Chapter 8 SIOBHAN
Chapter 8
S IOBHAN
Located across from the Met, the building had a limestone facade typical of the Upper East Side. She braced herself as she pushed open the door and entered the luminous marble lobby. A huge glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, radiating a dazzling light. The doorman, a Latino of around fifty, watched her from the other side of his curved desk.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“I’m here to see Marcel Bla—Dupont.” She forced a smile. “Marcel Dupont.” It was the first time she had uttered his name out loud, and she liked the way it sounded. “My name is Siobhan Harris.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Dupont told me he was expecting you. Go right on up to the penthouse.”
“All right. Thanks.”
On the way up, she inspected her appearance in the mirror of the elegant, gold-buttoned elevator. Hair in place, yes. Bits of food between her teeth, no. Dress sitting smoothly, yes. Sweat stains under her armpits, no. With a gentle shudder, the elevator came to a halt on the top floor. Siobhan took a deep breath, pressed her lips together to redistribute the lip balm she had just applied, and made for the solid walnut door. She rang the bell and waited, holding a Lady M Mille Crêpes cake that she had picked up as a peace offering on the way over. An unfamiliar sensation sprang up in her chest; she couldn’t tell if she was excited or annoyed at her excitement. When Marcel appeared before her, a hint of expensive perfume wafted around her. He was wearing a dark shirt, open at the neck, allowing a glimpse of his brown skin beneath. He studied her with that disconcertingly intimate gaze that made her wonder if he could read her mind. Was she an open book to him?
What a terrifying possibility.
Siobhan cleared her throat and took the initiative.
“Before you say anything, I want you to know I’m really sorry about what happened. I’m grateful to you for inviting me here because that means you’re trying to build a bridge between us. And to show that the goodwill is reciprocal ... ta-da! I’ve brought you a cake,” she announced, holding it out in front of her.
When she heard the hopeful note in her voice, she knew she had made a mistake.
Marcel remained impassive, not even blinking.
“I don’t like sweets. I thought I’d made that clear if nothing else. And don’t get excited, princess. You’re only here because we’ve signed a contract.”
What a prick.
Marcel had addressed her with such indifference that Siobhan ground her teeth. She wasn’t expecting him to get down on his knees, but a bit of civility would make a nice change. Why was she demeaning herself for an asshole like him? Someone who turns their nose up at a Lady M cake deserves to go straight to hell.
“All right, all right. You know what? I can handle you not liking me. In fact, I’m not that into you either.”
Marcel’s full lips curved into a smug grimace.
“Quel dommage,” he lamented. “You’d better come in.”
Suddenly an electric tingle ran down her arms and legs. The idea of being alone with Marcel, on his turf, made her feel as vulnerable as a deer on a hunting reserve. His success didn’t change the fact that he was a complete stranger. A tall stranger surrounded by a dangerous aura. Her face burned with shame. Or perhaps something else.
“Are you planning to stay out here all day, Siobhan?”
Despite everything, there was something warm about the way he said her name.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of being alone with a Black man?” he said, eyebrows raised in feigned concern.
The jerk-o-meter suddenly went up five points.
“You’re a bit obsessed with the color of your skin, aren’t you?”
“So speaks white privilege.”
“Look who’s talking about privilege,” muttered Siobhan, entering the apartment with a sigh.
The living room was stunning. Spacious, light, and decorated in pure New York style. Pale neutrals with the odd splash of color, designer furniture—perhaps some ex had picked it out—hardwood floors, a vast leather sofa, and spectacular views of the city and Central Park. There were vinyl records and books everywhere. Siobhan wondered what the detestable Mr. Black read when he wanted to escape from his own world of heinous criminals. Crime novels or something else?
“Do you live alone?” she asked, still looking around her. Interestingly, she couldn’t see a single photo to give her clues about Marcel Dupont’s history.
She instantly regretted her question. He would think she was prying. Or even worse, that she was interested in his personal life.
“Mm-hmm.”
“And your vanity needs all this space?”
The only way to overcome her curiosity was to be as unfriendly as him. (Curiosity = attraction.)
Marcel clutched his chest, as though mortally wounded by her remark.
“You’re hardhearted for a romance novelist.”
“I’m not the problem here; it’s you and your preconceived notions. What is a romance novelist supposed to be like? Enlighten me, please.”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Extremely sensitive?”
“Better to be sensitive than insensitive, I would say.”
“Are you suggesting that crime writers are insensitive?” He tutted. “And I’m the one with prejudices.”
“You must be. How else could you write about things as twisted as torture, rape, or murder and not give yourself nightmares.”
“The world’s misery is a huge rock that can crush you if you take it personally. You’ll learn that as you grow up.”
“Ha. Tell me something: Has anyone ever fallen in love in one of your books?”
“Why do you attach such importance to love? Love is a social construct devoid of any real meaning. It’s no more than hormones coinciding at the right moment. Oxytocin, to be precise, which is released during copulation. Without it, the human race would have died out long ago. What really brings couples together is a matter of biology, nothing more and nothing less.”
“What an aseptic way of looking at it,” said Siobhan.
With his pronounced blink, Marcel gave her to understand how little he cared about her opinion on the matter.
“All right. I’ll stop talking.”
“You, stop talking? I doubt that. You suffer from incurable verbal diarrhea. Give me that.”
“What?”
“The cake.”
“I thought you didn’t want it.”
“I don’t. I’m just going to put it in the refrigerator for a moment so it doesn’t collapse. I wouldn’t want you to ruin my $15,000 sofa.”
Siobhan grudgingly handed him the box.
“You know there are more important things in life than money, right?”
“Oh yeah? Don’t tell me ... I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime. And don’t touch anything.”
As he turned around, Siobhan had to fight two impulses:
1) The impulse to throw any sharp object she could find at his departing figure. And
2) The impulse to check out his ass.
The first was easy to control. As for the second, well ... Let’s just say temptation won and scored a home run. Wow ... he has an incredible ass . She immediately shook her head as though trying to erase the image from her mind. She perched on the cherished $15,000 sofa—how could he spend that much on a sofa, when there were people going hungry in the world? It was indecent—and distracted herself by flicking through the books that were sitting on the table. She noticed they were full of annotations in pencil, and she couldn’t help but snort. He’s so vain he thinks he has the right to correct other people’s work . Although she had to admit, he was talented. Very talented. She was painfully aware of how good that man was at what he did. His work went straight for the guts from the first sentence. Not a word was wasted. His style was sharp, fierce, almost ruthless, like Marcel himself. And he knew how to get the reader hooked on the story like an addict on their drug of choice. Of course, Siobhan would have rather given a pound of her own flesh to Shylock before admitting that to him.
If a man’s ego could be measured in degrees, his would spark wildfires.
Marcel returned to the living room with a bottle of water and two tumblers on a tray, which he set down on the table. He was wearing glasses that gave him a sexy university professor look. Naturally Siobhan berated herself for her wild imagination. What on earth was happening to her? First she checked out his ass, and now she was fantasizing about a private tutoring session. Great. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough to be attracted to a guy who had made a point of showing his superiority on multiple occasions. He might be a literary genius, but he was also nasty and hypocritical, and from the way he behaved it was clear he believed he was the only author able to write decent books in the whole of America. Or maybe even the whole world. He sat at the other end of the sofa. Siobhan smiled, her polite way of calling him an idiot. From her purse, she took out a pen decorated with a Christmas motif—yes, she loved Christmas, so what?—and a brightly colored notebook with the phrase “Unicorns Do Exist” on the cover. Marcel’s expression said it all: he was judging her. Just remember, he never misses a chance to exploit someone’s weakness . At least he refrained from verbalizing whatever he was thinking.
“I have some ideas,” announced Siobhan, spreading the notebook open on her lap like a diligent pupil.
“If they have anything to do with vampires or millionaires with sadomasochist tendencies, I’m not listening to them.”
“Oh please, Marcel. Toxic masculinity went out of fashion in ... 2014? Paige would probably argue about the date, but it’s a fact. Paige is my best friend. One of them,” she explained.
“Toxic masculinity. Okay,” he repeated, trying to assimilate the concept. “So, let’s talk about these ideas of yours.”
“What do you think of this: a Brooklyn police officer falls in love with his female patrol partner.”
Silence.
“Is that it? Where’s the conflict? There is no conflict. And I hate Brooklyn.”
“What’s wrong with Brooklyn?”
“Apart from the fact that it’s New York’s largest borough and therefore the place where most things happen? Oh nothing, nothing at all. Except it’s a fucking cliché.”
“You don’t like clichés.”
“Very good, you’re catching on.”
“Well, there are always some in romance novels. From enemies to lovers, from friends to lovers, love triangles, second chances, forced marriage, fake relationships ...”
“What’s the point in faking a relationship?”
“It’s very useful if you want to make your ex jealous.”
“No comment,” muttered Marcel.
“Okay, next idea. A police officer from”—she shook her hand—“from wherever, falls in love with a murder witness.”
Marcel fell back against the sofa cushion, sighing in boredom. He crossed his arms behind his head and spread his legs wide like the lousy alpha male he thought he was. He looked at Siobhan with a strange glint in his eye and asked:
“Why don’t we make him fall in love with the murderer?”
“Are you crazy? No way. Everything has its limits, and this limit is moral integrity. People fall in love with someone’s goodness, intelligence, passion, or courage.”
“And can’t those qualities be extrapolated to a criminal mind? Or, in your opinion, bad people are bad by definition, and the good are paragons of virtue.” He laughed through that ridiculously perfect nose of his. “You’d be surprised at how relative things are, Siobhan. Anyway, I didn’t know the writer had an obligation to incorporate the rules of real life into fiction. I thought literature was a way to explore, not to correct, the world. Let’s suppose for a minute that the police officer doesn’t know the woman is a murderer. Let’s imagine he finds out later. Would his feelings be justified in that case?”
“Possibly, although we still wouldn’t have a plot for the novel.”
“Why not?”
“Because then a happy ending would be impossible. I mean, no one marries a murderer, no matter how loved-up they are. Think about the societal pressure of something like that. And one of the characteristics of the romance genre is precisely that. Happily ever after.” She tapped her pen in emphasis.
Marcel raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“Bullshit.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s ridiculous to limit the development of a novel by forcing it to have a prefabricated ending, just because consumers of the genre are immature and still believe in fairy tales.”
“This has nothing to do with fairy tales. It’s about not perpetuating a cycle of misfortune,” countered Siobhan, annoyed.
“Oh please! All the great love stories have a tragic ending. Romeo and Juliet , Wuthering Heights , Madame Bovary , Anna Karenina , Tristan and Isolde , The Age of Innocence ... even Beauty and the Beast ends badly. Jeez.”
“ Beauty and the Beast does not end badly.”
“So it might seem. But what kind of future can you expect from a relationship born of an abduction? That girl has full-blown Stockholm syndrome. What’s the matter, Miss Harris? Had you never considered that? No, of course not.” He smiled condescendingly. “Do me a favor and revise your position on toxic masculinities, because I’d say you need an updated version.”
Siobhan felt a hot wave rising to her cheeks. She took a calming sip of water. When she had composed herself, she said:
“Whether you like it or not, the rules are what they are. A romance novel has to have a love story driving the plot and a happy ending.”
“Who says so?”
“RWA. And we aren’t about to break the rules just because your heart is tougher than old shoe leather.”
Marcel tried unsuccessfully to hide his laughter with a cough. He shook his head and countered:
“The heart is just an organ. It has no sensibility, conscience, or feelings; it simply beats and keeps us alive. Did you miss biology class that day, princess?”
“I don’t know why you can’t get it into your skull that every genre has its own conventions. A crime novel where the crime isn’t solved by the end would be inconceivable, don’t you think? And I’ve told you several times,” she said, her voice rising, “not to call me that!”
Her patience was wearing extremely thin. The man riled her every time he opened his mouth. She rubbed her temple. She felt a headache brewing, and there was still a long day ahead.
“We’ll see. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“The same place as your feelings. Oh wait.” She gave a fake smile. “You don’t have any!”
He raised his hands, as if surrendering. She noticed a hint of defeat in the slight tension in his eyes, in the vague gesture of his lips. It served him right.
Then a silence fell.
A minute passed.
Two.
Three.
Neither one of them said a word. Siobhan drummed her Christmas pen on her notebook, casting the occasional sideways glance at Marcel, who was pacing like a caged panther. His left hand was plunged into his jeans pocket, while the right stroked his stubble. He’s very handsome when he’s thinking; he should do it more often. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows; the veins of his powerful forearms reminded her of rivers on a map.
He stopped abruptly, looked down at her, and said:
“What if the murderer was a kind of female vigilante who only takes down bad guys?”
“Like in Dexter ?”
“Something like that. Could we use that?”
“That wouldn’t excuse her from her crimes. Although readers might find it easier to empathize with her.”
“Since when has it been necessary for readers to empathize with a character?”
“Well, it’s kind of a given in romance novels.”
Marcel took off his glasses and gently massaged the bridge of his nose.
“We’ve spent a half hour trying to come up with a decent plot, but it turns out the ten commandments of the FFTA are a fucking pain in the ass. A happy ending, perfect characters ... God, this is torture!”
“The FFTA?”
“The Friends of Fairy Tales Association. We still haven’t discussed the crime, and might I remind you there has to be at least one.” His tone dropped until it reached the pitch typical of men when they want you to do as they say. “Why don’t we stop circling round this romance nonsense and focus on the important part?”
If there was a perfect moment to put him in his place, this had to be it.
“For $475,000, surely you can take care of the important part on your own,” Siobhan said, her chest brimming with a malevolent joy.
How sweet the taste of revenge.
He clenched his jaw as she had noticed him doing before. It had been a low blow, but what the hell, he deserved it.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said then.
Release the bomb, let it explode, and get the hell out of there—an advanced survival technique.
“Upstairs, second door on the right. Try not to make a mess.”
She climbed the modern L-shaped stairs, cursing inwardly, and locked herself in the luxurious bathroom. His cleaner deserved every dollar; although no doubt that miser only paid a pittance. She turned on the faucet, wet her face to refresh herself, and then dried it. She dried the splashes of water around the basin too, just to be on the safe side. Try not to make a mess nah nah nah ... I don’t like sweets nah nah nah ... The heart is just an organ nah nah ... Beauty and the Beast ends badly nah nah.
“Argh!” she groaned. “He’s driving me up the wall!”
This was going to be much harder than she had thought. She sighed in resignation and left the bathroom. Passing the next door along the hallway, she couldn’t help a furtive glance inside. It was Marcel’s bedroom. She had never liked nosing around other people’s rooms. As a child, she had seen The Texas Chain Saw Massacre , and she knew what might happen. But it was undeniable that you could discover a great deal of information from someone’s bedroom. If she had gone in and looked through the window, she would have been able to look down on the highest point of Roosevelt Island, with its strange geometry of low brick buildings. She would also have seen a king-size bed with a dark satin cover—was he allergic to color or something?—the pile of books sitting on his nightstand next to a minimalist lamp, and a cavernous walk-in closet. And then there were all the things that couldn’t be seen, that remained concealed in drawers, in the walls, between the sheets. Dark but latent, trapped but alive.
So many secrets.
She knew who Marcel Black was. But she doubted she would ever really know Marcel Dupont. But then ... did it matter? They would write this lousy novel and then never see each other again. Destiny would carry her in the opposite direction from his unbreachable wall of privacy. And if at any point she dared to cross that threshold, even just with one toe, Mr. Black/Dupont was quite capable of kicking her down, literally.
A shudder ran through her as she headed down the stairs.
Back in the living room, he was waiting on the sofa.
“Something has occurred to me,” he announced. “It might be a tad complicated to bring together, bearing in mind how little time we have.”
“I like complicated. Go ahead, I’m all ears.”
“Time travel.”
She could barely contain her laughter.
“Ha ha. In Scotland, right? With warring clans, kilts, and all the rest of it. I’m sorry, I think Diana Gabaldon got there before you,” she said.
“What? Who the hell said anything about Scotland? If you could allow me to explain my idea, perhaps we could actually get somewhere and be done with this once and for all. I don’t particularly want to spend the rest of my day here with you opening and closing doors like in that Monty Hall paradox.” Siobhan sighed and gestured for him to continue. “Okay. The protagonist is a late-nineteenth-century crime novelist who—”
“Crime novelist. Seriously?”
“There’s a reason, you’ll see. Let’s say our man accidentally travels to New York in the future and—”
“New York? God, how dull! What if we made it London? I love London!” said Siobhan. “Notting Hill, the British Museum, red telephone boxes ... Oh, it’s so romantic.”
Marcel furrowed his brow. His feline features adopted a mocking expression.
“Romantic? Don’t make me laugh. The British Museum represents the greatest archaeological plunder in the world, and the phone boxes smell of piss, the few that are left. Perhaps Bridget Jones could stop interrupting me, please?” Siobhan closed an imaginary zipper across her lips. “Thank you. Okay, let’s see, where was I? Our own Raymond Chandler suddenly wakes up in the twenty-first century. New York is deep in a devastating financial and social crisis where the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. The system is riddled with corruption. Criminals impose their own law on the street. A climate of prerevolutionary violence prevails in Manhattan.”
“Like in Gotham City.”
“Our man, let’s call him ...”
“Jeremiah.”
“... meets a stubborn journalist who decides on her own initiative to investigate a blood-curdling murder case that’s ... kind of old school. As he tries to adapt to this new setting, Jeremiah helps ...”
“Felicity.”
“Felicity? Jeez. Can’t you come up with a less ridiculous name?” Siobhan narrowed her eyes for a second; long enough for Marcel to see. “Okay, whatever,” he said. “Jeremiah helps Felicity solve the case.”
“And falls in love with her.”
“Whatever. In any case, we’ll complicate things. We’ll make everyone look suspicious to throw the reader off the scent. Each character will try to trick the others, and the truth will only slowly become clear through the haze of deceit, like in the classic novels.”
“Their relationship will be complicated too. They are very different people and constantly clash. Of course, therein lies the key. Opposites attract,” stated Siobhan. “And what happens at the end?”
“They catch the killer. And the dollar depreciates significantly as a result of the economic crisis.”
“But presumably, once the investigation is wrapped up, he has to return to the nineteenth century. Unless ...”
“He has nothing in his own time to go back for,” concluded Marcel.
“Exactly. Maybe Jeremiah lost his wife to a fever shortly after they married. He drinks to escape from it all, and, to the great consternation of Mr. Pemberly, his editor, he isn’t able to write a single word. And if that wasn’t enough, he squandered the last cent of his fortune in a gambling den. The debts are piling up, his creditors are after him.”
“Bad business.”
“A very bad business. So the door to the future opens at just the right moment. As for Felicity, she’s a hopeless romantic.”
“But she’s a journalist,” Marcel objected.
“So what?”
“Didn’t you say people who live surrounded by mundane evils are insensitive by default?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Marcel smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. And that smile, even though it only lasted a second, made him slightly more human.
“Why is it so important that she’s a romantic?”
“We need it for the plot,” explained Siobhan, as though it was obvious. “Let’s say that her way of understanding relationships is rather ... traditional. Hence the fact that she’s had no luck with the men she’s met up to that point. Deep down, she dreams of meeting a gentleman to sweep her off her feet.”
“Or a crime novelist,” he said.
For the next few hours, Siobhan took notes like a madwoman. They worked out a good part of the plot, identified the most significant twists, and called out details as they thought of them. Incredibly, things were finally starting to flow between them. Marcel organized the project. He would take care of the chapters narrated from Jeremiah’s point of view, and she would do Felicity’s. The story would start with her in the present day. Once she had completed the introduction, Siobhan would leave the file in a shared folder on the cloud so that Marcel could read and edit it before picking up the thread himself. And so on.
“We’ll work more efficiently that way, and we won’t even have to see each other again,” he said.
“We won’t see each other again?”
“Why would you want to see a man you’re not that into?”
“No reason,” she answered quickly. “No reason at all.”
A spark of something she was unable to identify seemed to light up in Marcel’s gaze.
“That’s what I thought. I’d say that’s enough for today,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll ask my assistant to look up some books or articles that might be useful to us. In the meantime, get as much down on paper as you can.”
“You have an assistant?”
“Actually, I have two. But I’m not about to share either one with you. I’m too ... toxic,” he said. “I’ll see you to the door.”
She gathered her things and stuffed them in her purse. Why was she suddenly sorry to be leaving? She didn’t understand her unexpected frustration. She followed Marcel to the door. He placed his hand on the knob and looked at her. He emanated a kind of dark brilliance that she was unsure whether to trust. Those eyes shimmered like deep lakes beneath his long lashes. Neither of them moved for five long seconds. Maybe ten. Or maybe more. The tension in the room almost crackled.
“Okay, well ... see you sometime, I suppose. Although you’ve made it perfectly clear that won’t happen, so ...”
“Siobhan.”
It was almost a whisper. Her heart leaped in her chest.
She noted a stifling heat in her cheeks.
“Yes?”
How could she explain the sweet tingling that was running through her from head to toe?
“You talk too much. Try to keep your internal monologue where it should be—internal.”
She felt as though the sun had disappeared behind a thundercloud.
Marcel opened the door, and she left with a bitter taste in the back of her throat.