It was our last full day and evening in the city. We were going to the late-night opening at Musée d’Orsay. Jenny told me that Jerome did this once to her, took her away for a few days, the way I had done. I was sick and yet I wanted to hear more. It was London – admittedly a great city but I felt Paris had the upper hand. Jerome hadn’t let her get involved with the itinerary, he had planned everything down to the last meticulous detail. He had brought her to galleries and museums but she knew he didn’t care much for what they contained. It was orchestrated, as if he planned these visits to amuse her. She felt suffocated, like she couldn’t be herself. She realized that it was possible to be lonely even when you are not alone. When she told Jerome how she felt, he acted as though she had done something wrong, that somehow she had punctured the pleasure from their trip. They went to the same bar in the evenings and it would instil cabin fever in her and she said nothing. Jerome insisted on paying for everything and then made her feel bad about it later on. It was like he was calculating her cost in his life. She told me about the first time Jerome met her father. He brought a bottle of wine. Halfway through the meal, Jerome had absolutely insisted on trying the wine he had brought even though there was another one open. I told Jenny I would never do anything like that.

Jenny told me stories about Jerome because I looked for them. How he bought her gifts, beautiful items, she even described a necklace he had given her as a Christmas present as exquisite. He bought her flowers frequently, apparently, and I didn’t want to believe it. Jewellery – a History of Ireland ring, a silver charm bracelet that he would fill with charms over time. What a perfect arrangement, I said; inside I was seething – such presumption. I wish I’d thought of it. She was wearing the charm bracelet and she shook it in front of me as if I had asked for proof. There was a heart, a ballerina figure, a cross, all of them lovely, especially the cross. She touched it as she told me that Jerome had hurt her the night he gave her that very charm. She played with it and I noticed how long her fingers were and how elegant.

That was the night I came to you, she said.

There were tears in her eyes. I felt myself well up. To think that Jerome had done such a thing and that she hadn’t mentioned it before.