Language in the Blood

by Angela Lockwood

  Chapter 6: Hélène

  It was probably about 1921 and I had started to drift ever closer towards Paris. The countryside was safe but very boring for a young chap like me. I had always thought of myself as a city boy and the bright lights of Paris became too big an attraction for me to resist. The city of Edinburgh that I had left behind in 1915 was very different from the Paris of the 1920s. Most nights, I just walked around various parts of town in absolute amazement. The women! Wow! Their skirts were a lot shorter now and I couldn’t imagine my wee timid Fiona dressing like that. It was even more eye-popping at night when they went out in their high heels, make-up and low-cut flapper dresses. Women were everywhere, trying to hold on to the new-found independence World War I had given them. They were confident and independent; they had thrown off their stiff corsets and were ready to have fun.

  Even though Paris was starting to become the centre of the world again, there was a seedy underbelly of tramps and prostitutes and I blended right in with them without attracting attention. No one cared about the dirty, pale veteran who roamed the streets at night and slept in underground tunnels during the day, and no one missed the occasional down-on-his-luck tramp. I killed a man for his wallet, as I had cravings for something else too, and I went to see a prostitute. I was a young male with very strong urges after all. This time, I didn’t need to be shown what to do!

  I couldn’t yet imagine killing a woman. We men had been shooting at each other over the trenches for the past four years, but women were different in my eyes. To me, they were creatures that should not be hurt. I did acquire a taste for dogs though, as there were many surviving on garbage and rats and, of course, for rat itself; horrid things that didn’t taste too great, but they kept the hunger and bloodlust at bay.

  I often found myself in the Montparnasse district as it had the most bars and cafés and was attracting a young and artsy crowd. Painters and writers came to discuss their work deep into the night. There were also many young, damaged men like myself who wanted a better and different world to the one they’d had before the Great War, and there was always someone willing to talk to a scruffy man in an old army coat. I soon found myself becoming part of society again, rather than feeling like an animal hiding in the countryside.

  Late one night, I spotted a redhead arguing with a bar owner. She was clutching a bottle of Cognac to her chest and was fighting the man off with her free arm.

  ‘Can I help?’ I asked, intrigued by this unusual redhead.

  ‘You can if you have two francs. Madame here is refusing to pay,’ the barman told me. The girl was unsteady on her feet. I moved closer to her, worried that she was about to fall. I had about three francs in my pocket, the previous night’s added benefit.

  I paid the man his two francs and suddenly the girl flung an arm around my neck and kissed me full on the lips.

  ‘Thank you. You’re a real gentleman,’ she slurred. I was a bit shocked, as I wasn’t used to a woman being so forward.

  ‘Good luck with that mate. Hélène is your problem now,’ the barman laughed and went back inside, shaking his head.

  ‘François, you are an arse!’ she shouted after him. Then she took my arm and started dragging me up a small alleyway.

  ‘You must have a drink with me, you paid for the bottle after all,’ she said, holding on to my arm tightly.

  ‘It’s rather late,’ I said loosening myself from her grip, but she got even closer and tried to kiss me again. Then she drew back and looked at me. She had very bright green eyes. She looked like one of these Celtic heroines you sometimes see in illustrations, with flowing red locks and fiery green eyes.

  ‘You are quite handsome, you know. I could do something with you,’ she said. I looked at her too and decided that she was very pretty.

  ‘Do what with me?’ I asked, innocently.

  ‘Tidy you up; you need a good wash and a haircut. Then you could sit for me. What’s your name?’

  ‘Cameron. Cameron Blair,’ I told her.

  ‘Cameron? That’s not a French name,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘I’m Scottish, but I have lived here for a while now.’

  ‘Your French is amazing!’ She looked at me with admiration.

  ‘I pick languages up easily,’ I said. I still didn’t understand exactly how, but I knew it must come with the blood.

  She grabbed my chin and turned my face to view it from all angles in the streetlight.

  ‘You have the most unusual eyes. They are very blue,’ she said, studying my features.

  ‘Like a field of Scottish bluebells my mother used to say.’

  ‘Well, come with me Cameron. I want to immortalise you,’ and she dragged me along until we came to a green door much in need of some paint. She opened it with a key that she had on a cord around her neck.

  ‘My coat has so many holes in it, this seems the best way not to lose it,’ she explained.

  Her apartment was rather shabby and she had no furniture apart from a bed, a chair and a chest of drawers. The apartment was at the top of the building and was mostly glass. I could see why she had chosen it, as it made a perfect artist’s studio, but it wouldn’t be a good place for me to be after sunrise. She did have a bath tub and I was grateful for the chance to get cleaned up. Meanwhile she washed my clothes and hung them up to dry by her coal fire stove.

  I sat on her bed, in her dressing gown, while she poured Cognac.

  ‘Gosh Cameron. How long have you been living on the street?’ she asked, as she looked over my clothes. They’d become quite ragged and had holes everywhere. In Paris, it hadn’t been that easy finding washing lines at night, and people locked their doors.

  She had taken out some thread and was trying to patch my trousers up as best she could. They looked a little better, but not much. She explained that she only had green and red thread in her sewing box, and she was also quite drunk.

  ‘I didn’t want to go back to my old life after the war, so I’ve been sleeping rough for a while now,’ I answered.

  ‘I know. It is hard to make it here. I don’t want to go back home either and my parents are just so bourgeois. They had my life all planned out: marry my father’s junior partner, a frightfully dull lawyer, and then have lots of children. I think I would have died if I’d married that dullard and stayed in Rouen.’ She went on to tell me how one day she had just decided to take the train to Paris. She had got herself an apartment and started to paint. She said she funded her new passion by working as an artist’s model now and then. She had written to her parents telling them she was fine, but she didn’t tell them where she was. She was determined to make it as an artist in Paris.

  ‘Now I spend all my money on paint and canvas,’ she said as she got up to pour herself another drink before going to look for something amongst the canvases leaning against the wall.

  ‘Do you like my work?’ she asked, holding up one of her paintings.

  ‘I don’t know much about art, but I’m sure they are very good,’ I said, not sure if I liked what I saw. I had never seen painting like it before; it was all just shapes.

  ‘It’s cubism,’ she said. ‘It and Mr Picasso are taking the art world by storm.’

  ‘OK. As I said, I know nothing about art,’ I told her. I didn’t want to upset the girl, but I didn’t understand what she was on about.

  ‘It’s all about going back to the shapes in their purest, simplest forms. You know, I sat for Picasso once and I was just amazed with what he was doing. I think he is rather brilliant,’ she told me excitedly.

  ‘But didn’t you want to paint me?’ I asked. ‘I mean, for those paintings you don’t need anyone.’

  ‘I do portraits as well, but they’re probably a little different to what you are used to.’

  She showed me a canvas of a woman, painted entirely in blue with rough brush strokes. She laughed at my confused look and came over to the bed, took my head in her hands and kissed me. ‘You have much to learn, Cameron, but let me teach you
,’ she said with a wicked twinkle in her eyes.

  I had known prostitutes and was not a complete innocent, but this was different. Hélène was beautiful and full of life and I was very attracted to her. Our lovemaking was passionate. I found her interesting and exciting and she had such fire in her eyes when she talked about art. She would never be food. She quenched my other urges – lust and the need for companionship – and she very briefly made me forget what I was.

  Hélène made me feel human again and it felt wonderful. Fiona had only ever let me kiss her, so this was the first time I’d made love to a woman I actually cared about. She was so soft and beautiful and I didn’t want to leave her, but as daybreak came I had to go.

  ‘Will you come back tomorrow?’ she asked and I kissed her and promised I would.

  How was this going to work? We could never have a normal life together, but I refused to think about that as I left her apartment and descended into the metro, mingling with the working masses going off to their jobs. For once, I was just like any other young man, sitting smiling on the metro, thinking of his girl on the way to work. Fiona had become a fond but distant memory over the years and though I still had her picture and looked at it from time to time, I knew I would never see her again. Gradually I had begun to forget her, and now there was a new lassie in my life.

  I couldn’t wait to see her again and as soon as she opened the door that night I swept her up and kissed her. I could feel she felt the same and we didn’t do much that night other than make mad, passionate love on her narrow bed. When I wanted to leave, she held on to me and asked me to stay. I told her I couldn’t, but that I would love to see her again. She told me her door would always be open to me.

  The night after, she cut my hair and gave me some clothes. She wanted me to sit for a portrait, so I agreed to pose for her but only at night. As she sketched, we talked about our time growing up. I don’t think she had been very happy and had always felt rather out of place growing up in Normandy. We both thought Paris was wonderful. She told me she was enjoying life here, but I could see she struggled to make ends meet and it was obvious she had been on her own for too long. She needed me as much as I needed her, I had not realised until then how much I craved human, and especially female, attention.

  ‘I want you to stay with me Cameron,’ she said after a few weeks. ‘You don’t have to leave every morning, I really like having you around.’

  I sat back down on the bed and stared at the wall not quite knowing what to tell her. Then I turned to her and said softly, ‘I’m a much damaged man Hélène. I don’t think I can be the man you want in your life.’ It made me sad to say it. I wanted to be with her all the time too.

  ‘We’re all damaged,’ she said, and started to cry.

  She told me she’d only been with one other man before me. She’d met him when she first came to Paris and had moved in with him, but he had turned violent and been cruel to her. I asked her who he was, but she told me she really wanted to forget the whole episode and that he wasn’t worth getting worked up about. I wondered if she’d seen the flicker in my eye and realised what I was capable of.

  ‘It has taken me a long time to let someone into my life again, but I would like to try, Cameron,’ she insisted as she held my hand. I told her that I had enlisted and lied about my age, that I had gone to war when I was still a child and it had affected me greatly. I couldn’t eat if anyone watched me, I couldn’t stand my own reflection anymore and, I told her, I was afraid of daylight and needed to spend my daytimes underground and by myself.

  It must have seemed very strange to her, but I looked so young and so pale that she accepted my story. She wanted to help and change me, but I played the part of the damaged young veteran well. I decided to risk it and brought the few possessions I owned along the next night. Hélène was delighted and freed up some space in her chest of drawers.

  The first few weeks were heavenly, just staying in her apartment and being unable to keep our hands off each other. We’d talk for hours while she sketched me. Hélène taught me about art and gradually I started to see the world differently; she made me see and appreciate beauty. Sometimes, we’d take a walk and she’d point out interesting architecture and decorative features on buildings. For the first two months, we wanted only each other for company, but then one night she sat me down for a talk.

  ‘I think we should go out more, Cameron. My friends have been asking to meet the mysterious man I’ve been seeing,’ she started off cheerfully. I wholeheartedly agreed with her as I loved meeting new people.

  ‘To go out, we need money and we also need to pay the rent,’ she continued more seriously.

  ‘I’ll try and find some work,’ I assured her.

  ‘You do have to start getting back to normality somehow,’ she told me.

  ‘I can’t do that, but I will try for the money,’ I said quietly. Hélène gave me a hug and a kiss and went back to her painting. I was relieved the conversation had ended there.

  Making a living during the hours of darkness was a challenge, but I found that in the early morning I could make some money at Les Halles helping the traders set up. I was young and strong and they found me to be a good worker. I also resorted to pick-pocketing on the metro, but I had mixed success with that. I even got caught once trying to get a wallet out of a pocket. The victim grabbed me and I allowed him to restrain me until the metro stopped. I had become fiendishly strong so when the doors opened I tore myself easily from his grasp, jumped out the carriage and off the platform and ran down a tunnel. It was dangerous, but what the hell. I was already dead and I needed to get away.

  I stole a pocket watch once and told Hélène I had found it. I’m not sure she believed me, but we needed the money and she sold it straight away the next day. I was surprised that she had managed to sell it so easily and asked her where she had gone. In wintertime it was easy to find shops still open when it was dark, and I went to find where she’d taken it. I watched the shop for a number of days and observed that the clientele was dodgy-looking at best. The wee jeweller was friendly and didn’t ask too many questions. I gained his trust and he proved to be a good introductory contact for the identity papers I’d need next.

  Going out with Hélène’s friends was mostly great fun and I got along with most of them – except when Hélène drank too much. She got jealous and paranoid when she’d had too much. One night, we had drifted to different parts of the room and when we left she was not in a good mood. I asked her if I’d done something wrong.

  ‘What were you saying to Chagall,’ she hissed on the way back to the apartment. ‘The two of you were laughing at me. Was it about my painting?’

  ‘No! Of course not! He told me about this American who wants to buy his painting, but absolutely insists on him painting her poodle into said picture. Some people are cretins! Of course he refused and told her to put her dollars where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  ‘Him and his rich clients! I bet he does laugh at my work and tells you I will never sell anything,’ she said angrily.

  ‘He likes your painting. He thinks you’re very talented,’ I told her and put my arm around her shoulders as we reached our apartment building.

  ‘He does? Really?’ and she turned to me and smiled shyly. ‘Do you think I’m talented?’ she asked, looking up at me with her beautiful, green eyes.

  ‘Abso-bloody-lutely!’ I said enthusiastically, and picked her up and carried her up the stairs, delighted she was happy again.

  It was exhausting trying to feed during the day, spend all my night time with Hélène and get some money to help her with the rent. I survived mostly on rats and dogs, as I was concerned about taking human blood. I suggested we set up shop on the banks of the Seine in the evenings, so that people on a night out or returning from dinner could stop and look at her paintings. Slowly the money started trickling in.

  Hélène liked to go dancing, so often, after a successful night by the river, we would go out the following night a
nd spend the proceeds in one of the dance halls. She had bought an emerald green dress with fringes that moved when she danced, and she looked amazing in it with her red hair. I had bought her one of the new fashionable bandeaus. It was imitation diamond and emerald but it was a nice piece and she loved it. We were trying to learn a new dance – the Charleston – and we were having a lot of fun trying out the steps.

  Hélène was a lot of fun and I was happiest when we lay on her bed, looking at the stars and talking. We both loved going dancing and having a good time, but we also enjoyed, on a winter’s night, looking at Cartier’s shop window and picking out the pieces we liked best. We both agreed on emeralds for Hélène and we lusted after a diamond tiara with Indian-cut emerald drops on its tips.

  ‘When would I ever wear a grand tiara like that, Cameron?’ she asked, as we stood in front of the window.

  ‘I think it would look spectacular with your apron, doing the dishes. I mean, when you have something that beautiful you’d want to wear it all the time.’ I kissed her neck.

  ‘Think if we go in they will let me try it on?’ she asked.

  I looked at our scruffy coats and doubted they’d even let us in.

  ‘Sure! Let’s try. The worst they can do is say no.’

  Of course they said no, but as we were discussing the unfairness, a wealthy-looking customer overheard us.

  ‘He is right, you know. A beautiful redhead like you should have an emerald tiara. Wait here. I’ll see if they’ll let you try it on for me,’ and he went inside to talk to the shop assistant.

  He must have been a good customer, as they agreed. I had to stay outside. They didn’t trust the both of us to be near something so valuable, but I was glad; the place had way too many mirrors. I could see her through the door, looking like a princess with the fabulous tiara on her head. Her face lit up with excitement and happiness. Hélène asked for the man’s name and address so she could give him a painting as a thank you, which turned out quite well. He liked her work and it led to a few commissions.

  As Hélène’s work began to be recognised, she started to get invitations to some glitzy parties. Through her and her new friends I was developing an eye for jewellery and a liking for the finer things of life. Paris in the 1920s attracted rich Americans and I found I mingled well with the new and affluent crowd. I was popular as I spoke perfect English and French and the Americans adored my Scottish accent. We were at one of these parties when Hélène got angry with me again.

  ‘What do you say to these Americans about me? You’re always talking to them.’ She didn’t like it when she couldn’t understand what I was saying. I had tried to teach her a few words, but English isn’t an easy language for French people and she struggled with it.

  ‘You should be glad I’m talking to them. They could become very good customers,’ I replied calmly, trying to sound upbeat. I didn’t want us to have a fight at such an important party.

  ‘It’s all about the money with you, isn’t it Cameron?’ she jibed angrily.

 

  ‘Stop it, Hélène. It was you that was always complaining you never had any, and now we are a good team. You paint and I sell.’

  I could see she was in a fighting mood. Cognac always made her aggressive. I tried to get her to leave the party – I didn’t want a scene.

  She snarled at me when she felt me leading her out to the door, ‘So now you are embarrassed by me! Silly drunk Hélène, always causing a scene!’

  ‘You said it, not me,’ I snapped back. People’s heads were starting to turn and I felt very uncomfortable.

  ‘How dare you criticise my behaviour,’ she hissed.

  ‘Can we please go?’ I begged her. Thankfully, she realised that having public rows was bad for business and she let me take her home. If we had problems, it was mostly on account of drink. More often, fun, sparkling, witty Hélène would come out, the Hélène that loved to go dancing and could party all night and still have the energy to make passionate love to me. Angry Hélène I liked less, as I hated fighting with her, but she forgave quickly and the make-up sex was pretty good too.

  Mostly, I hated sombre Hélène – she frightened me. Sometimes, the lights just went out in her eyes. She would stare, unseeing, into the distance and nothing I could say or do then would cheer her up. One cold night, we were walking back from a party and I saw her mood changing. We stopped on a bridge and she stared out over the water.

  ‘If you were married, you could tell me,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d rather be the mistress than not have you.’

  I grabbed her arms to make her face me. ‘Where is this coming from? I lived on the streets before I met you and you must know I love only you,’

  ‘You have so many secrets. Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.’ She turned to face me, but it was as though she was looking through me.

  ‘Hélène, trust me, you are the only one and you know how much you mean to me,’ I said pulling her close.

  ‘Then stop leaving me every morning before the sun even comes up!’ she said, and I could hear desperation in her voice.

  ‘I have to,’ I said quietly. It was already very late and I would have to hide soon. ‘Let’s talk tonight. I just can’t be here.’ I started breathing heavily, pretending to be in a panic, and turned to walk away.

  ‘Don’t you dare leave, Cameron!’ she shouted after me with the threat of tears in her voice and I felt something hit my back. Then her other shoe whizzed past me. This was bad, but I kept on walking. I couldn’t stay and reveal to her the monster that I was.

  I hoped she’d be in a better mood when I went to the apartment that night, but she wasn’t and I considered leaving straight away as I didn’t fancy another fight. I decided to have a bath instead, she always thought I looked adorable with wet messed up hair and I hoped it would win her over. When I came out of the bathroom, dressed only in a towel, I was shocked to see her standing in the middle of the room holding a knife.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ she screamed, holding up the photo of Fiona which I still carried in my wallet. She must have gone through my pockets.

  ‘That is Fiona. I told you about her,’ I said standing stock-still.

  ‘Why are you still carrying her picture? Do you still think about her?’ she yelled.

  ‘Burn the picture. I don’t care anymore,’ I said and she immediately grabbed a box of matches and set fire to the old photo, all the while looking at me, studying my face for a reaction. I was sad to see the picture burn, but it had to be done. There was now only one woman in my life and she was my life. I gently took the knife out of her hand and she let me kiss her. Slowly, I felt her relax and respond to my kisses. We made love slowly and tenderly that night and then just lay in each other’s arms without speaking a word, but I could feel the sombre mood hadn’t let go yet.

  A few days later, when I left the apartment, she followed me. It was winter so, luckily, I had gone to Les Halles to help the market traders set up in the dark. I was furious when I spotted her.

  ‘Don’t you dare follow me!’ I shouted grabbing her arms and shaking her violently. ‘Hélène, I swear it is over if you do that again!’ I was so angry. What if she had seen me sink my teeth into a rat?

  ‘I’m sorry! Please, please don’t leave!’ she cried, clinging to me tightly. I noticed we had drawn quite a crowd and became embarrassed, so I just stood there cuddling her until the men drifted off and went about their business again.

  ‘Christ, I am sorry,’ I murmured, ‘but please don’t follow me. You saw a side of me you didn’t like just now, but you could see much worse,’ I said, lifting her head up to make her look into my eyes. She stopped crying, tidied herself up and went home without saying a word. It was awkward for a few days after. I thought I had frightened her with my violent outburst as she didn’t question my whereabouts again. She loved me and seemed not to want to know if there was a dark secret. The fact was that we were daft about each other and wanted to be together, no matter what.<
br />
  Then, in 1925, we met Charley Webber. He had bought one of Hélène’s paintings, so when he spotted her at a party later the same week he came over to talk to her. I could tell that she liked him as he was one of the few Americans that spoke excellent French. I eyed him up suspiciously. He was tall and athletic like me, but he had blond, unruly curls that flopped over his forehead. He was handsome in a healthy country boy sort of way, but Charley was anything but a country boy. He was dressed in the latest fashion and I could tell his suit was expensive. Hélène introduced me as her boyfriend, but he didn’t seem to mind and included me in the conversation. He was a lively and animated character and I found him easy to talk to.

  ‘So what brings you to Paris, Charley?’ I asked him.

  ‘Firstly, you can’t get a drink in the States and secondly, I like a bit of distance between me and mummy,’ he told us.

  ‘What? You can’t get alcohol in America?’ asked Hélène, her eyes widening in amazement. I smiled wryly at that remark, I couldn’t imagine Hélène surviving one week without a drink.

  ‘Well, I suppose you can – there are these illegal bars called speakeasies but, as I said, they are illegal. Yep! Prohibition is a bitch!’ he said, raising his glass of champagne.

  He invited us to his house for dinner and handed us his card from a beautiful diamond encrusted Fabergé card case. When he saw my eyes widening he let me have a look at it.

  ‘Mummy got it for my 21st. It’s nice, but a bit old-fashioned now, and Cartier is doing rather exciting things in the new art deco style,’ said Charley.

  ‘I think it’s one of the most beautiful things – apart, of course, from Hélène – that I have ever seen,’ I said, looking the card case over before handing it back to him.

  ‘Well then, remind me to show you some of my other trinkets when you come round,’ he said, as he put the case back in his pocket.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive Cameron when we come for dinner, he doesn’t eat at night.’ Hélène smiled and stuck her tongue out at me as I shot her a dirty look.

  ‘Really Cameron? Why not?’ Charley asked me, surprised.

  ‘War hangover,’ I mumbled. ‘Evening bombardments put me off my food.’

  ‘And you’ll have to remove the mirrors!’ Hélène went on, playfully. She thought this quirk was just hilarious, but she did always go in first to check if a place was free of them. I knew I would have to come up with something better at some point, but in 1925 the war was still a good excuse for most odd behaviour. We agreed to come for dinner the following week and Charley went off after a waiter with a tray of full champagne glasses.

  Charley had a large apartment on the Rue de Rivoli overlooking the Tuileries gardens. When we went in, Hélène held my hand and pulled me close. Neither of us had ever been in such a magnificent place and I think she felt quite overwhelmed. Charley and Hélène had a sumptuous dinner while I was given what he called a box of trinkets to look at. I appreciated that he avoided the embarrassment of me having to sit through dinner with an empty plate.

  The box was full of some of the best pieces the famous jewellery houses were producing at the time. There was a pink and yellow gold cigarette case by Cartier and a rather striking Tiffany green and black enamel pill box in the Japanese style. Charley also had a bewildering collection of cufflinks and tie-pins, many of which were diamond-set.

  Hélène was walking on air on our way back home and couldn’t stop talking about all the divine dishes she had tasted. I felt a wee bit down, as I knew I could never provide her with that kind of luxury. I didn’t know if she felt my mood but she turned to me and said, ‘I don’t think I would like to be Charley, always wondering if people liked me only for my money.’

  ‘True, but I would still like you to become rich and famous. I think I would like to be rich,’ I said, smiling dreamily.

  ‘Yes Cameron, you are becoming quite a magpie. You do like shiny, pretty things,’ she said, cuddling into me.

  ‘Yes I do like pretty things,’ I said, and put my arm around her.

  We stopped on one of the bridges and kissed for a long time. For us Paris was one of the most romantic places in the world, and at times I almost forgot that I had died – until the rising sun reminded me.

  Charley often came to our apartment. I think he liked our Bohemian lifestyle and enjoyed sitting on our floor drinking cheap wine and discussing art. Sometimes, he took us around Paris in his enormous Packard roadster. Hélène would scream and hold her arms up in the air as he drove at high speed along the Champs-Elysées. I was very excited when he offered to teach me how to drive. The power and the speed of this enormous car were unbelievable. I only wished my Edinburgh friends could see me driving along the streets of Paris. Hootie would have been green with envy, as he always told us he would love to have a car. Charley gave us a taste of how the other half lived and we were glad to have him as a friend.

  One night, Charley suggested we take a trip to Deauville. We would go to the races and visit Honfleur where there were a few artists Charley was interested in. I could see Hélène was desperate to go, but I of course couldn’t. I had got to know Charley quite well and he was always the perfect gentleman, but to let him take my girlfriend alone on a trip would be a step too far.

  ‘Why can’t you come, Cameron?’ Charley asked me, surprised.

  ‘Don’t even bother. The wife won’t let him.’ Hélène snapped. I sat in a corner and brooded. This was just getting impossible. There was a long awkward silence, and Charley looked from one to the other trying to figure out what was going on between us.

  ‘We could always take one of Hèlène’s friends if you can’t go and you are worried I won’t behave myself,’ Charley said, after a while.

  Hélène grew very excited at this and went off to ask her friend Véronique straight away. When she was out of the apartment, Charley asked me if I was indeed married.

  ‘No I am not! It’s another war hangover that I have to be underground during the day. Somehow, at night, I feel safe as long as I don’t have my dinner, but during the day I think the bombs will rain down on me and I need to be underground,’ I explained trying to sound scared and damaged.

  ‘Why don’t you take her below grounds then?’ he asked. ‘She wants to know where you go.’

  ‘I can’t have her there when I am cowering in the metro and I can’t eat if I’m with someone,’ I said, not even having to pretend to be in great pain. Charley put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug.

  ‘Boy, oh boy, do you need a good psychiatrist!’

  Charley did take the girls on his trip and by all accounts they had an excellent time. Hélène came back sunburned, but she didn’t care and couldn’t stop talking about all the things they had seen and done.

  ‘The sea and the light Cameron, it was so… just so... inspirational!’ She gushed. ‘I would love to live there and just sit by the seaside and paint. The cloud formations and the sea – it was beautiful!’

  I sat there in silence and listened. I was worried that in time I would lose her to Charley and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. After the trip, Hélène sometimes met him during the day and I think the two of them were becoming good friends. I didn’t like it, but I had to resign myself to the fact that in the daytime she would live her life without me. She was an artist and loved the light – it was her inspiration and her reason for living and I could not share it.

  Then one day Charlie came by and told us he had to go back to America for a few months. His dad wanted him to meet an heiress and was hoping he would marry and settle down. ‘I’ll take her to a few balls, play their game for a while, then tell them she isn’t the one and come back,’ he told us, light-heartedly.

  ‘Think they’ll let you off the hook?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m terribly good at throwing tantrums. Mummy doesn’t dare say no to me and Daddy doesn’t dare to say no to her,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Don’t you think you want to get mar
ried?’ asked Hélène. I was immediately uneasy. I knew such a life could never be ours, but I also knew she would want to get married eventually.

  ‘I don’t think I could stand to have a woman around the place all the time,’ he said emphatically.

  ‘I think Cameron is like that. Even before daybreak he just has to get out of the place,’ and she started to cry. ‘Why do you both leave me? I can’t stand it,’ she sobbed. I put my arms around her, but she pushed me away and flung herself on the bed.

  ‘I will come back, dear girl, don’t worry. And I will write to you too,’ said Charley and he shot me a worried look. I sat on the bed to console her. Charley stood around looking awkward for a few seconds then left with a quick goodbye.

  Hélène didn’t paint for the next two weeks and I was worried about how much Charley’s absence was affecting her. I was jealous of him being so important in her life, but I also hoped he would come back so she could be happy again. It took a lot to shake her out of her mood again. Eventually I got her to go out, but things weren’t the same.

  ‘I think you have a wife somewhere’ she snapped at me again one night, as I came in. I spotted a half empty wine bottle on the table and got annoyed.

  ‘Not this again! Why do I have to keep telling you I am not married’ I shot back.

  ‘You said it yourself. We make good money together. You don’t need to work, so where the fuck are you all day?’

  She was starting to cry and I put my arms around her. ‘You know I love you. I promise there is nobody else,’ I said wearily. My anger came and went as quickly as hers. We both hated fighting, but I was tiring of having the same argument again and fearful of what would happen if she ever found out the truth.

  She began to calm down but looked very tired. I undressed her and put her into bed, then got in beside her hoping she would go to sleep. She was working a lot again, but drinking a lot too. Her paintings had become very popular and she had an important commission to paint a large mural in a church. I thought she was struggling with the scale of the work and it caused her great anxiety – she still wasn’t at all convinced of her own abilities. We were also invited to a lot of parties after which she wanted to stay up and make love to me or talk until I couldn’t stay any longer.

  ‘You need to sleep,’ I told her the next day, when I noticed it was getting very late.

  ‘How can I when I know you’re going to be gone when I wake up?’ she said, eyes heavy with tiredness.

  ‘I always come back don’t I?’

  ‘With Charley gone too, I feel so lost during the day,’ she said, pouring herself another glass. I wanted to pick up the bottle and smash it against the wall. Why did she have to drink so much? It wasn’t doing her any good. But I wasn’t there during the day; I couldn’t stop her.

  ‘Doesn’t your painting fulfil you?’ I asked her, but she just shrugged her shoulders and stared out of the window. The poor girl was exhausted. I may never have broken her skin, but I still found myself draining her of life and slowly killing her.

  I began to realise that I could never give Hélène a normal life and to believe that she would be better off without me. She needed rest and I hoped that some time away from me would do her good. I knew that eventually I would have to break our relationship off and, much as I hated the idea of her being with another man, I wanted to wait until Charley was back before I left for good. He was rich and a nice fellow and could give her all she needed. I hoped that she would seek solace in his arms.

  I wrote her a note swearing that I would be back in two weeks, but that I had a job up north in a coal mine and she should rest while I was away. Then I left.

  I got myself an apartment and worked at becoming a cat burglar. There was a lot of wealth in the city and I found that I was quite skilled at getting into places and it was less risky than pick-pocketing. After two weeks I missed Hélène dreadfully and was desperate to see how she was. I wasn’t sure how she’d have taken my sudden departure, but hoped she had rested and that her mural was progressing well. I went back to her apartment with mixed feelings of excitement and dread.

  ‘Cameron!’ she sobbed, throwing herself into my arms as I came in. She clung to me as she cried on my chest. After a while, she let me go and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again, you bastard! I swear I’ll kill myself if you ever leave me again!’ Her face was red and puffy, she had already drunk a lot and the crying wasn’t making things better. From the looks of the apartment she hadn’t done anything but drown her sorrows in alcohol since I’d left; there were bottles everywhere and the same canvas she had started two weeks before sat unfinished on the easel.

  I sat her down and made her a cup of tea. She watched me in silence as I tidied the place up. I found she had burned all the sketches she’d made of me and it sent a shiver down my spine. What was I doing? I didn’t want her out of my life! I ran her a bath and washed her hair for her. Then we just lay on her bed in each other’s arms. Soon she fell asleep and I was happy just to be near to her and hold her. As dawn approached, I got up carefully so as not to wake her, but she woke anyway and grabbed my wrist.

  ‘Stay the whole day with me! Please! I don’t want you to leave me again,’ she pleaded. ‘I want you to see the mural I’m doing, I want you to tell me if it’s any good.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said loosening her fingers from my wrist. There was simply nowhere to hide in her apartment and I certainly couldn’t walk to a church in broad daylight. Should I tell her the truth? Did she love me enough to accept me? ‘Can you not just love me and trust me to come back to you? I will always be faithful to you and I swear there is no one else!’ There was desperation in my voice. ‘And Hélène, you have to trust in yourself. You are extremely talented,’ I said. And I meant it.

  ‘I just die when you’re not with me,’ she said quietly and turned away from me. I knew she was crying now, but above me, through that cursed glass roof, I saw the night sky brightening. I had to go.

  ‘I have to go now, but I promise to be back tonight. Please go to work, and when you come back put a nice dress on for me and we’ll spend the night here – just the two of us.’ I kissed her cheek. She promised, but I could feel it was tearing her apart.