Chapter 1
There had been many hotel rooms for the adulterers, currently peacefully asleep in a large white bed. Enough to qualify them as experts, connoisseurs. Some of these rooms had been modern, with contours hard-planed and sterile. Others were tired or even sordid, designed not for trysts but for airport stopovers, to grant a portion of hurried, adequate sleep. Most often they were luxurious or something close, rooms of starched sheets and creamy stationery and tiny shampoos. And so, while Clara didn’t recognize the room when she woke up, or, in fact, possess any recollection of the day before, she was not overly surprised to open her eyes and see Francis there, asleep on the unfamiliar pillow next to hers. She blinked. She said his name out loud. He remained asleep, as if drugged.

She observed him in the lucid morning light, noting how he slept with one arm flung above his head and how his chest—finely muscled, scattered with dark, silvering hair—moved with his breathing. She registered the line of his cheekbone, the hollow of his throat, the fringe of his eyelashes against his skin. The longer she looked, the more awed she felt, and the more removed, as if she were a scientist and he were under her microscope, wondrous and strange and newly discovered.

Her attention moved to the room itself. Yes, it was a hotel bed, unmistakably, with pristine sheets and a blue velvet throw rumpled at its foot. A polished cabinet next to the bed, clear of any objects. Parquet floor, French windows opening onto a narrow iron balcony, framed by gauzy curtains. She recognized these things, dimly, but could not place them. There was no minibar, no telephone with which to call for room service.

Clara got up and walked toward the first of two white doors, opened it to discover a second room. No bed in this one. Instead her gaze landed on a small blue velvet sofa facing shelves that sat empty except for two books. A novel she and Francis loved, and a study on Flemish still lifes, both bound in red cloth. She hesitated before reaching for the novel, flicking through its pages, putting it back. It was the same edition as her own. Turning around she noted a kitchenette with wooden counters set across the opposite wall, and another window through which she could see building facades, stucco with red carnations crowding their own iron balconies.

She opened all the cupboards and drawers, found a battered pot identical to the one she had at home, and started to make coffee on the hot plate. Slower than usual, she became so absorbed in the task that, for a moment, she forgot that Francis was there. When she remembered he was only meters away, it was a delicious physical blow—the air knocked right out of her.

She had never woken up next to him before.

A tiny white cup she had just taken from the cupboard slipped from her hold and shattered on the floor. She froze. Something was returning to her.

She heard his movements in the bedroom. As she knelt to gather the pieces of cup, she felt a startling panic.

Francis, she whispered.

He was there in the doorway then, his face pale. He recoiled to see her. He held out his hands.