It had taken me only twenty minutes or so.
Next week, we had a dinner date planned with some close friends.
This time, the person who was going to be late was me. Because, while my husband waited at Caroline and Véronique’s, I was going to be at rue Dancourt.
7BLONDE
And I feel I shan’t recover this time.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941
D. Day.
ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980
ADELKA’S APARTMENT, WHICH was not an attic flat, was smaller than Clarissa’s, but with much higher ceilings. She worked in the main room, which was also where her models posed. Clarissa took in the paintings hanging here and there: nude bodies, both male and female, sketched during inhibited moments, with sensitivity and no voyeurism. She found them pleasing and harmonious, and told the young painter, who thanked her.
Clarissa noticed how Adelka had managed to create her own ambience, choosing sunny colors and cozy, stylish furniture. A candle cast its perfumed scent through the air. She felt welcomed, and thought of her own studio up on the eighth floor. She’d been living there for the past two months, and it still had the impersonal aspect of a hotel room. She, the writer obsessed with houses, had failed to craft her own home, one that could bring her well-being and inventiveness.
Adelka spoke to her virtual assistant in Italian, and it answered back with a male voice sounding like the actor Marcello Mastroianni’s. Her mother was Italian, and her father French. She had grown up with both languages.
“That’s funny,” Clarissa remarked. “I’m bilingual, as well, French and English!”
“Are you torn between the two, as I am?”
“Precisely!”
“How amusing! Is there one you prefer over the other?”
“Nope. I can’t choose. I’m attached to both.”
Adelka’s athletic figure was highlighted by a fetching blue dress.
“What would you like, red wine or white?”
“White, please.”
While she prepared their drinks, Adelka asked if she’d seen their charming neighbor, Jim Perrier.
“No,” said Clarissa carefully.
She had picked out the cameras. She was not going to reveal what Jim had told her. She still had not heard back from him. He must be busy. This had been going on for too long, she thought. But how could she contact him? She’d been back to Café Iris several times, at eight. He’d never turned up. She’d asked the waiters, and they hadn’t seen him, either. But one of them had laughed, saying it wasn’t surprising, as Jim regularly got plastered. Perhaps he’d gone off to a rehab? Clarissa had found it all puzzling.
Adelka handed her a wineglass.
“I rather fancy Jim.… Okay, he’s a trifle young for me, but he’s so hot in his underwear!”
Clarissa laughed with her, and they raised their glasses.
“After that alarm business, I bumped into him one evening, coming home. We went to a bar and chatted. He’s a hard drinker! We had a great time. But he’s dead set against C.A.S.A.”
“Really?” asked Clarissa innocently. “Why?”
“Do you remember our talk, the night the alarm went off, when we were all outside?”
“More or less.”
“You were convinced C.A.S.A. was spying on artists living in the residence, for God knows what reason. I said you both had too much imagination!”
“That’s right! We write stories, he and I. Occupational hazard!”
“Jim is up in arms against Dewinter and her methods. He bombarded me with questions: Was I comfortable here? Did I sleep well? Did I ever hear a strange clicking sound? I told him I never had, that I slept like a log. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Are you getting used to it here? You told me even the cat was acting strange in your flat.”
She had to be cautious. Pick the right words. Avoid triggering suspicion. She said, casually, that in the beginning, she’d found it hard to settle down in this new space. She’d only just left her husband, and felt miserable and overwrought. She slept better now. So did the cat. And as for the clicking sound, she never heard it again. All was well. It had just been a matter of time.
The fibs flowed, effortlessly.
“I’m so relieved!” exclaimed Adelka. “I was worried. I’m thrilled you’ve settled in at last. I love my life here. Living in the residence is like a dream come true. I feel safe here, and I work well. I really appreciate the C.A.S.A. team, their thoughtfulness, their expertise.”
Clarissa forced her lips into a smile.
“As for Dr. Dewinter,” Adelka went on, “what an extraordinary woman! She’s remarkably intelligent, don’t you find?”
“Remarkably.” Clarissa nodded. “Tell me, you don’t mind being filmed all the time?”
“Well, the bedroom camera can be switched to ‘intimate mode.’ Did you know that?”
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t, either! Ben told me. ‘Intimate mode’ can be turned on if you want to have sex or something.” She giggled. “So the only thing missing for me in this ideal setting is a boyfriend!”
“Well, what about Jim? Did he remain impervious to your charms?”
“Utterly!”
They laughed together again.
“I even invited him here, would you believe it! I contacted him through the internal server, but he never answered.”
“Was this recently?”
“A couple of days ago. I’m mortified! I must have been coming on too strong.”
Adelka made a face.
“Perhaps he’s on a business trip?” suggested Clarissa.
“Probably. Or he went to see his family? He mentioned his mother lived in Brussels.”
Adelka had not had a serious relationship since she had broken up with her violent husband. She wanted children. More and more women were having them late, and on their own. Her mother had friends who had gotten pregnant at over sixty. It had become common. The modern medical world was astounding. But she didn’t want to wait that long.
“I understand,” said Clarissa as Adelka filled her glass up again. The white wine was making her deliciously tipsy.
“At what age did you become a mother?”
“Quite young. Twenty-seven or so.”
A small silence. Then Clarissa added, “Two years before my daughter, Jordan, came into the world, I had a son. Stillborn. Forty-six years ago.”
Adelka put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh! How terribly
