Chapter Four #2
Nadine chose Bouillon Juillet because Diane was working there now, and Nadine liked to be supportive. This made the lump of guilt in my throat grow slightly bigger.
“There she is.” Diane greeted me when I pushed through the door at the restaurant.
She was standing behind the host podium, dressed in her crisp white shirt and black tie.
I assumed she’d read the gossip column, but her face revealed nothing.
She gestured toward the tables by the bar. “Nadine is already here.”
“Merci.” At least she didn’t seem too mad.
Nadine was tucked into the corner table with a glass of red wine.
She was dressed in a ruffled blue and green blouse.
In my rumpled, slept-in pale, gray suit, I looked like a pigeon landing next to a parrot.
When her eyes rose to meet mine, there was disappointment in them.
It stung so much I had to avert my gaze.
“Bonjour.” I sat across from her, arranging my skirts instead of looking at her.
“Bonjour, Vanessa. Our busy, busy Vanessa.”
I cringed. “I assume you read the ‘Potins Culturels’ column.”
“Oh, I read it, all right. At least you’re not denying it. And to be honest, Vanessa, I was pretty surprised that you would be so cruel as to write something like that.”
“I didn’t mean it as cruel, truly.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
I sighed. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under at work. I was desperate. And she’s carrying on with him like she doesn’t even care about getting caught. If I hadn’t written about it, someone else would have.”
Nadine frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Vanessa. But none of that adds up to a good excuse.”
I groaned. “I know that.”
A waiter came to see if I needed anything, and I asked for a glass of wine.
“Charlotte’s a mess,” Nadine said. “Her gentleman asked to see her; his messenger arrived even earlier than yours. Apparently, his mother’s in a fit about the marriage she’s arranged for him to Louise Montmorency—I’m sure you know of her.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I guess he’s still going to marry her. Charlotte was coming in as I was leaving the house. He asked her to be his mistress, and she was furious. Bright red.”
“Oh, god.”
“Oh, god is right. You must hate her to do something like this.”
“I don’t. It wasn’t supposed to be personal.
But it was selfish.” Neither one of us spoke for a few minutes.
I drank my wine. Nadine was mad at me, and I knew I was wrong.
So I didn’t argue that this would have happened between Charlotte and Antoine eventually, whether I wrote about them or not. “Do you think she’ll forgive me?”
“You should talk to Charlotte. She might understand. Though you might want to wait a few days to see how things unfold.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’ll either come to his senses and ask Charlotte to marry him.
Or he’ll marry this other bird, and Charlotte will have to come to terms with the fact that she’s fallen for a foolish man.
It’s an honest mistake. One we’re all bound to make at some point.
But right now, I bet she’s ready to kill you. ”
“Do you think he’ll change his mind?” It seemed unlikely.
“Probably not.”
“I thought I might write to her.”
Nadine furrowed her brow disapprovingly. “I understand that’s you’re primary mode of communication. It’s hers too. And you should write to her. But I think this will require face- to-face interaction. You need to look her in the eyes and explain yourself. Preferably after the dust settles.”
“How long will that take?”
“I think Charlotte gets to decide that.”
“I’m supposed to leave town in a few days. A work trip.”
“Oh, how convenient.” Nadine cocked her head to the side; she was not letting me off easy. “Is that what you outed our housemate for? Travel opportunities?”
“No. It’s actually a disaster. A whole other disaster. I’ll be gone for three weeks.”
“Well, maybe it’s for the best.” Nadine sniffed coldly. “That will give Charlotte some space. And in the meantime, you can enjoy all the professional benefits you’ve reaped from this.”
I hated to tell her that my treachery was motivated by preservation and not some astronomical launch into something better.
I was merely clinging on to my job. And now I’d thrown my home life into disarray as well.
I already suspected that my betrayal probably hadn’t been worth it.
Even Nadine was eyeing me warily, as if she might not trust me ever again.
I could practically see her imagining me doing the same thing to her one day.
“Is Charlotte at home?”
“She was when I left. Door closed, screaming into her pillow.”
I let my head fall onto the table and groaned again. “I feel terrible.”
“I hate to say it, but if you feel terrible about this, it’s because you deserve to.”
She was obviously upset. My mess was proving to be quite messy. “I appreciate you coming to see me.”
“Of course. But now I have to get to work. I have to rehearse in costume and the wig takes forever.” She swallowed the last of her wine. Then she said, “Everyone is disappointed by what’s transpired.”
“That’s very clear. Yes.”
We said au revoir and à bient?t, and Nadine got up and left. I finished my wine and got up to go as well. On my way out, I looked for Diane, but she was busy with guests in another part of the dining room. I waved, but she didn’t wave back.
I was used to being alone. Being an orphan, I couldn’t avoid it.
I had some friends at Saint Genevieve’s, and I also had some enemies there.
And some of the people had been like family.
But friendships were not easy for people who’ve lost everyone and been left to the whims of an imperfect system.
We were all alone together at the Saint Genevieve’s.
And so we were all a little selfish, all a little ruthless.
We had to be, even with our friends. This sometimes served me in adulthood, but this time it had led me astray.
I went back to the office and kept busy reading everything I could find about Cabourg, the beach town where they were sending me.
Anything to avoid going home. Despite Nadine’s admonishment, I tried to comfort myself by thinking of all the good things that could possibly happen for Charlotte in all of this.
Her career wouldn’t suffer. Her popularity could grow from getting her name in the paper in connection with a man with such high social capital.
Ultimately, she would be fine. I told myself this over and over again.
And then I spent another night at the office on my bosses’ couch.
The next morning, it was early when I opened my eyes. Not early enough, it seemed, because Benoit was already there, standing before me. He was dressed smartly as usual, another blue suit and the black cravat this time. And he had a cup of coffee in each hand.
“What are you doing?”
“That’s my question.” He set one of the coffees down on the table where I could reach it.
“What?”
“I was going to ask the same of you. Because here we are again, meeting under these suspicious and deeply unprofessional circumstances.” He perched on the edge of Vartre’s desk, facing me and my makeshift bed. “That coffee is for you, by the way.”
“Merci, and go to hell. I was working late and got tired. I took a break.”
“Yes, because the cultural commentary can’t wait,” he said facetiously.
“You write about the same things as I do.”
“Yes, and that’s how I know it’s not important enough to spend the night in the office.”
I was sitting up now, and I reached for the coffee. It was in one of the cups from the kitchen downstairs.
“Where did you get this.’
“There’s a kitchen here, you know.”
“I do know. I’ve just never seen a man use it before. Most wait until someone else makes the coffee.”
“I—a true renaissance man—can make coffee.”
“Is it poisoned?”
“No, but that’s not a bad idea.” He watched me as I sipped the deliciously hot liquid. I only achieved my human form after having coffee. Perhaps he understood this because he let me take a few drinks before asking, “Are you vagrant, Vanessa?”
“What? No.”
“Then why have you been sleeping at the office?”
“It’s none of your concern.” I scowled at him.
“Yes, but I want to know. And if you don’t tell me, then I’ll be forced to ask one of our superiors.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I might. This is your chance to control the story.”
“Oh, stop it,” I said exasperated. “I’m not vagrant. I just can’t go home right now. Or I don’t want to. Everyone is mad at me there.”
“Why? Did maman and papa catch you with the butcher’s son?”
“You’re despicable, you know that? A truly devious mind.
No. I live in a women’s pension. My housemates are mad at me.
One in particular. Charlotte Deveraux.” I stopped confessing to see if he’d add it all up on his own.
I could practically see his mind whirling.
And then his eyes widened with realization dawning.
“You mean the Charlotte Deveraux from your column? She’s your housemate?”
“She is. And before you ask for all the salacious details, she didn’t know that I was going to write about her affair with de Larminet. I did that all on my own, and of course she’s furious.”
“Why? You made it up?” He sipped his coffee, and I forced myself to look away from his mouth. His mustache was so neat and tidy.
“No. I wrote about it when they would have preferred to keep it a secret, I suppose. They are involved, I’m sure.
I just didn’t talk to her about it. Now everyone at my house is mad at me, and I’m spending as little time there as possible.
” I don’t know why it felt good to tell him all of this, but it was momentarily cathartic.
“So here I am, sleeping on the couch at work. Again. Are you happy now? I’ve destroyed my life to keep you from scooping up my job. ”