“I had such weird dreams, Mums.”
“House specialty, I’d say!”
Andy yawned and stretched her limbs.
“You were talking in your sleep, Mums. You kept repeating the same word over and over in a soft little voice.”
Clarissa stiffened.
“What word?”
“A name.”
“Which name?”
“Glenn.”
Clarissa shut her eyes. She felt exhaustion take over and govern her. She wanted to curl up and never get out of bed; in the pit of her stomach, she felt a load where she had carried her dead child. She couldn’t believe she had been saying his name out loud during her sleep.
“Mums. You don’t have to explain.”
Andy’s small hand found her own.
“I know who Glenn is. Mummy told me a long time ago she had an older brother who died at birth. Your son. I’ve never talked about it with you. I was waiting. Take your time. If we don’t talk now, it will be at another moment.”
Then Andy whispered resolutely, “I don’t know what the hell they want, or what they’re doing, and maybe we will never find out. But I do know one thing. You have to get out of here, Mums. Pronto.”
NOTEBOOK
Afterward, I had to write it all down. Describe it. I had to get it out of my system. The only way to do that was to create a distance. To protect myself.
The door, facing me. The key, in my hand. One final qualm. Turn around, leave, stay in the dark? Open up, discover it all? The choice appeared easy, in the beginning. But it became infernal as I lingered on the doorstep.
Door opening. No squeak. I slipped in easily. I had waited a long while, nearly an hour. I had rung the bell. Nobody had answered. The door was double-locked.
A small entrance. An overpowering, brash tone of purple. I was startled. I knew François preferred the elegant discretion of taupe, russet, dark blue, silver.
Another door. I breathed in whorls of potent and heavy feminine perfume. It was familiar. The one I had sniffed on my husband’s jackets and shirts. Sickeningly sweet, like cotton candy.
The place felt stuffy, as if it wasn’t ventilated often.
A single room, not large. Blinds lowered. Not much light. Night had fallen and it was hard to make anything out. Not a lot of furniture, apart from a huge four-poster bed that took center stage. It obscenely dominated all the rest. Purple, everywhere. Walls, fitted carpet, net curtains around the bed.
François was waiting for me at our friends’ place for dinner. He had already sent several texts, wondering what I was doing, why I was late. I hadn’t answered.
I had time, after all. But what if she came home? I hadn’t thought about that. All of a sudden, I felt nervous. The perfume was making me uncomfortable.
Near the window, on a pedestal table, there was a framed photograph. I drew closer. It was her. Her, with him. They were hugging, on that dreadful gigantic bed.
She had curly blond hair. She was young, younger than Jordan. Thirty years old, give or take. A smooth, angelic face. The pink skin of a piglet. A beatific smile. Emotionless eyes. A plump body. She was wearing a negligée; he was bare-chested.
My eyes were beginning to get used to the penumbra. On the chest of drawers, photo albums. Be careful. Watch out. Do you really want to look at those? Do you really want to see them? You already know everything there is to know. You know your husband is cheating on you with this young woman. You know they meet here, a couple of times a week. You should get the hell out of here. Now. Why torture yourself? Why look at those blasted albums?
It was impossible to turn back. I looked at them all.
Romantic snacks, cocktails, champagne, birthday cakes, always here, in this vile purple chamber. My husband, soppy-eyed and smitten. Her affected smirk, her golden curls. He wore dark jackets and a tie; she, low-cut tunics. In one of the photos, she was sitting on his knees, wearing an evening dress. He was avidly suckling her breast.
Under the albums, I found a tablet, a smaller model. Don’t look. Resist. Put it down. Get out. Clear off.
Too late. Twenty videos or so. It was so easy to press on the icons.
My heart had started to beat with a slow, devouring anger. Videos of them on the bed. Close-ups. Kisses. Tongues and genitals. Her vulva was entirely hairless. Her on top of him. Him on her. Him inside her. Him in her mouth, in between her bosoms, in between her buttocks. I watched it all. The slow, then frenzied to-and-fro. My hands trembled. It was appalling.
A mad urge to smash everything up. Wreak havoc. Decimate the place. Reduce it all to smithereens. But it didn’t last. I was a sitting duck for grief and despondency. In that sordid room, I stood there, helpless and drained.
I went to check out the rest of the flat, switching on the lights. A tiny kitchen. Nothing in the refrigerator apart from champagne. Two glasses by the sink. Farther on, the bathroom. No lipstick, mascara, powder. Surprising, considering how made up she was in the videos. No beauty products. Just her perfume, on the shelf above the basin. They even shared a toothbrush. A stick of deodorant, for men. One large purple towel. In the shower, an item that looked like a long bottle brush for cleaning flasks, and a pear-shaped object made of black rubber.
Back in the bedroom, I drew closer to the four-poster, as if to behold it one last time, before I left for good. The mauve net curtains were drawn. On the single night table, a vintage Polaroid camera, and some lubricant gel.
I drew the voile curtain. I nearly screamed.
There was a figure, on the mattress. A woman, lying there on her side, her back to me, her long blond
