Chapter 27
NOW
The alarm on her phone made her gasp awake, and she was tempted to throw the thing out of the window. Instead, she sat up, let her heart rate return to normal levels then, with a groan, slid her legs out from beneath the duvet and wobbled to her feet.
After showering she stood in a towel and opened her wardrobe, then made a face at the contents, wondering what Madame Roux would make of them.
Hanging, still with its tag, was a silk blouse she’d bought on a recent shopping trip, and a fitted pair of black trousers.
She’d avoided the blouse so far – it was scarlet and every time she’d put it on, she’d worried she looked too bright.
But she was behind on her washing so it was the last piece of office-ready clothing she had.
And perhaps Madame Roux was right – maybe she should be bold.
She slipped it on and looked at herself. If anything, the vibrant material made her skin look paler, more washed out. She added a slick of red lipstick to see if she could create some balance. It helped a bit.
But no. She looked too… obvious. Too noticeable.
Sighing, she grabbed her white blouse from the laundry basket. It would do for today.
Henri hadn’t made it back to her bed last night and in all honesty she was relieved.
She’d felt a mixture of sadness and anger at his abandonment last night, and might well have had a go at him.
Today she felt more Zen. She’d worried that he was getting too serious.
Well, here was the proof that she didn’t matter that much to him.
It had felt bad, but it was actually a good thing.
Anyway, there was no time to muse about her love life. Buttoning up the last of the delicate silver buttons on the front of the blouse, she grabbed her handbag and made her way to the kitchen for a coffee.
There was no Brad this morning to brew her a cup, and she was surprised to feel a little disappointed.
Still, she spooned some of Henri’s expensive brand into the cafetière and poured hot water over the grounds, watching them dance and settle in the water as it turned from clear to deep and dark.
Then she pushed down the plunger, watching the grounds gather together in a black solid clump at the bottom of the pot, leaving rich brown coffee above.
Sighing as the rich aroma drifted up to meet her, she reached for a large mug and poured herself a generous serving.
As she lifted it to her lips, her hand jerked slightly and a little coffee leapt out of the top of the mug and splashed onto the floor – missing her white blouse by an inch. Thank God, she thought – that could have been a disaster.
Then her phone rang. The sound was so shrill and unexpected that she jerked her arm, sending half a cup of boiling coffee onto her chest. With a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream, she ripped the blouse from her body and rushed to the sink to splash cold water over herself.
Thankfully, other than a reddish patch on her skin, she was unharmed.
Sighing, and damp, she stood for a moment, arms stretched out against the sink, dropping her head to her chest.
A great start to the day.
The blouse was ruined and now she’d have to fish something out of the dirty laundry to wear to work, or brave that bright red beacon of a blouse.
She was just making her way to the stairs, hoping not to bump into anyone in her slightly stained bra, when she thought of asking Odette.
Her friend seemed to have an endless supply of clothing and was always offering Bella the chance to try stuff.
She made her way to Odette’s door and lifted her hand to knock.
But it was early. She checked her watch: only seven o’clock. And Odette still hadn’t been home when Bella had finally made it to bed around 2 a.m. last night. She tried the handle and, finding the room unlocked, decided to sneak in rather than wake her.
She’d explain everything later. Or simply wash and return whatever she borrowed.
Odette seemed particularly conscious of her privacy and hadn’t let her through her door so far, but Bella wouldn’t pry, she’d simply make her way to the wardrobe, choose something quickly and scuttle off to work. Surely Odette wouldn’t mind that?
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was darker in here than the hallway; curtains hung at the windows and although the light was shining through them, it was muted, throwing the room into a kind of dusky half-light.
Eyes still adjusting, Bella started to take in her surroundings.
And as she did, something in her tensed up, as if she’d stumbled across a crime scene or been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Because something was wrong. Odette was sleeping in a bed in the corner, her arms thrown across the pillow, snoring lightly.
But how she even got to her bed was a mystery.
Every last space in this room was covered.
An easel stood near the bed, with a palette stained with blobs of dried paint. A few brushes were next to it in a jar.
Next to these, a toolbox full of artist materials spewed pencils and pens and rubbers across the floor. But these were all things she might have expected to see in an artist’s room.
What she hadn’t expected was that, aside from a few piles of clothes – clean and dirty – and the occasional bag, trinket or photograph, every inch of the place was taken up by canvases. Propped together against walls, laid out on a table to dry, stacked on the floor.
From what Bella could see, all the visible canvases were finished.
And actually, utterly beautiful: scenes she recognised from Versailles; the palace, milling tourists, a couple sipping coffee at the café down the street from here.
But rather than filling her with joy, the sight of piles of paintings and materials, the sheer volume of it all, made Bella shiver.
Why was Odette living like this? Why so many canvases piled up as if they were rubbish?
And why didn’t she want anyone to see them?
She’d talk to her later, she resolved, and stepped forward towards the wardrobe which she hoped would not be filled with paint pots and art paper, but with tops suitable for someone high up in hotel management.
Only in the half-light, it was hard to avoid hazards, especially as there were so many.
As she moved, her foot came into contact with a jar being used to soak some dirty brushes.
It wobbled teasingly before falling over and spilling its contents across the corner of a canvas.
‘Damn!’ Bella grabbed some rags and tried to soak up as much as she could.
The liquid was some sort of chemical and the fumes stung her eyes, lodged in the back of her throat.
Her feeble attempts with the rag were not soaking up as much as she’d have liked.
And she was nowhere nearer having anything to wear to work today.
It was only when she heard a gasp that she realised Odette had woken.
Not only woken but was standing by the bed, a look of horror on her face.
She was wearing an enormous T-shirt which swamped her tiny frame, her hair was in disarray and her mouth an oval.
‘What are you doing in my room?’ she cried, her voice sounding deeper, angrier than Bella had ever heard it.
‘I’m so sorry. I ruined my top, and I know you have—’ Bella straightened then, aware that she was standing there in her bra and trousers, and covered her front with the chemical-soaked rag.
‘You came to take my things?’
‘No! No. Of course not! Well… I was just going to borrow something. You’ve been so generous with your clothes, and I thought you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t want to wake you and…’
‘You came into my room!’
‘Well. Yes.’ There didn’t seem to be much point in denying this obvious fact.
‘And you know that I hate people doing this!’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you were just—’
‘Just what?’ Odette’s eyes narrowed.
Bella took a breath. ‘I thought you were probably just a bit messy. That maybe you didn’t want me to see your room because you were embarrassed. I didn’t realise—’ She gestured vaguely at the stacked canvases, the pure chaos with which Odette had surrounded herself.
Odette took a step forward. Despite her tiny frame, Bella found herself trying to step back. But there was a pile of canvases behind her: she was trapped.
‘You didn’t realise what?’ Odette’s voice was louder than before, her eyes flashing. ‘That I am mad? That I live in a room full of pictures that nobody wants? That I am not messy but crazy?’
‘No. No! Not at all.’ Bella waved her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Just—’
Odette took another step and for a moment Bella worried that her housemate was going to lunge forward and hit her.
But then, as if someone had clicked a switch, Odette’s shoulders slumped, and the life seemed to drain out of her.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now you know my secret. I can paint, I can produce work. But I cannot let people see it. I cannot bring myself to show anyone.’
‘I don’t understand. They’re beautiful, you should—’
Odette looked at her, her eyes dull. ‘Yes, perhaps. But are they good enough for a Parisian gallery? Curators, they can be very exacting. I cannot bear—’
‘They’re—’
Odette’s expression seemed to harden. ‘What do you know of art? And in any case, you should not have come into my room. Perhaps you think I am strange, that I am living strangely. But you had no right.’ It was hard to tell whether the moisture shining in Odette’s eyes was the result of sadness or anger.
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
Odette sat on the floor, folding herself seamlessly into a cross-legged position like a child in a school assembly. ‘Just go. Please.’
‘But you’re not— We can talk… and—’
‘No. Please. Please just go.’
Bella looked at Odette, at her little crumpled form, and felt a strong urge to go over and hug her. But instead, she nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
Odette shrugged as if it no longer mattered.
‘I really am,’ Bella added as she reached the door and turned. ‘And you know, if you need some help with… with this, or just someone to talk to, I’m here.’
Odette nodded almost imperceptibly.
There was nothing else for it but to leave. Bella twisted the handle and let herself into the cool hallway. For a moment, she rested her back on the door, head looking to the heavens, wondering if she should go back in; should talk more.
In the end, instead, she climbed the stairs and steeling herself, slipped into the scarlet blouse.
Feeling a little shaken up from an unexpected early morning argument, she decided to pop into Henri’s room for a little sleepy sympathy before she left for work – and maybe an opinion on her attire. She knocked lightly on the door, then, not waiting for a response, turned the handle.
Inside, in the half-light, she could just make out a tousled duvet, a pillow on the floor. His leg sticking out on the left-hand side. She traced the outline of his body then gently lifted the duvet from his sleeping face. ‘Wakey-wakey!’ she said.
Only it wasn’t Henri under the duvet. Instead, she saw the face of a sleeping woman, the remnants of lipstick still smudged across her face.
She let the duvet fall back into place and, without a sound, turned from the room.