Julius returned in the morning with a discreet overnight bag and a book. Mme Reynard welcomed him in and he sat on the sofa waiting for someone to question his being there. When no one did, he opened the book and started reading. In a little while Mme Reynard set a bowl of strawberries on the coffee table and he ate them.
Madeleine arrived before lunch, struggling under the weight of her duffel bag. “Where’s Malcolm’s room?” she asked Julius, and Julius pointed, then resumed his reading. Madeleine found Malcolm sitting up in bed, shirtless. She said, “Look, I need to stay here for a little while. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” said Malcolm. And, “Hello, how are you?”
“Fine. I’ll be flying home in a couple days.” She hefted her bag onto the bed. “I’m not going to fuck you, Malcolm, all right? Things are weird enough as is.”
“Okay.”
“Actually I think it’s pretty weird we fucked in the first place.”
“I’m comfortable not talking about it,” Malcolm said.
Madeleine unzipped her bag. “I need a drawer.”
Malcolm pointed to the armoire, then put on his robe and moved to the living room to sit beside Julius. Mme Reynard emerged from the kitchen wearing a colorful cooking smock and carrying a soup-filled spoon, which she held out for Malcolm to taste. “More salt I think,” he said, and she returned to the kitchen. Joan let herself into the apartment, pale as paper, key in trembling hand. “Where’s Frances?” she demanded. “In the bath,” said Malcolm. Joan dropped her bags and hurried down the hall. Finding the bathroom door locked she frantically knocked; when Frances called out, Joan went half to pieces. Malcolm led her by the arm to the couch; over the sound of her sobbing, he asked, “How’ve you been, Joan?” Soon Frances exited the bathroom seeking to comfort her friend. Joan had been worried, now was relieved, but soon became angry, then forgiving, and at last, very jolly and glad. She and Frances began making plans for the afternoon, plans that did not include Mme Reynard, who stood nearby looking stricken, disturbed as she was by Joan’s appearance. Pulling up a chair, she asked how long Joan might be staying in Paris.
“I can’t be sure,” said Joan. She had a kindly but puzzled expression on her face. “May I ask who you are?”
“Mme Reynard is my name.”
“How do you do?”
“I do better than people give me credit for. How do you do?”
Joan looked to Frances, who was smiling, then back to Mme Reynard, who was not. Mme Reynard didn’t like the way Joan was sitting on the couch. “Do you know where you’ll be staying? It can be difficult finding a hotel room at the last minute.”
“This is my own apartment,” Joan replied. Mme Reynard shrugged, as though in doubt of the statement’s veracity. She returned to the kitchen to clang pots and plateware in protest. Joan followed Frances to the bedroom.
“Who is this horrible woman in my home?”
“Isn’t she a riot?”
“I don’t think she is a riot, no.”
“Give her a chance, she isn’t so bad.”
“Since when do you humor your admirers?”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve adopted an attitude of pure passivity, it seems. Perhaps I’m simply tired. Yes, I think that’s what it is.”
“And the postcard?” said Joan.
Frances stated her mystification at the fact of its being sent. Joan explained she was not interested in the riddle of the note’s delivery so much as its contents.
“A low day,” Frances explained. “And the mood has passed.”
“Has it?” Joan asked.
Frances took Joan’s hand and kissed it. “Yes, dear.”
They lunched. Joan complimented Mme Reynard’s soup, which mollified the woman somewhat. Julius, whom Joan hadn’t fully noticed earlier, introduced himself; then Madeleine emerged from Malcolm’s room, rubbing her eyes. “I fell asleep,” she announced. To Joan, she asked, “What’s your name?”
Joan turned to Frances. “Ballpark figure. How many people are living here?”
“This is everyone,” Frances assured her friend. But Susan arrived an hour after, with her fiancé Tom in tow. As they set their suitcases down, Frances said, “All right, but this is everyone, I promise.”