on the lights, she slumped on the edge of the bed. The last pink embers of sunset faded into the west. A minute later they were gone.
She picked up her mobile phone, lying on the bedside table. Two more missed calls. She was unable not to check it. Unable to return the calls yet unable to delete his number; unable to move forward in any way, trapped in an invisible cage of contradiction and obsession. She switched it off, tossing it across the room where it landed in acorner. Far away enough so that she couldn’t reach across and grab it in the night; close enough to be retrievable. Self-loathing swelled and saturated, bleeding silently through her, like ink across a clean sheet of paper.
She could see Jack’s blue eyes, narrowed, triumphant; hear the superiority of his voice.
What did that make her?
She knew all too well what that made her.
It still thrilled her. That was the most disgusting part. She dreaded the missed calls yet feared the day when there were no calls at all. Her motives were clouded, filthy. Nothing about her was clear or good or pure any more.
‘We’re bound, you and I.’ The memory of his voice, low, just above a whisper, his breath hot against her cheek played again and again in her mind. Without thinking she rubbed her forearm; she could still feel the pressure of his fingers, digging into her flesh when she tried to move away.
Twilight reigned. A pale sliver of moon began to rise.
It was an unknown house; veiled yet alive in the darkness. It sighed and trembled. Things shifted, shapes, half seen, darted across the floor.
And without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth or take her clothes off, Cate curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
17, Rue de Monceau
Paris
20 July 1926
My darling Wren,
Well! Finally something interesting has happened here! Eleanor’s cousin has arrived in town — Frederick Ogilvy — Smith or Pinky, as he’s known, on account of his permanently flushed cheeks (they really do look like a freshly spanked bottom) — and he is the most fun, which is surprising, considering how congenitally dull Eleanor is. He’s on his way to Nice to join the Hartingtons at their villa near Eze but decided to stop a bit longer to take us all out to supper and a show. Of course Eleanor was mortified but he and Anne and I all got on brilliantly. Perhaps a little too brilliantly — tell me what you think. We are strolling out across the Place de la Concorde after leaving the Ritz and he takes my arm.
‘You’re the bread girl, aren’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon?!’ (I was trying to be serious and aloof but really there’s no point with Pinky — he just carries on regardless.)
‘Now don’t be coy. Everyone knows your mother married Lord Warburton of Warburton’s Wholesome Wholegrain. And a fine loaf it is.’ He looks at me sideways. ‘I expect I best woo you, now that you’re a famous heiress.’
‘I’m not famous.’
‘You will be.’
‘And I’m not an heiress!’
‘Yes, well, insanely well off then. Shall I do it now?’
I sigh. ‘If you must.’
‘Best get it over with.’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts on a wobbly sort of voice. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’
‘Please stop.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What about Anne?’
‘What about her?’
‘Well, oughtn’t you woo her too?’
‘It’s not really how it’s done. Not strictly speaking. You’re meant to wait for one girl to go before you have a bash at another.’
‘We’re friends.’
‘I see. ’ He turns to Anne. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’
‘Brown.’
‘Ah.’ He stops. ‘This is too complicated! Shall we all have a cocktail? A cigarette?’ He turns to me. ‘A kiss?’
And I did, darling — that is, let him kiss me. And before you become too livid let me explain that the thing about Pinky is he’s good fun and quite harmless. He’s more like a brother than a man and we were aching to find out what it was like. Besides, he kissed
She picked up her mobile phone, lying on the bedside table. Two more missed calls. She was unable not to check it. Unable to return the calls yet unable to delete his number; unable to move forward in any way, trapped in an invisible cage of contradiction and obsession. She switched it off, tossing it across the room where it landed in acorner. Far away enough so that she couldn’t reach across and grab it in the night; close enough to be retrievable. Self-loathing swelled and saturated, bleeding silently through her, like ink across a clean sheet of paper.
She could see Jack’s blue eyes, narrowed, triumphant; hear the superiority of his voice.
What did that make her?
She knew all too well what that made her.
It still thrilled her. That was the most disgusting part. She dreaded the missed calls yet feared the day when there were no calls at all. Her motives were clouded, filthy. Nothing about her was clear or good or pure any more.
‘We’re bound, you and I.’ The memory of his voice, low, just above a whisper, his breath hot against her cheek played again and again in her mind. Without thinking she rubbed her forearm; she could still feel the pressure of his fingers, digging into her flesh when she tried to move away.
Twilight reigned. A pale sliver of moon began to rise.
It was an unknown house; veiled yet alive in the darkness. It sighed and trembled. Things shifted, shapes, half seen, darted across the floor.
And without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth or take her clothes off, Cate curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
17, Rue de Monceau
Paris
20 July 1926
My darling Wren,
Well! Finally something interesting has happened here! Eleanor’s cousin has arrived in town — Frederick Ogilvy — Smith or Pinky, as he’s known, on account of his permanently flushed cheeks (they really do look like a freshly spanked bottom) — and he is the most fun, which is surprising, considering how congenitally dull Eleanor is. He’s on his way to Nice to join the Hartingtons at their villa near Eze but decided to stop a bit longer to take us all out to supper and a show. Of course Eleanor was mortified but he and Anne and I all got on brilliantly. Perhaps a little too brilliantly — tell me what you think. We are strolling out across the Place de la Concorde after leaving the Ritz and he takes my arm.
‘You’re the bread girl, aren’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon?!’ (I was trying to be serious and aloof but really there’s no point with Pinky — he just carries on regardless.)
‘Now don’t be coy. Everyone knows your mother married Lord Warburton of Warburton’s Wholesome Wholegrain. And a fine loaf it is.’ He looks at me sideways. ‘I expect I best woo you, now that you’re a famous heiress.’
‘I’m not famous.’
‘You will be.’
‘And I’m not an heiress!’
‘Yes, well, insanely well off then. Shall I do it now?’
I sigh. ‘If you must.’
‘Best get it over with.’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts on a wobbly sort of voice. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’
‘Please stop.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What about Anne?’
‘What about her?’
‘Well, oughtn’t you woo her too?’
‘It’s not really how it’s done. Not strictly speaking. You’re meant to wait for one girl to go before you have a bash at another.’
‘We’re friends.’
‘I see. ’ He turns to Anne. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’
‘Brown.’
‘Ah.’ He stops. ‘This is too complicated! Shall we all have a cocktail? A cigarette?’ He turns to me. ‘A kiss?’
And I did, darling — that is, let him kiss me. And before you become too livid let me explain that the thing about Pinky is he’s good fun and quite harmless. He’s more like a brother than a man and we were aching to find out what it was like. Besides, he kissed
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