Three Bedrooms in Manhattan by Georges Simenon Page A

chest—“I was so alone, so hopelessly alone, I was so low, and I knew that I’d never pull out of it again, so I decided to leave with the first man who showed up, no matter who he was.
    â€œI love you, François.”
    She said it just once. She couldn’t have said it again, since they were holding each other so tightly they couldn’t speak. Everything was tight, their throats, their chests—their hearts that seemed to have stopped beating.
    What could they say after that? What could they do? They couldn’t even make love. It would have spoiled everything.
    Combe didn’t dare extricate himself from the embrace—because of the emptiness that was sure to follow. It was Kay who let go, smiling.
    â€œLook across the street,” she said. “He saw us.”
    Sunlight slanted into the room. Trembling, it played on one of the walls of the apartment, a few inches from a child’s photograph.
    â€œFrançois, you have to go out.”
    There was sun in the streets, sun over the city. She knew he had to find a foothold in reality again. He had to do it for himself, and for both of them.
    â€œYou’re going to dress differently. Yes! I’ll pick the things you’ll wear.”
    There was so much he wanted to tell her after she’d said what she had. Why wouldn’t she let him? She was fussing around, as though this was her place, her home. She was humming. It was their song, and she started to sing it as never before, in a voice that was deep and light and serious all at once. It was no longer another silly song but instead, for an instant, the essence of all they had just been through.
    She was rummaging through the wardrobe. “No, sir. No gray today. Or beige, either. Beige doesn’t look good on you, whatever you think. You’re not dark enough or fair enough for it.”
    And, laughing, she asked, “But, what color is your hair? Can you believe I’ve never noticed? Your eyes, yes. Your eyes change with your moods. When you were playing the martyr just now—or trying to play the martyr—they were an ugly dark gray, like a heavy sea that makes you seasick. I was wondering if you’d be able to make it the last few yards, or if I’d have to come rescue you.
    â€œSo, François, you will do as you’re told. Here! Navy blue. I think you’ll look wonderful in navy blue.”
    He wished she’d leave him alone, but he didn’t have the energy to resist.
    Once again the thought came, She’s not even pretty .
    He hated himself for not having said he loved her, too.
    Wasn’t he sure? He needed her. He was scared of losing her and being alone again. What she’d confessed to him a few moments before …
    He was deeply grateful for that, and yet he resented her. He said to himself: It could have been me or anybody else .
    Then, reluctant yet moved, he let her dress him as though he were a child.
    He knew that she didn’t want to have another serious discussion, or more revelations, that morning. He knew she was playing a role, the role of the wife, a difficult one to play if you aren’t in love.
    â€œI’ll bet, Mr. Frenchman, you always wear a bow tie with this suit. To make you look even more French, I’m going to choose a blue one with polka dots.”
    She was so right that he had to smile. He couldn’t help it. At first he resisted. He was afraid of looking ridiculous.
    â€œPlus a white handkerchief for your breast pocket. A little rumpled so you won’t look like a mannequin in a store window. Where are your handkerchiefs?”
    It was silly. Idiotic. They laughed, both playing their parts, trying to hide the tears in their eyes so they wouldn’t be overcome with emotion.
    â€œI’m sure there are people you have to see. Don’t deny it. Don’t lie. I insist you go see them.”
    â€œWell, there’s the studio,” he began.
    â€œGood. Then