Girl in the Afternoon (14 page)

Her visits left Henri sick to his stomach. Not even Leonie could cheer him, nor the lovely autumn days, full of bright sunshine that he hid from inside his apartment.

He worried if he went out with Leonie that he'd find Colette standing in the courtyard, or around the corner of the building. Then he'd have to tell Leonie something of his relationship with the Savarays, and that would mean telling her something of his childhood, which, as much as he pretended was lost to him, haunted him as much as Colette did these days. All those horrible, cold weeks in England when the authorities kept coming, when everyone spoke in hushed tones over his head, and no one would tell him where his mother was.

Henri wasn't prepared to talk about it, and he was grateful Leonie never pushed questions when she saw he was reluctant to answer. She was much kinder than he deserved, and cheerful in the face of his gloom. She said it was her disposition. She'd seen hardship. No sense falling into it if you could just as easily pull yourself out.

It was only when Aimée refused to see Leonie that Henri saw a glimmer of melancholy. Leonie had come to his apartment in tears, but even these hadn't lasted long. She'd gulped down her sobs, brushed her wet cheeks, and smiled, sure they'd sort things out over time. Aimée couldn't stay away from them forever.

But Henri was sure that she could. Like Colette, when Aimée made her mind up, she did not waver. It was the one thing they had in common.

*   *   *

It
was Madame Savaray who noticed the change in Aimée. The girl's lightheartedness had slipped away with the warmth of summer and was replaced with the cool reserve of autumn.

She tried to speak with her, but Aimée kept her distance. She hardly spoke to any of them, shutting herself in her studio, or hurrying away to Édouard's. The only member of the family Aimée showed any compassion for was Jacques. Still patting him on the head in the hallway and kissing him good-bye in the mornings before she left, scooping him up in her arms and nuzzling his face.

It was when Leonie came to the door one day, and Aimée refused to see her, that Madame Savaray guessed what had happened. Of course, she thought, sitting in her requisite kitchen chair, Henri's affections were engaged elsewhere. These things always went that way. Leonie was a decent girl, but much too full of everything, and that's what got men's attention—all that fullness.

This roused Madame Savaray, gave her a bit of hope. If Henri had taken up with Leonie, there was a chance he would slip quietly out of their lives again.

What Madame Savaray failed to notice—later, she would be shocked by her lack of perception—was the change in Colette.

*   *   *

Auguste
knew something was going on; he just couldn't figure out what.

Colette hadn't let him touch her in months, which wasn't all that unusual, but she barely looked at him anymore. She'd walk out of a room while he was in midsentence, which he found infuriating. The strangest thing was that she no longer argued with him. This had never happened. Not one raised voice, not a single confrontation.

And yet Auguste could see a ferocity seething under his wife's reserve, a flash in her eyes, a restless look. Something was getting to her. It just wasn't him anymore.

*   *   *

Colette
was not in the house the day Auguste came home early from the factory. It was damp and cold, and his foot ached where the bayonet had pierced it—as it always did in this weather.

He called for Colette. Looked for her in the bedroom and dining room and parlor, but she was not home. He sat in his study with the door open so he could listen for her return, fiddling with his pocket watch, wrapping and unwrapping his fingers, suspicion rising with alarming force.

At half past four he heard the carriage pull up, the rattle of the front door handle, and then the click of his wife's boots on the vestibule tiles. He was standing in the hall when she opened the door.

“Heavens!” Colette threw a hand to her chest, her black-gloved fingers shiny as ink. “You startled me. What are you doing home?”

“My foot ached.”

“Why aren't you lying down then?”

“I wanted to see you.”

She tilted her head and smiled. “Whatever for?” she said, stepping around him and walking down the hall.

Auguste trailed after her, wondering why that particular tilt of her head simultaneously infuriated and weakened him. “I have tickets for the ballet tonight,” he said. It sounded more like a challenge than an invitation.

“Which one?”

“
La Source
.”

“We saw that in '72. It was no good.”

“It was a huge success.”

“Who's dancing?”

“I don't know.”

They reached the end of the hall, and Colette stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I'd rather stay in.”

“I already purchased the tickets.”

“Take Aimée,” she said, one hand resting on the rail, the other hanging loosely, close enough for Auguste to touch.

“You never refuse the ballet.” He took a step toward her, and Colette moved quickly out of range.

Heading up the stairs, she said, “I didn't enjoy
La Source
the first time. I have no desire to see a revival.”

Fueled by her dismissal, Auguste jumped up the stairs, wincing at the pain in his foot, and shouted, “I am still speaking with you!”

Colette halted, her heavy dress trailing behind her. “I apologize,” she said smoothly, twisting her torso to look down at him. “Is there something more?”

Her eyes were dark, her skin pale, her lips a deep red as if she'd been biting them.

“Where have you been all afternoon?” Auguste's heart was racing.

“Calling on Madame Telfair. She was ill last week. I loaned her a book I wanted returned.”

His wife wore an innocent, questioning look, and a tender smile that made Auguste feel foolish and irrational. He stepped backward off the stairs. Where had he thought she was?

Colette lifted a hand to the brim of her hat. “Are you quite through? I'd like to change if you'll allow it?” she asked with a smirk. Dropping her hand and gathering up her skirt, she mounted the stairs without waiting for an answer.

“We leave for the ballet at seven!” he called, but there was no reply, just the swish of fabric and a flash of purple silk as she disappeared.

Later, Auguste would remember that she'd had no book in her hand.

*   *   *

It
surprised them all how the two events of the next week collided.

 

Chapter 16

It was late October and unseasonably cold. Colette stayed longer than usual at Henri's that day. She arrived drenched in a new perfume, wearing a heavy maroon coat, her cheeks flushed from the walk.

“Here.” She handed Henri a bottle of vintage claret she'd had the cook dig up that morning.

Wrapping his hand around the delicate neck of the bottle, Henri set the wine on the table, the glass cool and smooth under his fingers. He imagined squeezing hard enough to break it, snapping off the top and pouring the wine through the sharp, jagged glass with bloody fingers, shards glinting in their drinks.

All the memories, the guilt and remorse he'd kept tamped down, had stirred into something palpable, something alive and out of his control.

He should have told Colette to go. Firmly. Demanded it. Instead, he took a knife from the drawer and stuck it in the top of the cork, yanking it out with a sharp twist of his hand. He poured them each a glass. The wine smelled rich and spicy. Sitting across from Colette, he remembered when he was a child and she would kiss his forehead, his cheeks, smooth his hair, envelop him in hugs. It had made him happy then, her intemperate affection that seemed so lavish and excessive.

They drank in silence, tension growing between them. Eventually, Colette walked over to the larder, throwing open the doors and peering at the empty tins and jars.

“How is it you do not have a morsel of food?” she said, walking directly behind Henri. Gingerly, she rested her hands on his shoulders. Henri could feel the curve of her palms and the gentle pressure of her fingers through his thin cotton shirt. “Mademoiselle Leonie Fiavre doesn't seem to be taking very good care of you.” She laughed, kissed the top of his head, and moved away. “Go.” She swept her hand at him. “Get us something to eat.” She went to his bed and sat down, pulling her legs up and stretching out on her side, the thin mattress heaving and creaking under her as she kicked her slippers off—one, then the other, hitting the floor with a soft thump. “Go on then,” she said, propping her hands under her cheek, her eyes closing.

Once outside, the biting cold and bright sun began to clear Henri's head. He thought he might go to Leonie's, but really, it was Aimée he wanted to see, to look into her shifting gray eyes and hear her speak in her clear, decisive manner. He could convince himself he hadn't wanted to be found, and yet he was the one who followed Aimée that night when he saw her through the café window. He allowed her into his apartment. Allowed her to paint beside him. He hadn't known how much he would miss her until she was gone. When he'd left four years ago, survival made it easy to forget. Now, he thought of her all the time, and he wasn't ready to lose her again.

Only, he couldn't go to Aimée with Colette on his bed, splayed out with her ankles indecently exposed. He knew she wouldn't leave until he returned, and he had to get rid of her before he did anything senseless, irreparable.

He went to the baker's. The bread warmed his hands through the paper as he trudged back to his apartment, aware of the blue, cloudless sky, of how the light bounced off the hard surfaces of the city, everything looking rapturous and satisfied the way things do in perfect weather. But he recognized it from a distance, from a place so far down inside himself he wasn't sure he would ever enjoy that kind of beauty again.

Colette was awake when he opened the door, sitting on his bed with a small piece of paper in hand. At first Henri didn't know what she held, then he saw the tin box next to her, and anger ripped through him.

“What are you doing?” He dropped the bread on the table and sprang to the edge of the bed.

“Looking for a new place to hide your money.” She waved the piece of paper in front of him. “Who wrote this?”

Henri reached for it, but Colette yanked her arm back and held it out of reach.

“You have no right to read that.” He took a step backward, resisting the urge to lunge at her. Memories from his childhood were pouring in, the rage he felt for his father, for his mother, for the powerless, meek boy he had been. His temples pulsed, and his head throbbed, and in that moment he hated Colette.

She stood up. “So, it is a love poem then.” She looked down as if she meant to read it out loud. “It's quite eloquent. And from the tattered edges it appears as if you've carried it around for some time.”

Hard sunlight filled the room. Henri put his hand out, palm up. “Give it to me.”

Colette dropped the poem on the bed and stepped up to him—her perfume overwhelming. “You're no fun at all.” She took his outstretched hand and pressed it to the side of her neck, his palm damp against her skin. “Tell me you left us for the woman who wrote this poem. Tell me you were never in love with Aimée. Tell me you didn't leave because of me. That it was something else, entirely.” Colette rose up on her toes. “I've hated to think it was because of me.”

She leaned in then, and kissed him. Henri could feel the thin, sinewy muscles of her neck tense under his hand, and he gripped harder, disgusted with his arousal, with how much he wanted the taste of her wet tongue, and to reach under her dress for that warm, wet place between her legs.

Colette was the first to pull away, calculating the fragility of the moment, along with its urgency. She pressed her body against his, moving her hand to the top of his trousers, easing her fingers under his belt.

Henri shoved her, hard, with both hands, and she stumbled backward catching herself on the edge of the bed. A black rush of humiliation shot through Colette. Henri's gentle nature was what appealed to her, his tenderness. But anger was familiar territory, and she straightened, breathing heavily, her chest heaving against the bodice of her velvet dress as she unfastened the buttons.

Henri watched, increasingly humiliated with each layer Colette shed. He wanted her, but in a frenzied, hungry, grief-stricken way, with a lifetime of longing welling up in him. To be touched. To be loved. To be told he was good.

He ran from the room.

It was half past three when he arrived at the front door of the Savarays. If Auguste had been out, Henri would have left, and never gone back. As it was, Auguste had arrived home half an hour earlier.

He was at his desk, moving his unruly eyebrows up and down and silently mouthing the numbers he was working in his head. Marie was out, and the young housemaid told him there was a man at the door who had not given his name. Auguste said to show him in, assuming it was the messenger boy with the post, or the young accountant he'd hired last week come to help him sort out his financial mess. It appeared that he had been overzealous about an investment and was now feeling the repercussions.

Henri watched from the open study doorway, unable to speak, held motionless by what he was about to do. He knew he didn't have to go through with it. He could simply step backward and retreat. But that wouldn't change anything, and it wouldn't make any of it go away.

With incredible effort, his mouth salivating at the corners, anger and fear and confusion rattling through him, Henri spoke Auguste's name.

For that split second before Auguste looked up, he felt a quiet dread at the hushed sound of his name.

Cautiously, Auguste raised his head, scanning the face of the young man for what felt, to both of them, a very long time before fully registering that it was Henri. Finally, he stumbled from behind the desk.