It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love.
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