‘There’s something unsavoury about that girl,’ she muttered, squinting at my small print, the most recent entries on the accounts ledger. ‘She’s bold.’

‘She’s a friend who needs assistance.’

Her face remained sceptical. ‘How can someone of her age and upbringing not know how to sew?’ Madame said. ‘Ridiculous.’

‘Isn’t it? I had to help. And I thought it might reflect well on you.’ I poured a little more brandy into her glass and felt immediately guilty.

And what a peculiar thing it was, to become as familiar as we did with one another’s bodies. The position of freckles and moles, the way the muscles moved with the bones, the curls of hair at the back of the neck or the particular odour of the skin after climax. The idea of nakedness became much more profound than the simple uncovering of skin. When, with my eyes closed, I kissed all the parts of Axelle’s body, I imagined that I was painting her into existence, as if she hadn’t been a part of the world until she was a part of the world with me.

A November Sunday. Walking along the river on a day that was crisp and sunny: Axelle, Madame Debord and I. After a short distance, Madame grew tired so we found a bench and settled her there. I left Madame and Axelle on the bench, and ventured a few paces upriver to where a vendor sold cakes and tarts and roasted nuts kept warm over a wood fire. I purchased three small pistachio cakes, dusted with powdered sugar and lovely green flakes, because they were pretty, and because I was happy and foolish. When I turned, Axelle was beside me, eyeing the cakes as the vendor wrapped them neatly in paper.

‘I wouldn’t generally eat cake this early in the day,’ she said.

‘Today you shall,’ I said, pulling coins from my purse. I kept one eye on Madame, who watched us like a baby bird. ‘I love you,’ I whispered, handing her the parcel of cake.

She looked away, then shook her head and laughed. ‘Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi?’ she said. What am I going to do with you?

20

Nora

Ottawa River, 1987

Nora sat comfortably in the high driver’s seat of Red’s truck. The truck was an obvious choice for the drive to the hospital in Toronto; safer, and there were chains in the flatbed if the snow got really bad. Before they got as far south as Fowlers Corners, the snow was already coming down strong, fists of it buffeting the windshield. The heat in the truck blasted dry air, making her drowsy, but Anouk, feverish and cocooned in a sleeping bag in the back seat, was cold. Nora cracked her window open an inch and the deep pulse of cold air hurt her ears.

After a few minutes of this, Red said, ‘Can you close the window, please.’

‘I’m sorry. The heating is putting me to sleep.’

‘Should I drive?’