so many unexpected revelations at once, Catherine is not going to be swayed. She watched Camille pack only a few hours ago, her face expressionless, her shoulders tense, every movement precise and utterly devoid of her usual easy grace, and her daughter's uncharacteristic silence had worried Catherine far more than all the tirades and outbursts of the last year put together.
After making a couple of very private phone calls following her boss's departure, Camille had gone straight home from work that afternoon, dragged her battered old travel bag from beneath the bed, and quickly and efficiently packed all her cold-weather clothes. Catherine, about to return to La Kaz for the evening's work, had soon gotten the story out of her, although in truth she was not all that surprised. For nearly a year, she had watched her bright, beautiful, kind-hearted daughter become more and more infatuated with a man seemingly incapable of responding to her attentions, and she had known it could only end in heartbreak. Catherine was convinced that not even Erzulie could intervene where Richard Poole was concerned, and she told her daughter so in no uncertain terms. Afterwards, she had hugged Camille for a long time, and then had helped her finish packing before driving her to the airport in their little old Citroën. Catherine was going to miss her only child fiercely, but she knew this separation was necessary, and she would endure anything, do anything, to ensure Camille's happiness.
It's only what any mother would do, she tells herself, while the memory of the Englishman stumbling away, his shoulders bowed and head down, keeps playing on her mind, even as she laughs and jokes with her customers. He'll get over it. And then another image comes to her, quite unbidden. The look on Richard's face, thinking himself unobserved, as he watched Camille greet her date last night. Catherine had seen him pause on his way out of the bar, and she had slipped silently to the doorway opposite, wanting to be on hand if he decided to make a nuisance of himself. He hadn't; instead, he had turned to watch Camille, dazzling in her best dress, walking away from him, and across his rather plain face had flitted deep wistfulness, loneliness and regret in such rapid succession that had she not been watching closely, she would have missed it altogether. Catherine had moved away when she saw him leave, and had thought of it no more, until now, when she had seen the very same look in his eyes, now mingled with confusion, hurt, and rejection. C'est la vie, she finally tells herself, but the words have never sounded less convincing.