He didn’t turn away, which was very surprising, but instead stayed where he was and rubbed her back, even as she was throwing up all over his shoes. He said, “oh, honey,” once or twice, and when it was over and she had stopped that awful empty retching, he fetched a towel from her washstand so she might wipe her face.
Even after the maid had arrived he only went as far as the hall, and when she and her room were clean, and she had been dressed in a fresh nightgown and dosed with bicarbonate, he came in again to say good night. He had changed into a clean shirt and trousers, though neither fit him very well.
“Vincent lent me some of his clothes,” Sam explained. “Do you feel any better?”
“A little,” she whispered.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll talk then. Try to get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead, and then he was gone.
THE NEXT DAY found Helena feeling thoroughly wretched in both body and spirit. She woke at dawn, her head aching so badly that the slightest movement pained her, and immediately resolved that she would never, ever, ever let a sip of alcohol pass her lips again.
She staggered to her washstand, the distance between it and her bed stretching near to infinity, and met the sorry gaze of her reflection in the mirror above. She had never looked worse. Her face was smeared with rouge and mascara, her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair stood on end and smelled horribly of smoke.
Somehow she stayed upright long enough to wash her face and brush her teeth, which made her feel fractionally less disgusting. Back at her bedside, she swallowed two tablets of aspirin and, thoroughly exhausted, burrowed under her eiderdown and shut her eyes against the coming day.
If only she could shut her mind to the memories of her mortifying behavior. Sam had been so understanding, and she had rewarded his kindness by acting in the most shameless fashion—and then, when he had declined her pathetic overtures, she had vomited all over him.
That was all she could think about, her mind’s eye replaying it again and again, and even once she fell asleep again the memory of those moments haunted her, chasing her through galleries of paintings by other artists, talented artists, and whenever she stopped to look for her own work Ma?tre Czerny would spring up like a crazed Guignol puppet, shouting, “Useless! Hopeless!” and no matter where she searched, she couldn’t find her Sam, for he had left her, too, and would never return . . .
“Helena? Helena, darling, it’s Auntie A. May I come in? Helena?”
How long had her aunt been knocking? She sat up, untangled the sheets from around her legs, and rubbed the sleep from her still-swollen eyes. “Come in,” she called.
“There you are. Oh, heavens—Sam wasn’t exaggerating. Are you feeling better?”
“Not really. What time is it?”
“Nearly two in the afternoon. I thought it best to let you sleep. Sam is downstairs.”
“He’s what—he’s here? Why is he here?”
“I expect to see how you’re feeling. The poor man looks very tired, so you mustn’t keep him waiting. Should I ask him to come up?”
“No, I’ll come downstairs. I just need a few minutes to dress.”
Once out of bed, she had to admit she felt a little steadier, and her head had ceased pounding quite so relentlessly. She dressed hurriedly, in an old frock that had seen better days, and, after brushing her teeth again and smoothing her hair, gingerly made her way downstairs.
Sam was in the petit salon, sitting on a ridiculous little fauteuil that was far too fragile for his large frame, and for some reason he was wearing his best shirt and coat, the ones he reserved for important interviews at the élysée Palace. To her relief, his smile was wide and genuine, and when he greeted her it was with a heart-stopping kiss on her mouth, not her cheek.
“How are you?” he asked, guiding her to a nearby chair.
“Better. I felt like death warmed over this morning, but I went back to bed and that helped. Sam—I’m so sorry for last night. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You were right to be upset, given what you overheard at the Salon. And you’d had a long day, with hardly anything to eat. No wonder the drink went to your head.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m fairly certain I will never drink another drop of champagne or spirits again, not as long as I live.”
“Are you still upset?” he asked.
“By what happened at the Salon? Yes. Of course I am.”
“Surely you can see that Czerny was wrong,” Sam reasoned. “He didn’t say your name. He might well have been speaking of someone else.”
“No,” she insisted. “He was talking about me, and he was right. Just look at étienne’s work. That’s the standard I need to judge myself against, and the truth is that I don’t even come close.”
“Oh, Ellie—”
“It really is the truth. I need to face it.”
He looked unconvinced, but rather than press the issue he simply asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not sure. I think . . . I think I might like to travel. Go somewhere with Auntie A. Put all of this behind me.”
“‘All of this’?” he echoed. “What about your friends here? The life you’ve built for yourself?”