“No, thank you. How’s the lifestyle of the rich and famous going?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to spill everything about the strange isolation out here, Claude’s moods, the situation with Ambrose. But my problems pale in comparison to what they’re dealing with out in the real world, I’m sure. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s great. He’s been starting to paint again, and he cooks for me…”
“Ooh,” Sophie whispers. “Say that again but slower.”
I sigh.
“So are you two fucking yet or what?” Elaine asks.
“Elaine!” I hide my face and the damning blush. “No. It’s not like that. Itoldyou guys about the contract.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elaine says, doubtful.
“Mm-hmm,” Sophie echoes, even more doubtful.
“Anyway…” I roll my eyes, eager to change the subject. “Tell me what’s going on with you guys.”
We spend a half hour chatting about everything and nothing, aside from one break when Elaine makes sure the coffee shop isn’t being overrun without her. Sophie regales us with tales about her boyfriend’s horrible roommates, and Elaine reluctantly admits that she’s growing to love her parents’ cat, even though she’s long viewed it as some type of replacement for her.
By the end of it, my face hurts from smiling so much, and I hang up feeling a little less alone. Yet as soon as the call is over, the silence of the house presses in on me again.
I expect Claude to come get me sometime before dinner. A knock comes late… and I open the door to find a plate of food waiting with Claude nowhere to be seen. I frown, looking up and down the hallway, and decide it must be his way of telling me to continue staying here.
* * *
When I wake the next evening, I venture out to the kitchen. But Claude isn’t here waiting to make me my coffee. I wrangle with the high-tech espresso machine by myself for the first time and make myself a quick omelet. The whole time I expect him to show up any minute complaining that I didn’t let him cook for me… but he never appears.
I wander the house restlessly, hoping at some point he’ll emerge, but the door to his bedroom remains closed.
Perhaps I should be glad to see a reprieve from our painting sessions. Theywerea bit of a pain in the ass. But they were also the only scheduled part of my day, and without that, I feel even more useless and bored as I prowl the house. Plus, I can’t fight the growing sense that something is wrong. Even if he’s not painting today, shouldn’t he at least need to feed? He didn’t drink from me yesterday, either.
I pause in front of the double doors leading to his room for an embarrassingly long time before working up the courage to knock. “Claude?” I call.
No response.
“Hello?” I try again. “Are you in there?”
Silence. I stare at the doors, nibbling my lower lip. Did he leave with Ambrose? Is he upset with me? I don’t know what to think.
But if he isn’t answering, then… I should at least make sure he’s alright.
I reach for the doors, and they give easily, opening to either side to reveal Claude’s bedroom.
It’s my first time setting foot in here, and I hesitate on the threshold, looking around. It’s not what I expected. It’s luxurious, of course, huge compared to my generous bedroom. One wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows, though blackout curtains are currently drawn tight over them. The bed is expansive and plush, with white silk sheets, a fur throw, and aludicrous amount of pillows. A fireplace is built into the wall across from it, though it currently sits cold and unlit.
The whole room reeks of modernity and expense, all hard lines and neutral tones. It also feels oddly empty, devoid of personality, like it’s staged for a house showing. Despite Claude’s love of art, the white walls are as bare as the rest of the house.
And where is Claude himself?
For a moment I look around, squinting in the dim light coming through the open doorways behind me.
“Claude?” I ask, tentative.
There’s a faint stirring among the pile of pillows on the bed. “Leave me alone,” a muffled voice says.
I sigh, shut the doors behind me, and approach the bed. Only after some intense scrutiny do I detect a hint of dark curls and pale skin lost somewhere in the mess of blankets and pillows.
I place one fist on my hip. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Spending all night in bed?”
