She looked down at yesterday’s clothes; at the suitcase beside her. Her forehead was slick with sweat and she could feel her clothes sticking to the damp patches under her arms. It wasn’t just sweat she was coated with, it was shame. She hated herself, she realised. She hated her job; what had once felt fresh and exciting now felt relentless and stale. She hated her boring, staid clothes. She hated her boring, staid life. She hated that she’d driven away the man she loved. The man who made all those things tolerable. The man who brought colour and joy into her life when she was so used to living in black and white. She hated that her body had failed her. Denied her the thing she wanted most of all. Driven her to this, because if she’d had a baby, none of this would’ve happened, would it? She hated that she’d betrayed her friends, had lied to them, and because of that she couldn’t go back to the apartment and be wrapped up in their embrace. Because how could they ever forgive her? How could they ever understand when not even Paul, her person, her husband, could? She hated that she was alone in Paris, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, knowing when she arrived back in London there’d be no one there either. She’d cut everyone off. But what she hated the most was that despite all this, all she could think was, I should’ve put it all on red.

*

Nina

Nina had also woken abruptly that morning. In fact, when Jules had ushered Paul into the quiet apartment, she hadn’t noticed that the bathroom door was closed. She didn’t know that Nina was in there, staring in shock at her knickers. She didn’t know that Nina’s heart was also pounding, rivulets of sweat pouring down her face as she gulped and wiped, trying to stop the flow of bright red blood.

‘No,’ she whispered to herself quietly. ‘Please, no.’ How had she found herself here again? The same bathroom, the same moment of fear, the same feeling of judgement, from a higher power that she knew did not exist. Except last time she was there, it was the shock of new life growing inside her; this was the shock of a death. Although she knew better, it still felt like a punishment for what she chose to do then and the position she found herself in now.

‘But I wanted to keep you,’ she whispered, only realising in that moment that it was true. She leaned forward and opened the bathroom cupboard below the sink, hoping to find a sanitary towel. She was in luck. She was about to go to her room to find a fresh pair of knickers when she heard Jules in the corridor outside, talking to what sounded like a man. Her hand froze on the door handle. What the fuck?

Her eyes darted around nervously. She couldn’t see Jules now. She couldn’t explain. How could she find the words? As much as she loved Jules, and wanted to protect her, she needed to look after herself. She didn’t have the headspace for Jules’s grief – or anger – on top of her own right now. She heard the voices retreating, disappearing as a door closed. Did Jules have a man in her bedroom? She pulled a face – Had she gone back out again last night? Brought someone back? Could she behave so out of control? It didn’t make sense – but she didn’t have time to dwell on it; she needed to get into her room, get dressed, and get back to London, to a hospital. Suddenly she didn’t want to be here, in France.