Obviously, that’s all I’m good for, taking care of Vinca, the poor little wounded bird. Who do you think I am? We were happy before she came along and ruined our lives. Look what she makes us do. Look what you make me do in order to get your attention, to try to make you jealous. It’s because of you that I throw myself at every guy I meet. It’s because of you that I hurt myself.

I wipe away the tears before stepping out into the corridor. As you race past, you bump into me, and then, without a word, without an apology, you hurtle down the stairs.

*  *  *

So here I am in Vinca’s room and I feel stupid, standing there with my cup of tea. I didn’t hear what she said to you, but I assume she played the same old charade. She is an expert by now, pulling the strings in her little puppet show, with her in the role of hapless victim.

I set the mug of tea on the nightstand and stare at Vinca, who has already fallen asleep. A part of me understands the passion she inspires. A part of me wants to lie down beside her, stroke her delicate skin, taste her red lips and her delicately rimmed ears, kiss her long, curved lashes. But another part of me despises her. For a split second, I see my mother’s face superimposed over Vinca’s and I recoil.

*  *  *

I should get back to work, but something holds me here in this room. There is a half-full vodka bottle on the windowsill. I pick it up and swig straight from it. Then I rummage around, leaf through the papers on Vinca’s desk, flick through her diary. I open the wardrobes, try on some of her clothes. I discover the contents of her bathroom cabinet. I am not really surprised to find it stuffed with sleeping pills and tranquilizers.

She has everything for the discerning junkie: Rohypnol, Xanax, lorazepam. Although the last two boxes are almost empty, the bottle of Rohypnol is full. I wonder how she managed to get hold of these drugs. Under the boxes, I find a prescription signed by a Dr. Frédéric Rubens in Cannes. He obviously doles these things out like sweets.