Moonlight Over Paris(77)
“Fine,” he said, and kissed her hair. “If you say so. Which one of these doors is your room?”
“Far end . . . left side.”
The door was ajar, so he shouldered it open and carried her across the room to her bed. He set her down and then, stooping a little, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch, whisper-soft, was the nicest thing she had ever felt.
“I had better go, otherwise Vincent is going to have a heart attack.”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
She struggled to her knees, set her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him before he could stop her. At first he didn’t respond, his mouth refusing to soften under hers, so she wrapped her arms around his neck, as she’d once seen Theda Bara do in a movie, and, opening her mouth just a little, let her tongue dart out to touch at his lips.
This had the effect of melting his reserve, and he pulled her close and kissed her so fiercely that she felt certain he had changed his mind and did desire her after all. But it only lasted a few seconds before he pulled away, gently but firmly, unwound her arms from around his neck, and took her hands in his.
“Ellie, no. You’re in no fit state—”
She clutched at his arms, trying to draw him into an embrace, but Sam evaded her grasp and took another step back.
“I said no. You’re not—”
“But I love it when you kiss me. I would seduce you if I knew how . . .”
“Are you trying to kill me? Listen—you’re upset, you’re three sheets to the wind, and Vincent has probably got his ear to the door right now. And we both know he wouldn’t think twice about chopping me into little pieces if he thought it might please your aunt.”
This struck Helena as one of the funniest things she had ever heard, and it was some time before she was able to stop giggling and catch her breath. She started to talk, but her tongue suddenly felt swollen, and her mouth wouldn’t behave, and on top of everything else she discovered she had a frightful case of the hiccups.
“Si—hic—silly man. Was Auntie A—hic—who gave me th’ idea. She said we should be lo—hic—lovers. So she won’ care.”
Sam was shaking his head, but she knew she had to explain, had to make him understand. “Auntie A says I’m in love with you.”
“Are you?”
“I don’ know. Never fell in love be—hic—before. Would be silly to love you.”
“Why, Ellie? Why would it be silly? Because I—”
“Because you’re jus’ like Edward. You’re Edward in an Amer—hic—American suit. Thas’ wha’ you are, an’ it makes me sad. So, so sad . . .”
She looked up at him, and of course he was so tall she had to tilt her head right back, and everything around her started to spin and shift. Her stomach turned over once, twice, and her throat seemed to close up—and then, before she could warn Sam or turn away, she vomited all over his front, and it went on forever, and in that instant she really, truly, wished she could die and never have to look him in the eye again.
He didn’t turn away, which was very surprising, but instead stayed where he was and rubbed her back, even as she was throwing up all over his shoes. He said, “oh, honey,” once or twice, and when it was over and she had stopped that awful empty retching, he fetched a towel from her washstand so she might wipe her face.
Even after the maid had arrived he only went as far as the hall, and when she and her room were clean, and she had been dressed in a fresh nightgown and dosed with bicarbonate, he came in again to say good night. He had changed into a clean shirt and trousers, though neither fit him very well.
“Vincent lent me some of his clothes,” Sam explained. “Do you feel any better?”
“A little,” she whispered.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll talk then. Try to get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead, and then he was gone.
THE NEXT DAY found Helena feeling thoroughly wretched in both body and spirit. She woke at dawn, her head aching so badly that the slightest movement pained her, and immediately resolved that she would never, ever, ever let a sip of alcohol pass her lips again.
She staggered to her washstand, the distance between it and her bed stretching near to infinity, and met the sorry gaze of her reflection in the mirror above. She had never looked worse. Her face was smeared with rouge and mascara, her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair stood on end and smelled horribly of smoke.
Somehow she stayed upright long enough to wash her face and brush her teeth, which made her feel fractionally less disgusting. Back at her bedside, she swallowed two tablets of aspirin and, thoroughly exhausted, burrowed under her eiderdown and shut her eyes against the coming day.
If only she could shut her mind to the memories of her mortifying behavior. Sam had been so understanding, and she had rewarded his kindness by acting in the most shameless fashion—and then, when he had declined her pathetic overtures, she had vomited all over him.
That was all she could think about, her mind’s eye replaying it again and again, and even once she fell asleep again the memory of those moments haunted her, chasing her through galleries of paintings by other artists, talented artists, and whenever she stopped to look for her own work Ma?tre Czerny would spring up like a crazed Guignol puppet, shouting, “Useless! Hopeless!” and no matter where she searched, she couldn’t find her Sam, for he had left her, too, and would never return . . .