The Girl on Paper (6 page)

A sensation of warmth enveloped my body and brushed over my face. I felt better in the warm; I felt protected. I kept my eyes closed for a few moments longer to prolong the sensation of being asleep in the comforting padded cocoon. I thought I could hear a song playing somewhere in the distance. The notes of the chorus of a reggae song were accompanied by a smell that took me back to my childhood – banana pancakes and caramelised apple.

The room was flooded with light. My headache had disappeared completely. I turned my head towards the terrace, shielding my eyes with my hand to protect them from the dazzling sun. The music was coming from my little radio, which stood on a polished teak sideboard.

Something was moving next to the table: the billowing folds of a dress slit to the thigh floated in the light. I sat up to lean against the back of the sofa. I knew that dress, the pale-pink dress with the shoulder straps! I knew that body that was just seductively visible under the translucent fabric!

‘Aurore,’ I murmured.

But the gauzy, shimmering outline moved toward me until it was almost completely blocking out the sunlight, and…

No, it wasn’t Aurore, it was in fact that crazy from last night who thought she was a character out of my novels!

I leaped up from the sofa, before immediately sitting down again when I realised I was as naked as the day I was born.

The madwoman undressed me in the night!

I scanned the floor for my clothes, or even just a pair of boxers, but I couldn’t see anything within arm’s reach.

This has to stop now!

I grabbed hold of the quilt to wrap it round my waist before hurrying out onto the terrace.

The wind had chased away the last of the clouds. The sky had cleared up completely and was a bright cornflower blue. In her summer dress, Billie’s doppelgänger was buzzing around like a bee chasing rays of sunlight.

‘Why the hell are you still here?’ I demanded furiously.

‘That’s a funny way to thank me for making you breakfast!’

As well as serving little pancakes, she had poured two glasses of grapefruit juice and made a pot of coffee.

‘And what made you think you had the right to undress me then?’

‘What goes around comes around. You got a pretty good look at me last night.’

‘But you’re in my house!’

‘Oh, come on! You’re not going to get all upset just because I saw your little friend, are you?’

‘My what?’

‘You know, your pecker, your little winkle.’

Little?
I thought indignantly as I pulled the quilt tighter round my waist.

‘I’m only saying that out of affection, mind you, because, to be honest, there’s nothing little about—’

‘OK, you’ve had your joke!’ I interrupted. ‘And if you think you can win me over with flattery…’

She offered me a cup of coffee.

‘Are you capable of speaking to someone without yelling at them?’

‘And who gave you permission to wear that dress?’

‘Don’t you think it suits me? It belongs to your ex, doesn’t it? I don’t really see you as the cross-dressing type.’

I collapsed into a chair and rubbed my eyes, trying to get myself together. Last night, I had naively hoped that the girl might be nothing more than a hallucination, but unfortunately this was clearly not the case: she was a real-life woman, the spitting image of the first-class nuisance I had created in my books.

‘Drink that coffee before it gets cold.’

‘I don’t want it, thanks.’

‘Are you sure? You look like death warmed up.’

‘It’s
your
coffee that I don’t want.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t know what kind of crap you might have spiked it with.’

‘Surely you don’t think I want to drug you?’

‘I know what crazies like you are capable of.’

‘Crazies like me?’

‘Yeah. Nymphos who are totally convinced that the actor or writer they are obsessed with is also in love with them.’

‘Me, a nymphomaniac? Now you really are confusing your sick fantasies with reality, pal. And if you think I’m obsessed with you, you’re even more stupid than I thought.’

I kneaded my temples as I looked up at the sun dominating the horizon. My back hurt and all of a sudden my headache had returned, only this time it had decided to attack the back of my head.

‘We’re going to stop this once and for all now. You’re going to go home before I have to call the police, OK?’

‘Look, I can see that you don’t want to face up to the truth, but—’

‘But?’

‘I
really am
Billie Donelly. I
really am
a character from your books and, believe me, that is as terrifying for me as it is for you.’

Speechless, I took a gulp of coffee, then after a brief hesitation I finished the cup. The brew may well have been poisoned, but, if it was, the effects were not immediate.

I still wasn’t going to let my guard down. I thought of a television programme I had seen as a child about John Lennon’s assassin, who had apparently been motivated by the idea that by killing the musician he would win some of his victim’s celebrity for himself. Granted I was no Beatle, and this woman was a little prettier than Mark David Chapman, but even so I knew that many stalkers suffered from psychotic illnesses, and that at any moment they could become violent. For this reason, I was at my calmest and most reassuring as I tried reasoning with her again.

‘Look, I think that maybe you’re a little…disturbed. It happens. We all have our bad days, right? Maybe you lost your job recently, or someone you love? Maybe you just broke up with your boyfriend? Or you’re feeling rejected and resentful? If that’s the case, I know a very good psychologist who could—’

She interrupted my pep talk by waving a prescription written by Dr Sophia Schnabel in my face.

‘As far as I can tell, you’re the one who needs a shrink.’

‘You went through my things!’

‘Affirmative,’ she replied, refilling my coffee cup.

I was completely baffled by her behaviour. What was I
meant to do now? Did I call the cops or the men in white coats? From what she’d said, I was willing to bet she had a criminal record or a history of psychological problems. The simplest way to get rid of her would have been to throw her out with my own two hands, but I was afraid that if I laid even a finger on her she would claim that I had abused her, and that was not a risk I was willing to take.

‘You didn’t go home last night,’ I pointed out, in a final attempt to make her leave. ‘Your family or friends must be getting really worried about you. If you want to let anyone know where you are, feel free to use the phone.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. For starters, no one ever worries about me, which I’ll admit is quite sad. As for your phone, I think you’ve just been cut off,’ she answered without missing a beat as she wandered back into the living room.

I watched her move toward the large table that I used as a desk. She waved a stack of bills at me with a grin.

‘Hardly surprising, really,’ she remarked. ‘You haven’t paid your phone bill in months!’

That was the final straw. Without thinking, I threw myself at her and knocked her to the ground. So what if I was accused of assault? At that moment I would have preferred that to having to hear one more word from her. I held her down, one hand behind her knees and the other round her waist. She struggled as much as she could, but I was not going to let go. I dragged her out onto the terrace where I deposited her unceremoniously on the ground, as far away as possible, before marching back into the living room and shutting the glass door behind me.

Much better! Nothing like doing things the old-fashioned way, works every time
.

Why had I put up with the intruder for so long? In the end, it hadn’t proved difficult to get rid of her! Whatever I said to
the contrary in my novels, sometimes physical force speaks much louder than words.

I watched the young woman I had locked out with a satisfied smile. She responded to my sudden good mood by giving me the finger.

Finally I was alone again!

I needed to relax. The house being empty of all medication, I turned to my iPod and, with the precision of an alchemist preparing a soothing potion, I concocted an eclectic playlist centred around Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Philip Glass. I plugged the iPod into my speakers and the room was suddenly filled with the opening notes of
Kind of Blue
, the loveliest jazz album ever composed, even to people who didn’t like jazz.

In the kitchen I made some more coffee, then went back into the living room, hoping that my strange visitor would have disappeared.

I was wrong.

Clearly annoyed – again, that was putting it mildly – she had started to destroy the breakfast that she herself had served. The cafetière, the plates, the mugs, the glass tray; in short everything that could be smashed was being thrown onto the terracotta paving stones. Then, shaking with rage, she slammed her fists repeatedly against the sliding doors, before hurling a garden chair at them with all her might. The chair just clattered to the floor, repelled by the bulletproof glass on the doors.

‘I AM BILLIE!’ she yelled over and over again, but her words were muffled by the triple glazing, and I guessed rather than heard what she was saying. All this racket was going to wake the neighbours soon, and then hopefully filter down to the security team at the gates, who would come and relieve me of this pain in the butt.

By this point, she had collapsed by the door. Holding her head in her hands, she finally seemed to have given up. I felt moved by her obvious distress, and watched her intently, realising that what she had said to me had aroused if not quite fascination, then at least curiosity.

She lifted her head and through the strands of
honey-gold
hair I saw her forget-me-not eyes take on a troubled expression.

I moved closer and sat down on my side of the glass wall, looking at her intently, trying to find the truth of the situation, if not an explanation. It was then that I saw her blink as though she were trying to hold back tears. I moved back and saw that the pale-pink dress was stained dark red with blood. Then I spotted the bread knife in her hands and realised that she had cut herself. I got up to try to help her, but this time she was the one who locked the door, jamming the outside handle with the table.

Why
? I looked at her questioningly.

I saw that there was still a defiant flicker in her eyes and her only response was to slam the bloody palm of her left hand against the window. Through the glass, I made out the three numbers she had slashed into her hand:

The bloody numbers danced in front of my eyes:

Normally, my immediate reaction would have been to call 911 for an ambulance, but something held me back. There was blood pouring from the wound, but it didn’t look deep. What was she trying to tell me with this dramatic gesture? What had possessed her to do such a thing?

She’s crazy
.

True, but what else was behind it?

I didn’t believe what she told me, that’s why she did it
.

What did the number 144 have to do with what she had told me?

Once again she slammed her palm violently against the window pane. This time I saw that her right index finger was pointing at the book on the table next to me.

My novel, the story, the characters, fiction – what?

Then suddenly it was obvious.

Page 144
.

I grabbed the copy and leafed through it hurriedly until I came to the crucial page. It was the opening lines of a chapter, which started like this:

I looked up at my ‘visitor’. She was hugging her knees to her chest on the terrace. She looked sadly back at me, her chin resting on her knees. Was I the one in the wrong? Was there in fact something more to the situation I found myself in? No longer sure what to think, I moved closer to the window. Suddenly the eyes that were watching me through the glass lit up. She lifted her hand to pull down the strap of her dress, to reveal her shoulder.

Just next to her shoulder blade I saw the tribal symbol that I knew so well. There was the Native American symbol used by the Yanomamis to distil the essence of love:
a part of you has entered me for good, and its poison has bewitched me
.

The house was calm after the storm. Having agreed to come back inside, the young woman had disappeared into the bathroom while I made some tea and laid out what was left of my medicine cabinet on the breakfast bar.

She joined me at the kitchen table. She had showered, put on my bathrobe and stopped the bleeding by bandaging her wounds with a hand towel.

‘I have a first-aid kit,’ I said, ‘but it’s not very well stocked.’

Nevertheless, she was able to find some antiseptic wipes in it and used them to carefully clean her wounds.

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Because you wouldn’t believe me, for crying out loud!’

I watched her open the cuts gently to see how deep the knife had gone in.

‘I’ll drive you to the hospital. It looks like you need stitches.’

‘I’ll do them myself. I am a nurse, don’t forget. All I need is some surgical thread and a sterile needle.’

‘Damn! That’s just what I forgot to put on my grocery list!’

‘Don’t you even have any sticking plasters?’

‘What do you think? This is a beach house, not a health centre.’

‘Or just some ordinary silk thread or horsehair? That would do fine. But wait! You have something better, I think. I’m sure I saw the miracle cure somewhere around here, in the—’

She got up off her stool in mid-sentence and started rummaging through the drawers in my desk as if she were in her own home.

‘Found it!’ she announced triumphantly, sitting back down at the table with a tube of Super Glue in her hand.

She unscrewed the lid of the small tube whose label read ‘for use on ceramics and porcelain’ and squeezed a thin line of glue onto her cuts.

‘Wait a second – are you sure you know what you’re doing? We’re not in a movie, you know.’

‘No, but I am a literary heroine,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Don’t worry, this is why you make up people like me.’

She pushed the edges of the cut together and held them there for a few seconds until the glue took effect.

‘There we go!’ she exclaimed proudly, holding up her skilfully sutured palm.

She took a large bite of the slice of toast that I had just buttered for her, then gulped down some tea. Behind her mug I could see those large eyes trying to read my mind.

‘You’re being much nicer to me, but you still don’t believe me, do you?’ she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

‘A tattoo isn’t
exactly
concrete evidence,’ I said carefully.

‘But the mutilation is, right?’

‘It’s concrete evidence that you have violent and impulsive tendencies, sure!’

‘So interrogate me!’

I refused, shaking my head. ‘I’m an author, not a journalist or a cop.’

‘But it wouldn’t be that difficult, would it?’

I threw the contents of my mug into the sink. Why was I forcing myself to drink tea when I had always hated the stuff?

‘Look, I’ll make you a deal.’ I left my proposition unfinished as I considered the best way to put it to her.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m quite happy to put you to the test by asking you a series of questions about Billie, but if you hesitate, or give a wrong answer, even once, you leave here no questions asked.’

‘Deal.’

‘So we’re agreed: at the first mistake you’re gone, otherwise I’ll call the police. And this time – you can cut yourself up all you like, I’ll leave you leaking blood on the terrace.’

‘Have you always been such a charmer, or do you have to work at it?’

‘Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes. Fire away.’

‘Name, date of birth, place of birth?’

‘Billie Donelly, born August 11, 1984, in Milwaukee, near Lake Michigan.’

‘Mother’s name?’

‘Valeria Stanwick.’

‘What did your father do for a living?’

‘He worked for Miller, the second largest brewery in the state.’

She never missed a beat, seeming to answer my questions instinctively.

‘What’s the name of your best friend?’

‘One of my greatest regrets is that I don’t really have one. Just a few girlfriends.’

‘First sexual encounter?’

She took a moment to think about this question, looking at me solemnly. I understood that her unease came solely from the personal nature of the question.

‘I was sixteen. It happened in France; I was on a language course on the Côte d’Azur. His name was Théo.’

I was becoming more and more unsettled by the accuracy of her answers, and, judging by her smile, I could tell that she knew she had finally caught my attention. Whatever was behind this, one thing was certain: she knew my novels inside out.

‘What’s your favourite drink?’

‘Coca-Cola. The proper one, not Diet or Zero.’

‘Favourite film?’

‘
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
. It captures so exactly the pain of being in love. It’s so poetic, so melancholy. Have you seen it?’

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.