Vincent

07. More The Fool Him

"You must inform the police," Vincent said for the dozenth time, pacing the kitchen, livid with agitation. After they made love on the kitchen table, he had picked up the note when Layla left the room to freshen herself, and they had spent the last hour arguing about it.

"I cannot inform the police of anything," Layla grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose, "and I will not. You sound like an old nanny-goat. I've taken care of myself for this long without your help, I think I can continue to muddle through on my own."

"Layla." He brandished the crumpled letter at her. "Someone is trying to kill you."

"If they were trying to kill me, I'd already be dead," she said loftily, adding, in her mind, Or they'd already be dead.

"You can be so nonchalant about a damn death threat!?" he demanded, flinging the note down on the table, jamming his hands into his hips. "It is not right. You are in danger, you must tell the police for your own protection."

"The police do not care to meddle in the affairs of whores," she said. "Then their rates might go up."

"That is disgusting," said Vincent. "They do care— they do, they must!"

"No." Layla fluffed her hair and flicked the letter off the table. "Quit your bleating. What happened to that outing to the draper's you promised me?"

"How can you think of clothes at a time like this!"

"I can think of clothes any time. Especially silks. Look." She stood before him, smoothing his shirt, gently doing up the buttons and caressing his chest. "If it will put you more at ease, pretend you never saw the thing."

"Never saw it! A threat on your life! You cannot be serious!"

"Pretend it was a joke, then, if you cannot pretend you didn't see it. Pretend it's a game. Pretend you read it in a book. Just stop bothering me about it. I am tired of talking about this. Let us go out now, love, I have an appointment in a few hours."

Vincent dogged her as she went up the stairs. "Appointment, indeed. And how do you know he's not going to kill you?"

"Oh, I don't," Layla said airily. "That's half the fun!"

***

Over the next few days, Layla and the Lautrec boy spent as much time together as possible. He, disappearing now and again for an end-of-term exam, she disappearing now and again to turn a trick or sell a brick. Usually, Layla got tired of men when they hung around her like this, but each time she returned from conducting her affairs, the sight of him lounging in her parlor or in her bed never failed to make her giddy with desire.

"I shall never tire of your face," she murmured, framing it with both hands.

"Let us hope you do not tire of other things," he teased, grabbing a handful of her hip and giving it a playful sort of shove. Then his face fell. "But darling, I must be going away."

"What?" Layla's stomach sank. Her face felt cold. She struggled maintain perfect stillness of her features even as her heart bounded. "So soon?"

"Yes. I am sorry," he said, casting his eyes downward. He looked so forlorn that Layla grabbed his chin and made him look up at her.

"You should not be melancholy," she chided. "It does not suit you. How long shall you be gone?"

"Only as long as I must, perhaps a week or two. I must visit my family. It is my end-of-term obligation, you see."

"I suppose," she mumbled. "You ought to get an apartment here in the city, when you return. Dijon is so dull. Perhaps your father can find you work— he is a merchant, is he not?"