The Secret History

by Donna Tartt

“Isn’t this wretched,” said Francis as soon as we were alone. “It’s just for tonight.” “I can’t sleep in rooms with lots of people. I’ll be up all night.” I sat down on a cot. The room had a damp, unused smell and the light from the lamp over the pool table was greenish and depressing. “It’s dusty, too,” said Francis. “I think we ought to just go check into a hotel.” Sniffing noisily, he complained about the dust as he searched for an ashtray but deadly radon could have been seeping into the room, it didn’t matter to me. All I wondered was how, in the name of Heaven and a merciful God, was I going to make it through the hours ahead. We had been there only twenty minutes and already I felt like shooting myself. He was still complaining and I was still sunk in despair when Camilla came down. She was wearing jet earrings, patent-leather shoes, a natty, closely cut black velvet suit. “Hello,” Francis said, handing her a cigarette. “Let’s go check into the Ramada Inn.” As she put the cigarette between her parched lips I realized how much I’d missed her for the last few days. “Oh, you don’t have it so bad,” she said. “Last night I had to sleep with Marion.” “Same room?” “Same bed.” Francis’s eyes widened with admiration and horror. “Oh, really? Oh, I say. That’s awful,” he said in a hushed, respectful voice. “Charles is upstairs with her now. She’s hysterical because somebody asked that poor girl who rode down with you.”