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The bathroom quickly fills with steam. When I turn off the tap the metal burns my fingers. I spin it closed, touching it as little as possible, and run the cold water. Deep as the tub is, it’s nearly three-quarters full before it’s cool enough to bear.

I go to lock the door, not wanting Arnaud – or Gretchen, God forbid – to walk in. But while there are screw holes from a missing bolt, there’s no way of locking it. Hoping that Mathilde won’t let anyone disturb me, I undress and lower myself into the bath. The heat soaks through my aching muscles and joints. Resting my foot on the side to keep the bandage dry, I slide down until I’m submerged up to my chin.

Bliss.

I’m drifting away when there’s a knock on the door. Mathilde’s muffled voice comes from behind it.

‘I’ve brought you a towel.’

I sit up. The water has developed a limestone scum, making it opaque. ‘You can come in.’

There’s a delay before she opens the door. A towel is folded over one arm. Without looking over at the bath, she puts it on an old bentwood chair that stands against the wall.

‘Can you reach it there?’

‘That’s fine.’

There’s an awkwardness. She turns to go.

‘I thought I’d take off the bandage,’ I say. ‘Bathe the wounds.’

‘All right.’

She looks at where my foot dangles over the side of the bath. I wait, knowing what’s coming next.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘I’ll do it.’

Mathilde sits on the edge of the bath while I raise my foot so she can unwind the bandage. The only sound is the faint rustle of cotton and the occasional drip of a tap. My exposed foot looks white and thin, as unfamiliar as a stranger’s. The wounds caused by the trap have closed up, like scabbed and puckered mouths. They’re still ugly but no longer inflamed. I’ve long since finished with the antibiotics, and the last painkiller I took was for a hangover.

Mathilde’s hands are gentle as she bends closer to examine the wounds. The cotton of her shirt whispers over my toes.

‘Are the stitches ready to come out?’ I ask.

‘Not yet.’

They look it to me, but I accept her verdict. ‘How much longer?’

‘Soon. But you can take the bandage off at night. It will do the wounds good to get some air.’

I lower my foot into the water as Mathilde gets up from the bath. I’m conscious of her standing beside me. My arm, resting on the edge, is only inches from her leg. Neither of us looks at the other, but suddenly I’m certain that she’s as aware of me as I am of her.

‘I have to see to dinner,’ she says, but doesn’t act on the words. The steam seems to close around us, veiling us from the rest of the house. I’ve only to move my hand and I’ll touch her. Mathilde’s head is still averted but her lips are parted ever so slightly, her cheeks rouged with a flush not wholly due to the heat. I begin to lift my arm, and as though there’s an invisible connection between us Mathilde reacts at the same time.

She steps away.

‘I’ll put a clean bandage on tomorrow,’ she says.

I grip the edge of the bath and push myself up slightly in the water, as if that was what I intended all the time.

‘OK. Thanks.’

The steam swirls, agitated by the opening and closing of the door as she goes out. After she’s gone it still carries the scent of her. I slide down in the bath and put my head under the water. The house’s quiet is replaced by a submarine echo of bangs and clicks. Eyes closed, I think that Mathilde has come back in. I visualize her standing above me. Or Gretchen.

Or Arnaud.

I jerk upright, streaming water. The bathroom is still empty except for the vapour demons that twist in the invisible currents. The water isn’t the only thing that’s overheated, I think.

Taking up the bar of soap, I begin to wash myself.

London

‘WHO’S JULES?’

Jez freezes in the act of raising his bacon sandwich to his mouth. He sneaks a quick look at me, then sets it back down on the plate.

‘Jules who?’

We’re at the café next door to the language school, which is actually no more than a cluster of first-floor rooms above an insurance broker’s. The café is small and smells of fried food and stewed tea, and there’s a main road noisily running outside its front window. But it’s convenient, and Jez doesn’t care about the aesthetics provided the food’s cheap.

‘Jules as in Chloe.’

He tries to assemble his crumpled features into something like puzzlement. ‘Er… no, I don’t think…’

He’s a bad liar. I’d still held out some hope that I might be wrong, but it dies now. ‘Who is he?’

‘What makes you think I know?’

‘Because you live with Yasmin and she’s Chloe’s best friend.’

‘You should ask Chloe.’

‘Chloe won’t tell me anything. Come on, Jez.’

He rubs the back of his neck unhappily. ‘Yasmin made me promise not to say anything.’

‘I won’t tell her. This is between you and me.’ Jez doesn’t look convinced. ‘Please.’

He sighs. ‘He’s Chloe’s ex. A real shit, but she split up with him ages ago, so it’s past history now.’

I look down at my own coffee. ‘I think she might be seeing him again.’

Jez winces. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, man.’

‘Does Yasmin know?’