PREVIEW:

1.

Claudia leans against the kitchen wall. The heat stored in the plaster throughout the day spreads into her hips, back, and shoulders. Her head, ever so heavy, droops forward. Glimpsing the red streaks across her chest, Claudia sinks deeper into the wall, heedless of the marks she leaves on the white paint, her hands still oily from greasing the chicken. The kitchen is stifling. It’s almost eight o’clock, but the sun is still seeping through the gaps in the shutters, roasting her skin. Or perhaps it’s the curry that’s turned this room into an oven. What was she thinking, making a hot, spicy dish in this weather? Étienne had said a salad would do. He comes up to her. “They’ll be here soon, Claudia. Go and have a shower.” He’s cool and clean. He puts a hand on her neck and feels her artery throbbing under his thumb. “Is it making dinner that’s got you into this state?” he asks in disbelief. “Go and have a shower, it’ll do you good.”

Étienne slides his hand to the back of her neck and squeezes it gently, subtly pushing her towards the corridor and the bathroom. It’s a slender neck. The chicken’s neck has been thrown in the bin, along with the giblets. The butcher insists on giving her all the animal’s parts and, perplexed, she always takes a moment to stare at these intruders among that flesh with its orangey skin: the dark, glistening entrails, the bend in the neck, the now harmless spurs. “Yes, I’m going.” In the bathroom mirror, Claudia’s naked body is a patchwork of scarlet and white. She spent nearly three hours preparing this meal. She sliced the onions finely and their persistent smell clings to her hands, refusing to let go of its prey. She diced the carrots and courgettes, soaked the raisins in water, let the oil sizzle in scalding pans. Whenever she could get away from the steam of the casserole for a few minutes, she paced up and down the flat, looking for a cushion to plump up, a knick-knack to reposition. The table is as pretty as a doll’s dinner set. She has placed bowls of pistachios and olives all around the living room. Claudia turns the shower mixer tap to cold in the hope that the jet of chilled water may wash off not only her sweat, which smells of curry and garlic, but these hideous red blotches too. She watches the water running between her breasts, over her belly, already a little filled out, then down her legs into the plughole. Staring at the twists and turns of her veins under the translucent skin of her feet, she feels a vague sense of shame bubble up inside her. She wanted to play the perfect hostess at her first real meeting with these friends of Étienne’s. She threw herself into the role wholeheartedly. The staging had to be perfect and the meal delicious, and now it’s time for her to spruce herself up. That’s what Étienne really expects, of course: “Go and have a shower, it’ll do you good” meant “Make yourself presentable, dress up, match the decor.” She rubs herself with the towel so hard she chafes her skin. The redness that vanished from her cheeks after the cool shower returns with a vengeance as she thinks about the imminent encounter. Claudia slips on a black dress and applies make-up, trying to conceal the dark red blotches that keep spreading over her face. She wonders if she should wash again; she thinks she can detect a lingering smell of curry under the scent of lemon verbena left by the soap. But it’s too late: her guests will be here soon. Claudia looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and sees herself the way Étienne’s friends will: a bland, awkward woman with nothing to say, a woman he picked because she’s undoubtedly good at taking care of their home, and because there’s no chance she’ll overshadow him. She has painstakingly and foolishly devoted all her energy to becoming this caricature – the opposite of how she would have liked to come across – and to appearing the contrary of what they are: always busy, snowed under with work, unable to find five minutes to address practical issues because they’re sucked into the whirlwind of business and Paris life. She should have thought about what to say to them and how to present herself. She could have constructed her character instead of throwing herself body and soul into creating the decor. Self-effacing Claudia. She’s heard this epithet so often and wishes she could apply it literally. Efface herself, disappear. Not contend with inquisitive or indifferent looks, spare herself the embarrassment of noticing the shadow of boredom in people’s eyes as soon as she utters a few words. Of course, she can always keep quiet: keep quiet, smile, laugh at other people’s jokes. But she knows they’ll only judge her even more cruelly: Claudia, the trophy girlfriend, the woman of no interest. She joins Étienne on the sofa. He’s leafing through documents he brought home from work. Without looking up, he pulls Claudia towards him, his hand large enough to grab half her ribcage. He drums his fingers on and between her ribs. Black, white, black, white. His fingers pick up the tune of Claudia’s panic-stricken heart. She wonders if she should ask him about Johar and Rémi, about what they do besides their jobs, what they enjoy. There may still be time to get ready for this encounter. But Étienne wouldn’t understand, he would look up, puzzled, from the contracts he’s reading and tell her to ask them herself. Unable to sit still, Claudia gets up and goes back into the kitchen. In the living room mirror, beneath a wreath of plaster fruit and vines, the young woman in the black dress who glances at her through her dark locks has a ball of fire where her face should be.