Chapter Three #3
I’d used my housemates as sources for gossip and information, but I had never actually written about any of them. I’d never had a housemate who was semi-famous the way Charlotte was. Nadine was hopefully getting there, but no one so far had a life worthy of reporting in the paper.
People recognized Charlotte’s name, society people perhaps more than others, because of her stories.
Charlotte wrote fiction about aristocrats and rich people being foolish, and so her work was both controversial and quite popular among them.
Her stories showed them exactly as they were in the most compelling way.
That she was involved with an aristocrat was simply good gossip.
It wasn’t exactly salacious. He was unmarried, though there had been rumors about a forthcoming engagement to Louise Montmorency, another society type with a title in the family—a marquis, in her case.
Coincidentally, her mother was involved with the arts charity I’d been writing about before Benoit Levin stole the story.
Charlotte had never been romantically linked to anyone.
She was new in Paris, just making a name for herself.
All of this made it the perfect topic for a gossip column.
If I hurried, then I could break it first, before any other journalists who may have seen Charlotte and Antoine together last night could get the story together.
This was even better than the charity story.
It was fresher, the kind of thing everyone would be talking about in their drawing rooms all day.
Just the sort of job-saving story I needed.
I would have been a complete fool not to write it.
So that’s what I did. I sat down at my little desk and wrote through breakfast. I didn’t go down because I’d already had some coffee, and though I didn’t acknowledge it at the time, I was afraid of encountering Charlotte, afraid of facing her. I might lose my nerve.
Life as an orphan forced me to make selfish decisions.
I had to take care of myself; I had no one else.
And I didn’t have time to write anything else before deadline at the end of the week.
I needed to prove myself over and over again because every issue that didn’t have my mark on it was a mark against me.
I needed a story, and Charlotte had practically handed me one.
When it was done, I tucked the pages into my bag and dressed for work in a gray suit, like it was any other day.
Like a criminal, I checked to make sure the hallway was clear and then tiptoed past Charlotte’s room.
She was inside tapping away as I crept down the stairs.
The foyer was empty, but I paused before going down and out through the kitchen.
Cook would be in there, not that this had anything to do with her.
But she’d unwittingly become a source of information for my story. I went out the front door.
I didn’t hesitate or let myself think about this as anything more than a professional victory. I put the story in my editor’s hands and stood there smiling while he read it. It was a quick read, so it didn’t take him long.
“Good work. Here,” Paquin said, holding the papers out to me. “Pass it over to Vartre.”
I did as I was told and waited for her to read the story too.
“This is good, Marnet. It connects the dots and suspicions that were already swirling around them. I think they were even mentioned in one of your pieces, right Paquin? This is exactly the kind of thing we want. It’s perfect for the ‘Potins Culturels’ column.
” She nodded approvingly, and the careerist in me swelled with confidence. “We can run it tomorrow.”
At first I was relieved. My editors were impressed.
I had proven my worth. But the rest of the day, a low-grade dread settled inside me, deep in my gut.
Sitting there at my desk in the pen was like sitting outside Sister Clothilde’s office door to await punishment.
I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know what it would be.
Career-wise, everything was great, as long as no one scooped me on the story.
I scoured the morning papers, but found nothing.
As the afternoon issues came out, I checked those too.
Nothing. No one had the story of the writer and the aristocrat but me, which made it both more professionally exhilarating and personally risky.
Once the chance of getting scooped disappeared, I was faced only with what I’d done and what it would do to my living situation.
Everyone at my house would know I wrote the column or at least supplied the information.
This professional victory would have some personal consequences.
I liked Charlotte. I had to live with her.
I was a little jealous of her, perhaps, but who wouldn’t be?
She was quite talented and pretty and smart—all the things one would want in a friend.
I was not the first journalist to write about someone without permission.
Doing it to a friend was different; I could have warned her.
What I’d done was sneaky, if not unethical.
I didn’t like the idea of myself as someone who would sabotage a friend out of jealousy.
Ungenerously, I tried to dismiss my guilt by downplaying what I’d done.
I hadn’t known Charlotte all that long, so our relationship wasn’t that important.
Cook was right that she’d probably be moving on soon.
My writing about her private relationship might actually benefit her personally and professionally, and no one knew for sure what the future could hold.
But, no surprise, thinking ungenerous thoughts didn’t make me feel any less villainous.
There was a chance Madame Tremblay would kick her out of the pension, though I didn’t think so.
The only reasons Madame ever tossed a woman out were the inability to pay rent and keeping inappropriate male company.
Charlotte had been walking a fine line with the vicomte’s son, but he hadn’t been coming around the house.
Staying out all night was hardly an offense on Madame’s territory.
Unfortunately, Charlotte’s involvement with the vicomte’s son was not going to end in marriage.
A man of his stature would only be interested in a woman of hers for one reason: sex outside of marriage.
There was so little chance that the fancy man would make Charlotte an honest woman.
She was obviously brilliant and lovely, but the aristocracy never cared about that.
They only cared about lineage. So this situation would either unfold with Charlotte becoming his mistress or refusing him.
Charlotte was perhaps learning firsthand that there’s no such thing as fairy tales.
I didn’t like playing a role in that sort of lesson for anyone, let alone a housemate.
And further troubling: would my housemates understand?
Was what I’d done even defensible? Charlotte probably wouldn’t, but what about the others?
Some dumb part of me considered maybe they wouldn’t even see it, but that was impossible.
The paper was delivered to the house every morning; we passed it around at breakfast. There was no way they wouldn’t see it.
And even without my byline on it, there was no way they wouldn’t attribute the information in the story to me.
I lingered in the office for far longer than necessary.
And instead of riding straight home, I stopped in shops and took detours and delayed so long that, by the time I made it back to the pension, I had missed dinner.
In the kitchen, Cook fixed me a plate, which I took up to my room and ate with my door closed.
I could hear my housemates through the walls, Charlotte typing away.
Catherine and Diane laughing. Nadine was at work, as she often was in the evenings.
I loved living at Madame’s, and I didn’t want to make enemies of my housemates.
I cared what they thought of me. The weight of this had never been more significant, now that it was all on the verge of dramatic upheaval.
All my life, I struggled to make friends—surprise, surprise—and so I liked to keep the ones I managed to make.
For hours that night I lay awake, thinking through all the possible scenarios of the how the following day might unfold. I couldn’t get my brain to stop spinning. Unable to settle myself, I got out of bed and got dressed. Not even Cook was up yet. Then I left the house long before dawn.
The only place I had to go was the newspaper, and so I went there.
I rode my bike. It was so early not even the bakeries were open.
And I took several deep breaths when I passed the newspaper truck delivering stacks to the newsstands.
The paper was officially out. Within a few hours, these tied bundles would be distributed across the city. There was no going back now.
The newspaper building never truly closed.
The front lobby was dark and locked up, but the staff entrance had a doorman there around the clock.
News happened at all hours, and so there was almost always someone around.
This morning, there was no one in the building except for the doorman at his counter and the remains of the printing crew, who were heading out.
Upstairs, I had the place to myself. The pen was dark and shadowy.
I had no reason to be there, at least not any professional reason.
I didn’t have any real work to do, nothing that couldn’t wait.
So I went to the editors’ office. It was empty and open, thankfully, because there was a couch.
And maybe my sleepless nights caught up with me, because without even really deciding to do so, I lay down.
Within minutes, the sleep that had been evading me all night finally came.