The Girl on Paper

by Guillaume Musso

  She unfolded her long limbs and wandered over to lie down on the sofa. I was once again struck by her resemblance to Billie; she had the same luminous fair complexion, the same unspoilt natural beauty, the same street-smart humour, the same tone of voice that I remember describing in my books as ‘provocative and mocking, at once confident and childlike’.

  ‘Most prized quality in a man?’

  ‘Did you get your questions out of Proust?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I like men to be men. I don’t have much time for those guys who are so obsessed with their “feminine side”. You know what I mean?’

  I looked doubtfully at her. I was about to fire another question at her, when she suddenly spoke up again.

  ‘What about you? What quality do you value most in a woman?’

  ‘Imagination, I think. Humour is the foundation of intelligence, isn’t it?’

  She pointed at the digital picture frame which was playing the slideshow of photos of Aurore.

  ‘You say that, but your pianist doesn’t look like she has much of a sense of humour.’

  ‘How about we stick to the point?’ I suggested, joining her on the sofa.

  ‘You’re starting to like this interrogation thing, aren’t you? Are you enjoying the power trip?’ she joked.

  But I was not to be distracted, and I continued with my questioning.

  ‘If you had to change one thing about the way you looked, what would it be?’

  ‘I’d like to be a bit curvier, more feminine.’

  I didn’t know what to say. She knew everything. Either this woman really was mad and had identified with Billie to the point where she had started to become her, or she really was Billie, and it was me that was going mad.

  ‘Come on then,’ she taunted.

  ‘All this shows is that you know my books really well,’ I said, doing all I could to hide my surprise.

  ‘OK, ask me some more questions then.’

  That was exactly what I intended to do. Just to provoke her, I chucked the copy of my book into the chrome-metal trash can, then opened my compact laptop and typed in my password to access my desktop. I actually knew much more about my characters than what went into my novels. To really get inside the heads of my ‘heroes’ I had got into the habit of writing a detailed biography of about twenty pages or so for each one. I put as much information as possible into these biographies, from their date of birth to their favourite song, including things like the first name of their nursery-school teacher. At least three-quarters of this information did not end up in the published version of the book, but it was all part of the invisible framework necessary for the mysterious alchemy of writing. I had convinced myself that this exercise gave my characters a certain level of credibility, or at least a little humanity, which perhaps explained why many of my readers identified with them.

  ‘Do you really want to keep going?’ I asked, bringing Billie’s file up on screen.

  The young woman pulled a small silver lighter and an opened pack of Dunhills out of a drawer in the coffee table, a pack that I hadn’t even known was there; it had no doubt belonged to one of the women I had dated before Aurore. She lit a cigarette with a peculiar elegance.

  ‘That’s exactly what I want to do.’

  I looked at the screen and picked something at random.

  ‘Favourite rock band?’

  ‘Um … Nirvana,’ she said before changing her mind. ‘No, the Red Hot Chili Peppers!’

  ‘Not a particularly original choice.’

  ‘But it’s the right answer, isn’t it?’

  She had a point. Probably a lucky guess. Who didn’t love the Red Hot Chili Peppers?

  ‘Favourite meal?’

  ‘If it’s a friend from work asking, I’d say Caesar salad, so I don’t look like a total pig, but really it’s a nice greasy portion of fish and chips!’

  This time, she couldn’t have just been guessing. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. No one, not even Milo, had read these ‘secret’ biographies of my characters. The only place I kept them was on my computer, where they were well protected by a password. Still refusing to take this as evidence that she was telling the truth, I hit her with another question.

  ‘Your favourite position?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  She got up from the sofa and stubbed out her cigarette.

  The lack of reply renewed my confidence.

  ‘How many people have you slept with? And, this time, answer me! You don’t get lives, you know, and you’ve already taken one!’

  For this, I received an icy glare.

  ‘You’re just like all the others, aren’t you? You’re only interested in one thing.’

  ‘I never claimed to be any different. So, how many?’

  ‘You know that already. Ten, maybe.’

  ‘I want an exact number.’

  ‘I’m not going to start listing them in front of you!’

  ‘Because it would take too long?’

  ‘What are you implying? Are you saying I’m a slut?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘No, but you were obviously thinking it.’

  Ignoring her modesty, I persisted with what was quickly turning into torture for her.

  ‘So, how many?’

  ‘Sixteen, I think.’

  ‘And out of this “sixteen, I think” how many were you in love with?’

  She sighed.

  ‘Two. The first and the last: Théo and Jack.’

  ‘A virgin and a womaniser. You have extreme tastes.’

  She looked at me contemptuously.

  ‘Classy! You’re clearly a gentleman.’

  Despite my provocative questions, I had to admit she was getting it right every time.

  Drrring!

  Someone was ringing the doorbell, but I had no intention of answering it.

  ‘Are you done with your stupid questions?’ she asked defiantly.

  I tried a trick question.

  ‘What’s your favourite book?’

  She shrugged, looking embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t read much – I don’t have the time.’

  ‘The classic excuse!’

  ‘If you think I’m dumb, you only have yourself to blame! May I remind you that I’m a product of your imagination. You invented me!’

  Drrring! Drrring!

  At the door, my new visitor was getting impatient, and was taking it out on the doorbell, but they would just have to wait.

  Baffled by the entire situation, and increasingly thrown off balance with each correct response, I got carried away, not realising that my interrogation was turning into harassment.

  ‘Your greatest regret?’

  ‘I don’t have any children yet.’

  ‘At what point in your life were you happiest?’

  ‘The last time I woke up in Jack’s arms.’

  ‘The last time you cried?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I don’t know. Lots of things make me cry.’

  ‘The last time it meant something.’

  ‘Six months ago, when I had to have my dog put down. He was called Argos. Is that not written down in your little file?’

  Drrring! Drrring! Drrring!

  I ought to have left it at that. I had more proof than I needed, but I was still overwhelmed by what was happening. My little game had hurled us violently into another dimension, another reality that my mind didn’t want to adjust to. In my panic, I directed my anger toward Billie.

  ‘Your greatest fear?’

  ‘The future.’

  ‘Can you remember the worst day of your life?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me that.’

  ‘It’s my last question.’

  ‘Please, don’t.’

  I grabbed her by the arm. ‘Answer me!’

  ‘Let me go! You’re hurting me!’ she yelled, struggling to break free.


  ‘TOM!’

  cried a voice from behind the door.

  Billie had managed to free herself from my grasp. Her face was flushed with rage and her eyes flashed with pain.

  ‘TOM! OPEN THE DOOR NOW!! DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE WITH A BULLDOZER!’

  Milo, of course.

  Billie had taken refuge on the terrace. More than anything I wanted to go and apologise for the pain I had caused her, because I knew full well that her anger and sadness were genuine, but what had just happened had disturbed me so deeply that I welcomed the prospect of a new perspective on the situation.

  11

  The little girl from MacArthur Park

  Friends are the angels that lift us when our wings have forgotten how to fly

  Anonymous

  ‘You narrowly avoided the bulldozer!’ joked Milo as he marched into the living room. ‘Wow. I see things aren’t getting any better. You look like someone who’s just been snorting sodium bicarbonate.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come to pick up my car, if that’s all right with you! I just want to take her for one last spin before she’s repossessed.’

  Malibu Colony

  10 a.m.

  ‘Morning, Tom,’ said Carole, as she too stepped into the house.

  She was still in uniform. I glanced at the street below and saw a police car parked outside my house.

  ‘Have you come to arrest me?’ I laughed, pulling her into my arms for a hug.

  ‘My God, you’re bleeding!’ she exclaimed.

  I frowned, but soon noticed the bloodstains that had bloomed on my shirt: a reminder of Billie’s slashed hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not my blood.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then! And it looks fresh,’ she pointed out, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice.

  ‘Listen to this. You’ll never guess what’s happened to me. Yesterday evening—’

  ‘Whose dress is this?’ Milo interrupted, holding up the bloodstained silk tunic.

  ‘It belongs to Aurore, but—’

  ‘To Aurore? Don’t tell me that you’ve—’

  ‘No! It wasn’t her that was wearing it. It was another woman.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re seeing someone else now? That can only be a good thing, right? Is it someone we know?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  Carole and Milo exchanged astonished looks before demanding in unison, ‘Who is it then?’

  ‘Take a look on the terrace. You’re in for a big surprise.’

  They hurried across the room and stuck their heads out of the glass doors. They were silent for about ten seconds, until finally Milo observed, ‘There’s no one there, buddy.’

  Taken aback, I went out onto the terrace with them, where a cool breeze was blowing.

  The table and chairs had all been overturned, and the tiles were covered in broken glass. The ground was smeared with mashed banana, coffee and maple syrup. But there was no sign of Billie.

  ‘Has the military been conducting nuclear tests on your terrace?’ Carole enquired.

  ‘She has a point – it’s like a war zone out here,’ Milo chimed in.

  To avoid the glare, I shielded my eyes and scanned the horizon. Last night’s storm had transformed the beach into a wild jungle. The swirls of foam that were still breaking on the shore had left in their wake tree trunks, seaweed, a surfboard and even the skeleton of a bike. But I had to accept the fact that Billie had vanished.

  Ever the policewoman, Carole had crouched down by the door and was examining the traces of blood that were beginning to dry on the glass. She looked worried.

  ‘What happened here, Tom? Did you get into a fight with someone?’

  ‘No! It’s just—’

  ‘I really think we have a right to know the truth this time!’ my best friend interrupted again.

  ‘If you want explanations, shut up and let me finish my sentences!’

  ‘Well, start finishing them! Who did this to your terrace? And whose blood is on this dress? The Pope’s? Gandhi’s? Marilyn Monroe’s?’

  ‘It’s actually Billie Donelly’s.’

  ‘Billie Donelly? The character from your novels?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘I suppose it amuses you to make a fool of me?’ Milo exploded. ‘I would do anything, anything in the world for you. If you asked me to, I would bury a body in the middle of the night for you. But you obviously couldn’t care less, you take me for an idiot—’

  Carole got up suddenly from where she had been crouching and came and stood between us like the referee in a boxing match. Then, in the exasperated tone of a mother scolding her children, she said, ‘Time out, boys. Stop arguing. Why don’t you both sit down and Tom can explain everything calmly, OK?’

  *

  And that is what happened.

  For fifteen minutes straight I recounted in minute detail the incredible story, from my bizarre first encounter with Billie in the dead of night to this morning’s interrogation, which had finally convinced me that she was real.

  ‘So if I’ve understood you properly,’ Milo clarified, ‘one of your heroines “fell out” of a badly printed sentence straight into your house. Because she was naked, she put on a dress belonging to your ex-girlfriend, then made you banana pancakes for brekkie. To say thank you, you locked her out on the terrace and while you listened to Miles Davis she slashed up her palm, getting blood all over the place, then stuck herself back together with special ceramic and porcelain Super Glue. Then you made peace by playing twenty questions, after which she decided that you were a pervert and you implied she was a slut, before she said abracadabra and disappeared just as we both arrived. Did I get that right?’

  ‘Just forget it,’ I said. ‘I knew you’d find some way to turn it against me.’

  ‘Just one last question: what exactly have you been smoking?’

  ‘That’s enough out of you!’ interrupted Carole.

  Milo looked concerned. ‘You need to see your psychiatrist again.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, I feel fine.’

  ‘Look, I know that I’m responsible for your financial situation. I know I shouldn’t have put pressure on you to finish your book within the deadline, but you’re really scaring me now, Tom. You’re losing it.’

  ‘You’re just a little burned out.’ Carole tried to soften Milo’s words. ‘You’ve been under a lot of strain recently. For three years you barely stopped: writing through the night, meeting fans, lectures, tours all over the world to promote your books. Anyone would collapse under that kind of pressure. Your break-up with Aurore was just the final straw. You need to rest, that’s all.’

  ‘Stop treating me like a kid.’

  ‘You have to start seeing your shrink again,’ Milo repeated. ‘She mentioned a course of sleep therapy to us—’

  ‘What do you mean, “to us”? Have you been talking to Dr Schnabel behind my back?’

  ‘We’re on your side, Tom,’ said Milo, trying to calm me down.

  ‘Then why can’t you just leave me alone? Why don’t you sort out your own life instead of always interfering with mine?’

  Hurt by this retort, Milo shook his head and opened his mouth as if to reply, but his expression darkened and he remained silent. Instead, he took a Dunhill from the open pack on the table and went out to the beach to smoke alone.

  *

  I was alone with Carole. She also lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before passing it to me, just like when we were ten years old and we used to share a cigarette, hidden behind the scrawny palm trees in MacArthur Park. No longer on duty, she shook her hair out of its knot, letting the ebony waves cascade over her dark-blue uniform. With her hair loose, and her familiar clear gaze, she could have passed for the teenage girl she had once been. The bond between us was more than just mutual understanding and affection. Nor was it just an ordinary friendship. It was one of those unbreakable connections that can only be formed in childhood, but which
last a lifetime, for better or worse. More often for worse.

  As always when we found ourselves alone together, the memories of our chaotic adolescence flooded back. The empty lots that were the only view we had, the suffocating air of the asphalt quagmire imprisoning us, the painful memory of the conversations we used to have after school out on the basketball courts.

  This time more than ever it felt like we were twelve years old again. As though all the books I had sold, all the criminals she had caught were just part of an act we were both putting on for the rest of the world, when really we were still back there.

  After all, it was no coincidence that none of the three of us had ever had any children. We still had too many of our own demons to fight to have enough energy to create new life. I did not know much about Carole’s life any more. Recently we had seen less and less of each other, and when we did meet up we both avoided talking about what really mattered. Maybe we were both living in the naive hope that if we ignored our past long enough it would just disappear. But it wasn’t that simple. To forget his childhood, Milo played the fool the whole time, acting as if everything were a joke. As for me, I poured everything I had onto the page, swallowed dangerous cocktails of pills and inhaled crystal meth.

  ‘I don’t like big emotional scenes, Tom,’ she began nervously, toying with a little spoon.

  Now that Milo was no longer in the room, she looked sad and anxious; she no longer had to pretend.

  ‘You know that we will always be there for each other, no matter what,’ she continued. ‘I’d donate a kidney for you; I’d give both, if you asked me to.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to.’

  ‘For as long as I can remember, it was always you who fixed everything. Now it’s my turn to fix you, and I can’t seem to help.’

  ‘Don’t start with all that crap. I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not fine. But there’s one thing you have to know: neither Milo nor I would be where we are today if it weren’t for you.’

  I shrugged. I wasn’t even sure that we had come very far at all from where we started. Sure, we lived in better areas, and our lives were no longer dominated by fear, but as the crow flies we were still just a few miles from MacArthur Park.