Crush (12 page)

—Ah, it’s you!

Serge was piqued by Amélie’s perceptible disappointment. The fact that he had leafed through his address book before calling her made no difference. His neighbor didn’t have to know she was used as a last resort when his other conquests were busy elsewhere. Amélie’s indifference eclipsed his own; she checkmated him. He inquired:

—Am I disturbing you?

His tone was quarrelsome; Amélie softened her answer.

—No, not in the least.

—Are you all right? he insisted, feigning worrying about her. Her stupefaction would be ungracious, were it to last any longer.

Serge’s voice attracted Amélie’s attention to David’s silence. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Did she actually miss David, or was her self-indulgent pain brought on by Serge’s solicitude?

—Not bad, she answered, resolved not to drown in self-pity.

—Your boyfriend, right? Things didn’t work out.

—Yes, she sighed.

—You want me to drop by? Only one floor down for me . . .

—No, she protested weakly.

What would she do with him? She couldn’t explain herself freely in his presence if David called back. All her reactions would be skewed. She had to be alone; even if David didn’t call . . .

—Listen! Here’s my suggestion, Serge insisted. I’ll drop by in an hour; we’ll go out for a drink somewhere. It’ll take you mind off your troubles. All right?

—All right, she agreed, partly to get rid of him and leave the telephone line free—David might call any moment—and partly to hear Serge’s warm voice dispelling her distress.

She paced through her apartment, beguiling her ennui by doing a bit of housework. When it became clear that David wouldn’t call, she began to get angry. What was she hoping for? David’s call? What for? She didn’t have the slightest desire to get back with him. So?

Was she surprised he’d been taken in by her rudimentary he, or hurt by the ease with which he accepted their separation? One might as well turn the page, she thought. The time had come to live serenely, without a courtly attendant.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, merde! Serge Munz!” Amélie remembered, looking at her watch. “I’d forgotten him completely. And I haven’t even changed . . . nor glanced in the mirror. I must look a fright!”