The Girl on Paper (28 page)

The vehicle stopped on Quai de Bourbon outside a handsome seventeenth-century mansion. Holding his overnight bag, with the envelope containg the book under his arm, Oleg took the lift to the fifth floor. The duplex occupied the top two floors and had a stunning view over the Seine and Pont Marie. He’d splashed out on the place as a romantic gift
for Marieke when they’d first got together.

Oleg had his own set of keys. He let himself into the apartment. It was quiet, bathed in the pale light of dawn. He recognised Marieke’s fitted pearl-grey coat thrown over the white leather couch, but beside it lay a man’s leather jacket which didn’t belong to him…

The penny dropped immediately and he didn’t bother going up to the bedroom.

Outside on the street, he tried to hide his shame in front of his driver. But in his anger he hurled the book into the river with all his might.

Under Clouseau’s supervision, the intern placed the defibrillator patches on Billie’s body, which was anaesthetised. Then the surgeon took over, carefully removing all the stitches in her chest before debriding the wound, cutting out the dead and infected tissue.

The wound was oozing. Clouseau decided on
closed-heart
surgery. In order to drain the fluid, he put in six small drainage tubes attached to suction devices. Then he finished the procedure by stabilising the breastbone, and sewing the wound with fresh steel wire so that the movements of her breathing wouldn’t interfere the healing process.

At last, the operation seems to have
—

‘Doctor! She’s haemorrhaging!’ called the intern.

Protected only by the padded envelope, the book with the midnight-blue cover floated down the Seine, water seeping inside as it went.

The book had covered some serious ground over the past few weeks, travelling from Malibu to San Francisco, crossing the Atlantic to Rome, continuing its journey as far as Asia before heading back to Manhattan, and eventually landing in France.

In its own way, the book had changed the lives of all the people who had held it. This wasn’t just any novel. The story it told had been dreamed up in the mind of a teenager traumatised by what his childhood friend was going through.

Years later, when the author was battling his own demons, the book had flung one of its characters into the real world to come to his aid.

But that morning, as the river water soaked through its pages, it seemed the real world had decided to fight back, determined to wipe Billie off the face of the earth.

‘Let’s open her up again,’ ordered Clouseau.

It was as he feared: the right ventricle had torn, causing a massive loss of blood. It was spurting out from all sides and flooding the area they were working on. The intern and nurse were struggling to contain it, forcing Clouseau to compress the heart with his hands to try to stop the flow.

This time, Billie’s life was hanging by a thread.

‘Hey, boys, it’s time for work, not time for breakfast!’ spat Captain Karine Agneli, walking into the staff room at the headquarters of the river police.

Lieutenants Diaz and Capella were enjoying coffee and croissants, reading the headlines of
Le Parisien
and listening to comedy on the radio.

With her short tousled hair and charming freckles, Karine was as feminine as she was no-nonsense. She was having none of this slacking; she switched off the radio and roused her men to action.

‘We’ve just had a call come in; there’s an emergency. Some drunk’s thrown himself off Pont Marie. So you’d better pull your fingers out of—’

‘OK, we’re going, boss!’ Diaz cut her off. ‘No need to lower the tone.’

Seconds later all three of them had taken their places aboard the
Cormorant
, one of the patrol boats used to police the Seine. It sliced through the waves, travelling along Quai Henri-IV and passing under Pont de Sully.

‘You’d have to be totally wasted to think it was a good idea to jump in when it’s this cold,’ remarked Diaz.

‘Uh-huh… Not looking so perky yourselves this morning,’ commented Karine.

‘The baby was up all night’ was Capella’s excuse.

‘And what about you, Diaz?’

‘It’s my mother.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s complicated,’ he said, trying to put an end to the conversation.

She left it at that. The boat carried on along Voie
Georges-Pompidou,
until…

‘I can see him!’ shouted Capella, peering through his binoculars.

They slowed down as they went under Pont Marie. A man was flailing around in the water, tangled in his raincoat, gasping as he struggled to reach the riverbank.

Karine zipped up her wet suit and dived into the water while her two lieutenants looked on sheepishly.

She swam over to the man, calmed him down and brought
him back to the
Cormorant
, where Diaz pulled him on board and wrapped him in a blanket before performing first aid.

Still in the water, Karine spotted something bobbing on the surface. She reached for it. It was a large padded envelope lined with bubble wrap – not exactly biodegradable. Since tackling pollution was also within the remit of the river police, she took it with her as Capella hauled her up on deck.

The surgical team spent the whole morning trying to save Billie.

Clouseau used a piece of the lining of the peritoneum to patch up the tear in the ventricle.

It was a last-ditch attempt to keep her alive.

Her chances were looking slim.

Back at HQ, Lieutenant Capella was emptying the boat before hosing it down.

He picked up the padded envelope, which was sodden as a sponge. Inside was a book in English in pretty shoddy condition. He was just about to throw it into the skip when he changed his mind and placed it on the quayside.

Milo had come to meet me in Paris, helping me through a difficult period.

Teetering between life and death, Billie had been in intensive care for over a week under the watchful eye of Clouseau, who came by to monitor his patient every three hours.

He was incredibly understanding, allowing me to come and go whenever I wanted. And so I spent a good part of each day sitting on a chair, my laptop on my knees, feverishly tapping away on the keyboard to the beat of the heart monitor and whirr of the ventilator.

Drugged up on painkillers, Billie was intubated and had drains and drips coming out of her arms and chest. She hardly opened her eyes, and when she did I could see the suffering and anguish in them. I wanted to be able to comfort her and dry her tears, but all I could do was carry on writing.

In the middle of October, Milo sat outside a café and finished a long letter to Carole. He folded the sheets and put them in an envelope, paid for his Perrier-menthe and crossed the road to Quai Malaquais, on the banks of the Seine. As he walked in the direction of the Institut de France, where he’d spotted a letter box, he slowed down to glance over the racks of the
bouquinistes
.

Old books were displayed with black and white Doisneau postcards, vintage Chat Noir posters, 1960s vinyl, and hideous Eiffel Tower key-rings. Milo stopped at a stall specialising in comic books. From
The Incredible Hulk
to
Spiderman
, his imagination had been filled with the heroes of Marvel comics as a child, and that afternoon he took pleasure in looking through the Astérix and Lucky Luke books. The last rack was ‘Everything for 1 euro’. Milo had a rummage: dog-eared paperbacks, torn magazines and, in amongst all this junk, a tattered midnight-blue leather hardback …

No way!

He studied the book: the binding had buckled and the pages were stuck together and bone dry.

‘Where … where did you get this book?’ he asked.

The bookseller, who spoke just a little English, explained that he had found it on the quayside. Still, Milo couldn’t understand by what miracle the book he’d lost track of in New York had ended up in Paris ten days later.

Still flummoxed, he kept turning the book over in his hands.

Yes, he’d found the book, but what a state it was in.

The
bouquiniste
could see he was puzzling over it.

‘If you want to get it mended, I can recommend someone,’ he suggested, handing him a business card.

In the craft bookbinding workshop of the priory, Sister
Marie-Claude
was examined the book she had been charged with mending. The body of the book was battered and bruised, its imitation leather cover badly damaged. It was going to be difficult to restore, but the nun prepared to do her best.

She began by carefully undoing the binding. Then, using a humidifier barely bigger than a pen, she sprayed a very fine mist over the book, at an exact temperature displayed on a digital screen. The cloud of humidity sank into the paper and the pages came unstuck. Because they had got wet, they were very delicate and faded in places. Sister
Marie-Claude
carefully inserted sheets of blotting paper between each of them before standing the book upright and drying it very gently with a hairdryer. A few hours later, you could turn the pages more or less smoothly. The nun carefully checked
each of them in turn, making sure she’d done a good job. She stuck in the photos that had fallen out, along with the little lock of hair that looked as if it had come from the head of an angel. Then, to get the book back to its original shape, she placed it inside a press for the night.

The next day, Sister Marie-Claude set about making a new skin for the book. In the peace and quiet of the workshop, she worked through the day with surgical precision, creating a cover from dyed calfskin with a lambskin label, on which she inscribed the title in gold leaf.

At 7 p.m., the young American with the strange name knocked at the door of the priory. Sister Marie-Claude returned the book to Milo, who complimented her so wholeheartedly on her work that she couldn’t help but blush.

‘Wake up!’ ordered Milo, shaking me.

What the
—

I had fallen asleep in front of my computer again, in the hospital room Billie had occupied before her operation. I spent every night there, with the unspoken agreement of the staff.

The blinds were down and the room was lit by a dim nightlight.

‘What time is it?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.

‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘And what day is it?’

‘Wednesday.’

He couldn’t help adding in a sarcastic tone, ‘And before you ask, yes, it’s 2010 and Obama’s still the president.’

‘Hmm.’

I had a tendency to lose track of time while concentrating on my writing.

‘How many pages have you written?’ he asked, reading over my shoulder.

‘Two hundred fifty,’ I replied, folding down the screen. ‘Halfway there.’

‘And how’s Billie?’

‘Still in intensive care. They’re watching her closely.’

With great solemnity, he took a sumptuously bound book out of a bag.

‘I’ve a present for you,’ he said mysteriously.

It took me a little while to register that this was none other than my book, which he and Carole had chased across the four corners of the earth.

It had been expertly restored and its leather cover was warm and smooth to the touch.

‘Billie’s out of danger now,’ Milo reassured me. ‘Now all you have to do is finish your story to send her back to her own world.’

The wind carried away the yellow leaves that had fallen on the sidewalks, and the mellow autumn sun gave way to the harsh chill of winter.

Cafés brought their chairs indoors or turned on their heaters. Stalls selling roasted chestnuts sprang up around Métro exits, enticing commuters as they put on hats and tightened scarves against the cold.

I was on a roll, writing faster and faster, pressing the keys almost without pausing for breath, carried along by a story of which I was now the plaything as much as the creator, hypnotised by the page numbers at the bottom of my screen: 350, 400, 450…

Billie had pulled through and passed the ‘heart test’. First, they had replaced the tube down her throat with an oxygen mask. Then Clouseau gradually reduced the dose of painkillers and took out the drains and drips, breathing a sigh of relief when her samples came back clear of any new infections.

After that, her bandages were taken off and her wounds covered with transparent film. As the weeks passed, her scar faded.

Billie began eating and drinking by herself again. I watched her take her first steps, then climb a flight of stairs, supervised by a physio.

Her hair had returned to its normal colour, and she had gone back to her usual smiling, vibrant self.

On 17 December, Paris woke up to its first flakes of snow, which carried on falling all morning.

And on 23 December I finished my novel.

With one shopping day left, the Christmas market was in full swing. As Billie and I walked arm in arm, I guided her through the little white stalls that had been set up between Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées roundabout. The big wheel, the lights, ice sculptures and wafts of mulled wine and gingerbread gave the avenue a magical fairytale feel.

‘You’re buying me a pair of shoes?’ squealed Billie as we passed the luxury boutiques on Avenue Montaigne.

‘No, I’m taking you to the theatre.’

‘To see a play?’

‘No, to eat!’

We arrived outside the white marble facade of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, taking the lift up to the top-floor restaurant.

Sparsely furnished with wood, glass and granite surfaces, the room was painted in pastel shades, offset by
plum-coloured
columns.

‘Would you care for something to drink?’ asked the maître d’, after showing us to a cosy silk-draped booth.

I ordered two glasses of champagne and took a tiny silver case out of my pocket.

‘I kept my promise,’ I said, handing it to my dinner companion.

‘It’s not a ring, is it?’

‘No, don’t get carried away.’

‘Aha, it’s a USB stick!’ she discovered, pulling the cap off. ‘You’ve finished your book!’

I nodded. The waiter set our drinks down.

‘I’ve got something for you too,’ she said mysteriously, taking a cell phone out of her bag. ‘I wanted to give this back before we say cheers.’

‘But that’s my phone!’

‘Yeah, I know, I pinched it this morning,’ she confessed openly. ‘You know how nosy I am …’

I took it back, grumbling, while she sat looking pleased with herself.

‘I hope you don’t mind but I read a few of your texts. I see things are back on track with Aurore!’

Though she wasn’t entirely mistaken, I shook my head. Over the last few weeks, Aurore’s messages had become more frequent and affectionate. She told me she missed me, said she was sorry for some of the things she’d done and hinted at giving our relationship ‘a second chance’.

‘She’s fallen for you again! Didn’t I tell you I’d stick to my side of the bargain?’ Billie declared, taking the crumpled piece of tablecloth from her pocket.

‘Those were the days,’ I said, thinking back nostalgically to when we’d made our pact.

‘Yes, I seem to remember giving you a good slap!’

‘So…’ I paused. ‘This is it then, the adventure stops here.’

She looked at me, trying to keep things light-hearted. ‘That’s right, mission accomplished times two! You’ve written your book and I got you back the woman you love.’

‘You’re the woman I love.’

‘Please, don’t make this complicated,’ she begged as the waiter came over to take our order.

I turned away so she wouldn’t see I was upset. I looked out through the dizzying glass wall, taking in the incredible view over the rooftops of the city.

I waited until the waiter had gone before asking, ‘So what exactly’s going to happen now?’

‘We’ve been over this a million times, Tom. You’re going to send your manuscript to your editor and, when he reads it, the imaginary world you describe in your story will form in his head. And that imaginary world is where I belong.’

‘You belong here, with me!’

‘No, there’s no way that can happen. I can’t be in two places at once, the real world and the fictional one. I can’t live here; I almost died – it’s a miracle I’m still here at all.’

‘But you’re better now.’

‘I’m living on borrowed time and you know it. If I stay, I’ll get ill again, and I won’t be so lucky next time.’

I couldn’t believe she was giving up so easily.

‘It’s like… you’re happy to be leaving me!’

‘I’m not happy at all, but we’ve known from the beginning this couldn’t last. We always knew we couldn’t have a future together, that our relationship couldn’t go anywhere.’

‘But things have happened between us!’

‘I know they have. The last few weeks have been like a dream, but the fact is we’re worlds apart. You’re living a real life; I’m just a “figment of the imagination”.’

‘Fine,’ I said, standing up from the table, ‘but you could at least act like you care.’

I threw my napkin down on my chair and slammed the last of my money on the table before walking out of the restaurant.

The biting cold that had set in over the city chilled me to the bone. I turned up the collar of my coat and hurried up the avenue to the Plaza, where three taxis were waiting.

Billie ran after me, grabbing hold of my arm.

‘How dare you walk off like that? How can you spoil everything we’ve been through together?’

She was shivering violently. Tears were running down her cheeks and you could see her breath in the icy air.

‘What do you you think?’ she shouted. ‘That I’m not devastated at the thought of losing you? You poor fool, you have no idea how much I love you!’

She was really wound up, outraged at my accusations.

‘What do you want me to say? That I’ve never been so happy with a man in my entire life? I didn’t even know it was possible to feel this way about someone! I didn’t know you could feel passion at the same time as respect, and laughter, and tenderness! You’re the only one who ever got me to read. The only one who really listens to me and doesn’t make me feel like too much of an idiot. The only one who’s as interested in what I have to say as in my legs. The only one to see me as something more than an easy lay… But you’re too stupid to realise.’

I took her in my arms. I was angry too. Angry at the way I’d behaved, and at the barrier between fiction and reality that stood firmly in the way of the happiness we deserved.

For the last time, we went back to ‘our place’, the little apartment on Place de Furstenberg which had been the setting for our burgeoning love.

For the last time, I lit a fire in the fireplace, showing her I remembered what she’d taught me: scrunched-up paper first, then kindling and finally the logs, piled up like a tepee.

For the last time, we drank a mouthful of the infamous – and delicious – pear liqueur.

For the last time, Léo Ferré sang to us, ‘
avec le temps va, tout s’en va
’.

The fire began to take hold, throwing flickering reflections onto the walls. We were lying on the sofa; Billie’s head was resting on my stomach and I was playing with her hair.

‘I want you to promise me something,’ she said, turning toward me.

‘Whatever you want.’

‘Promise me you’re not going to fall back down that black hole. And tell me you won’t go back to popping pills.’

I was moved by her pleas, but not convinced I’d actually be able to comply once I was back on my own again.

‘You’ve got your life back on track, Tom. You’ve started writing again, and you’ve learned to love again. You have friends. Be happy with Aurore, have lots of babies. Don’t be—’

‘I couldn’t care less about Aurore!’ I cut in.

She stood up and continued, ‘Even if I lived ten lifetimes, I’d never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. I have no idea what’s going to happen to me or where I’m going to end up. All I know is, wherever I am, I’ll always love you.’

She walked over to the desk and opened the drawer. She was holding the restored book that Milo had brought me.

‘What are you doing?’

As I tried to go over to her, I was overcome with dizziness. My head felt heavy and I was suddenly overwhelmingly sleepy.

What’s happening to me?

I took a few shaky steps. Billie had opened the book and I guessed she had turned to the notorious page 266, which came to an abrupt end with ‘she cried, falling’.

I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I had no strength left, and suddenly I understood.

The liqueur! Billie only touched her lips to it, but I
…

‘Did you… did you put something in the bottle?’

She didn’t try to deny it, taking from her pocket a bottle of sleeping pills she must have stolen from the hospital.

‘But … why?’

‘So you’d let me leave.’

The muscles in my neck were frozen and I felt a strong urge to be sick. I tried to fight it, struggling to stay upright, but everything was falling to pieces around me.

The last clear image I have is of Billie stoking the embers before throwing the book into the flames. She’d arrived through the book, and it was through the book that she would leave again.

Helpless to stop her, I fell to my knees, my vision becoming more and more blurred. Billie had opened my laptop and I sensed rather than saw that she was going to connect the silver USB stick to …

Though everything was swimming around me, I heard an email being sent from my computer. Then, as I passed out on the floor, a little voice whispered, ‘I love you,’ the words melting away as I drifted into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile, in New York, it was just gone 4 p.m. when Rebecca Tyler, editorial director at Doubleday, picked up her phone to take a call from her assistant.

‘The new Tom Boyd manuscript has just come in!’ Janice told her.

‘About time!’ exclaimed Rebecca. ‘We’ve been waiting for it for months.’

‘Shall I print it off for you?’

‘Yes, quick as you can.’

Rebecca asked for her next two meetings to be cancelled. The third volume of the Angel Trilogy was a big priority for the publishing house, and she was anxious to see what the text was like.

She started reading just before five and carried on late into the evening.

Without a word to her boss, Janice had printed off her own copy of the novel. She left the office at six to get the subway back to her little apartment in Williamsburg, telling herself she must be crazy to have taken such a risk. It was the kind of professional misconduct that could get her fired. But she simply couldn’t wait to read the last part of the trilogy.

And so it was in these first two readers’ heads that the imaginary world described by Tom began to take shape.

The world in which Billie’s life would now be played out.

I woke up the next morning feeling sick and with a horrible
taste in my mouth. The apartment was cold and empty. There was nothing but ashes in the fireplace.

Outside, the sky was dark and rain was beating against the windows.

Billie had left my life as suddenly as she had come into it, like a bullet ripping through my heart, and once again I was left broken and alone.