WHILE HER ARM HEALED, she stayed in bed, and I went to read to her every afternoon.
But she was not quite herself. I chose passages from Zola, to which she listened with a kind of pained attention, as if she were trying to tether herself to the room.
Sometimes, out of nowhere, her breathing became raucous, as if she was drowning in front of me. ‘Is it because of the child?’ I’d ask; and she’d nod. She would clutch at my hand; I would scream for Thomas, and he’d come running, bringing wet cloths, and smelling salts.
Afterwards we would sit in silence. If I tried to talk to her, about the baby, she would shake her head, squeeze her eyes tight shut, and the tears would come so quickly that I gave it up; pressed her hand and shushed her.
Once, I climbed into the bed beside her. We made love quickly, and afterwards she slept.
In early November she came downstairs.
She stood in the middle of the salon, held her arms out in front of her and smiled. ‘I’m so thin,’ she said.
I told her the truth, which was that she looked luminous.
She smiled shyly, as if she didn’t know whether or not to believe me.
Visitors came. Aurélie, every couple of days, once with a bouquet of flowers so enormous it obscured her face; the Duchesse de Guise, to sit poker-straight and bemoan the passing of moral rectitude; other women, actresses and friends, whom I had never met before.
André stayed at home. When I passed him in the corridor, he would blow theatrically on his hands and say ‘It’s too cold to go to the studio.’ Nevertheless, he always seemed to be on the way to his study, so I had no doubt he was working on something; besides which, he too had visitors, workmen holding their caps and looking at the fine plasterwork, and Pathé bosses, clearing their throats and waiting for Thomas to take their umbrellas, almost every day, sometimes spending long hours in the study with him, and often staying for supper with us.
He talked openly about Petite Mort at the dinner table – the process of arranging the sets, selecting the actors, finding a reliable cameraman – his guests nodding with rapt attention.
Luce ate quietly, seeming indifferent to everything that was said.
At night, it was like a door opening: she spoke to me more. She told me what she was feeling; told me things from her past without my asking; in bed, she told me what she liked and didn’t like, in a constant, hoarse whisper, as if we were not the only ones in the room, and she was rough: not with me, with herself. Intermingled with her words were reckless terms of endearment: My only one. My right hand.
One night, she took my fingers and curled them into a fist; I pulled away.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry as long as she was like this. But suddenly I couldn’t help it. ‘I can’t do this,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong with you. It’s like you don’t even see me.’
She had lain down on her back again; now her head turned towards me. Her breathing slowed; not the panicked whispering I’d grown used to.
I reached for her hands. ‘We have to go away. You’ll be all right if you’re not in this house.’
She squeezed my fingers in hers: listening.
‘Somewhere nobody would know us,’ I said.
She took a breath. ‘What would we do for money?’
‘Spend yours.’
She said: ‘It’s in André’s name.’
‘I’ll work. I’ll make costumes, or clean. I don’t care.’
She looked at me critically. ‘You don’t care at all?’
‘Anything.’
She laughed. ‘Then it’s easy, isn’t it?’
The laugh she gave was wild, but I didn’t hear that. I heard her saying yes.
Aurélie visited again, and more often, and spent as much as an hour with Luce, sitting, holding her hand and talking in low voices. I welcomed her warmly and offered to make myself scarce, because I had a secret. Even André’s whistling and constant presence could not touch my mood: I smiled at him over supper, and laughed at his jokes – laughed for the two of us.
In bed at night, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to calculation. Nearing Christmas, the house was awash with money: gold brocade hung from the banisters, and boxes of expensive fancies arrived every day in preparation for the Ice Ball which they held every New Year. But none of it was cash. Luce and I spent our afternoons making paper chains, whilst I wondered out loud, turning our problem over and over.
She still had sudden fits of panic. She would clutch my hands and shut her eyes tight; but when I asked her what was wrong, she only pressed her lips into a line and shook her head.
‘We will really go away,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ and smiled back at her, happy to see her face clear. ‘Now let me think.’
I closed my eyes and let the winter sunlight play over my eyelids, making shapes like a child’s kaleidoscope. And in time the plan unfurled as if it had always been dormant in my mind, only wanting an opportunity to be exercised.