I scrubbed the sink out with Javel and rinsed it copiously with water. For a long time. Meticulously. It was time for all that misery to disappear into the sewers of Paris.
“Are you okay?”
Pauline’s voice.
I hadn’t heard her come through the front door. It wasn’t my health that was worrying her; it was the waste of water.
“Are you sick?”
I turned around to reassure her, and I could see that she didn’t believe me.
“My God! What’s happened to you now? Did you drink too much last night? Is that it?”
What a reputation.
“No!” I babbled stupidly, trying to fix my mascara with an index finger. “It’s just, tonight—tonight is a big night—I look chic, right? I’m going to my friend Charlotte’s wedding . . . ”
She didn’t smile. “Mathilde?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand the way you’re living your life . . . ”
“I don’t either!” I laughed, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
She shrugged and headed for her beloved kettle.
I felt stupid. It was rare for her to take an interest in me like that. I wanted to make amends. And I needed to confide in someone.
“Do you remember . . . the guy who found my bag?”
“The weirdo?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you heard from him again? Is he bothering you? Oh, damn, there’s hardly any tea left . . . ”
“No.”
“I’ll have to tell Julie to get some more.”
“He’s a chef.”
She looked at me strangely. “Oh . . . oh, really? So what? Why are you telling me this?”
“I just . . . look, I’m going out, otherwise I’ll just screw everything up again.”
“When will you be home?”
“I don’t know.”
She followed me to the door. “Mathilde?”
“Yes.”
She straightened my collar. “You look pretty.”
I smiled at her, bowing my head piously.
She thought I was charmingly embarrassed, but really I was fighting back tears.