Page 53 of Thirty Days in Paris

I found her under the bedclothes, still shivering. She hadn’t dressed, and her skin was covered in goose bumps and a horrible shade of mauve. I put the hot chocolate on the table next to her and sat down on the bed, cautious. I patted her.

‘Corinne. I am very worried for you. I think you need a doctor.’

‘Non.’

‘But you are so unhappy sometimes.’ I was trying to be as tactful as I could.

She stared straight at me, and there was something in her eyes that made me feel uncomfortable. ‘Oui.’

I tried to smile, but I felt at that moment as if she knew exactly what had happened between me and Jean Louis. But she couldn’t have. She’d been fast asleep that night, with a sleeping pill. And surely if she’d seen us, she wouldn’t have let it go. She would have confronted us. I told myself I was being paranoid.

I swallowed. ‘Is there something the matter?’

She shut her eyes. Her lids were like blue marble. ‘C’est trop difficile.’

I wondered what she found so difficult. She was doing what she wanted, they had plenty of money, as far as I could see, and as well as my help, there was a housekeeper twice a week.

‘Je téléphone Jean Louis?’

Her eyes opened. ‘Non,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’

Maybe she had a friend she could talk to? I didn’t feel as if I could be her confidante.

‘Je peux téléphoner une amie?’

She shook her head. ‘Je veux dormir.’

She wanted to sleep. I understood that urge. To sleep was to escape from your troubles.

I did my best to make sure she was warm and comfortable. I offered to bring her some soup, but she refused that too. I left the bedroom feeling unsettled.

I decided to phone Jean Louis. He had given me his office number, when he had asked me a while ago to keep an eye on her. As soon as I spoke to him, he said he would come home.

I waited, in the kitchen, until I heard him come in. I crept out to the hall and put a finger to my lips.

‘She is sleeping,’ I said, and he nodded. We crept back into the kitchen and I told him how I had found her earlier. He looked distressed.

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ he told me.

‘I wonder, maybe, do you think she has postnatal depression?’ I had looked it up in French. ‘Dépression postnatale?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think she should go to her doctor. I think she needs help.’

I saw there were tears in Jean Louis’ eyes.

‘I want her back,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where she has gone.’

I reached out and touched his hand, spreading my fingers over his and squeezing. It was very different from the last time I had touched him. This time, I was trying to reassure him. To give him some comfort. He squeezed my hand back, holding it tightly, and I could see it was all he could do not to break down.

And then I looked up and saw Corinne in the doorway. She was staring at us with a blank expression on her face. Almost catatonic, like she’d been in the bath.

I pulled my hand away and Jean Louis jumped to his feet.

‘Corinne.’ He walked over and took her in his arms. I could see her staring over his shoulder. Not at me. Not at anything.

About a week later, I was getting ready to meet Nathalie to go shopping and send some presents back home. I thought maybe a scarf for my mum and some gloves for my dad. They were the sort of people who only bought things when they needed them, but I wanted to get them something really nice. Paris had taught me that beautiful things were never a waste of money, for they would last. We were going to the big department store, Au Bon Printemps, and were planning to splurge on ourselves too. The language school was having a party, and there would be other impromptu celebrations, so new outfits were needed. I felt happy and festive and excited.

---