4. Once Upon a Timely Scheme
ONCE UPON A TIMELY SCHEME
G enevieve Courtenay was grateful that she managed to swallow the scream of fear, then succeeded in doing the same with the whimper of pain at catching her fingers on the door handle as she fumbled to close it.
Who else but her father could be waiting for her in the dark? And what else would he say? Derision and disgust were two of the emotions most often expressed by Charles Courtenay upon beholding his first- and only-born.
Vi stepped inside, cradling her injured hand, reaching over and turning on the lamp by the door before carefully placing the mail on the breakfast bar that served to divide the kitchen from the main living space.
No, it wasn’t particularly dirty or cluttered.
A coffee mug sat in the sink. A few of the bananas on the counter were beginning to show spots.
A t-shirt was carelessly draped over a chair.
Furtively, she threw a look towards the alcove that served as her bedroom. The bed was made. You could not bounce a coin off it, the way he preferred, but it was made, the comforter clean and colorful even in the dim light.
“Good evening, father.” She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself as small as possible in the face of whatever he’d throw at her next.
But he was silent as he got up from the battered armchair with its ragged handles, roughened by time and excessive use by whomever had owned it before Vi found it charming enough to haul it up seven stories from the flea market.
He took a few steps and raised his hand to her face and Vi wanted to disappear into dust, desperately craving his comfort and knowing very well he had none to give.
She thought of Chiara and of the warmth, and of Aoife laughing, and of Zizou teasing her, and of anything, anything at all, to stop hoping that he would reconsider at the last second instead of doing what he always did.
Withhold his affection, ignore her, say something hurtful.
She shouldn’t have been surprised, because the gesture was not affectionate at all. His cold, rough fingers swiped at her cheek and came away with red lipstick. Chiara’s lips on her cheek. Vi closed her eyes and lowered her head.
“I sent you to Lilien Haus to work, not for whatever this is.” Her father cleaned his hand on the dishrag that was neatly folded on the counter next to Vi and took a step back from her.
Absurdly, Vi was so happy when she noticed only a small trace of color on the cloth, because now she knew that, once he was gone, she’d still be able to see remnants of the imprint Chiara’s lips had left on her cheek.
To use that as a reminder that she wasn’t worthless, that she had done something right today.
Vi wanted to lift her hand to the spot that Chiara’s lips had touched.
Amidst all the hopelessness, all the hunger for love, for attention, there was tangible proof of affection, of gratitude, as fleeting as it might have been.
She schooled her features and, to avoid temptation, put her hands in her pockets, as her father spoke without looking at her.
“You didn’t show up for dinner tonight. Your mother was worried.” His voice echoed along with the thunder outside. No, her ‘mother’ wasn’t worried for her. Her mother was dead, as he so often liked to remind her.
Gwyneth, her stepmother, his fourth wife, could not give a flying fuck about whether Genevieve joined the family or not. The woman was, more often than not, plastered by the time the meal was served.
Vi had always wondered why she’d married her father and whether or not alcohol actually helped her endure him.
“I apologize, father.” She kept her voice low and her head down.
“Genevieve, I do not require your apologies. All I need is for you to do what a Courtenay must. DCan you appreciate the effort it took?” Vi nodded silently. “Your family worked very hard to get you the position at Lilien.”
She bit her lip to keep herself from telling him that asking Frankie to accommodate an internship was hardly work, but she kept her mouth shut.
“This is very important to our family, Genevieve. Do you understand?”
Vi nodded again and belatedly realized her mistake.
“I can’t hear you, Genevieve. You never did learn to be polite, girl.” His voice held such contempt that this time, Vi did flinch.
“Yes, father. I understand.” She took a deep breath and tried not to sound as dejected as she felt. “I’m not sure what you expect me to achieve at Lilien, though.”
He walked towards her again and she held her breath, both wishing he’d do something, anything, and at the same time knowing he didn’t care enough.
Still, he surprised her for the second time this evening as he laid his large, heavy hand on her shoulder, her bones feeling small and too fragile under his strong fingers. But his palm was warm now, and she drank in the sensation.
“I trust you to figure it out, Genevieve. Am I wrong to assume you are intelligent enough to accomplish that?”
And then he was gone, his heavy steps echoing in the empty stairwell, until another gust of thunder and wind from the outside dulled them into nothing.
Vi exhaled the air she was sadly very much aware she’d been holding in. Romance novels always had their characters hold their breaths and somehow be totally oblivious they were doing it. So strange.
No, Vi knew everything about not breathing. For as long as she could remember, she never quite could inhale with her whole chest around her father. She loved him, she wanted to please him and make him proud. He was all Vi ever had, and his approval was everything she ever dreamed about.
She was also aware of how unhealthy their relationship was.
He was a callous man. And she was permanently looking for scraps from his table—which he withheld most of the time—and used his sporadic affection as the perfect carrot for Genevieve, who was used to the painful stick of being dismissed and ignored by now.
Taking a deep breath, she went to the bathroom and, for the longest time, simply stared at her reflection.
Red-rimmed empty eyes, freckled sharp cheekbones and the outline of Chiara’s lips on her cheek.
The perfection of it tarnished by her father’s hand.
As metaphors went, this one was as obvious as it was poignant.
Vi had been so happy. And he’d ruined it.
She sighed and took out a little cotton ball soaked in makeup remover.
Her hand trembled when she finally took it away from her face, the white saturated with the blood-red of Chiara’s lipstick.
Her reflection in the mirror had the same expression as Chiara’s when she’d cleaned blood off the floor after her encounter with Frankie.
Vi was grateful to be alone and thought she understood how Chiara must have felt in that moment to plead for Vi to just leave.
She walked into the kitchen, washed her coffee mug, grabbed the discarded t-shirt from the back of the chair, and folded it on autopilot. Something to do, something to take her mind off the visit.
She opened the window to the storm. Anything to wipe away the scent of pipe smoke and bergamot. And then she simply stood facing the raging nature, framed by the darkness outside, the occasional raindrop landing on her face mingling with her tears.
* * *
The next day started off with more gopher chores.
Vi had been running around all morning when Aoife finally sat her down and made her eat the lunch Vi had fetched earlier.
Vi gulped down her sandwich while her boss messed around with the sewing machine and pontificated about the benefits of a Queen Anne line over all others for certain body types.
Riveting . At least the sandwich was tasty.
Aoife eventually got up from her chair and straightened, stretching to try to reach for the third highest shelf near her. She failed adorably. Vi, who sat on the workstation next to her, smirked.
“Oh, fuck off. I am well aware that, even when you’re sitting down, you’re taller. I hate you.” Aoife flipped her off before stalking to the other end of the studio and getting a few things off the numerous clothes racks assembled there.
“You don’t. I bring you food and I listen to you rambling about fashion history, and I do what you tell me to do.” When Aoife narrowed her eyes at her, Vi shrugged. “Well, mostly.” Aoife tsked and Vi three-pointed her sandwich wrapper into the bin. “Whatcha need, short boss lady?”
“These need to go to Rue de Bretagne and they will give you several of the dresses they’ve already finished. Take all of them. But specifically ask for the cream bodycon. Chiara wants it tonight.”
“And a bodycon is? Also, Chiara wants it? Shouldn’t Frau Franciszka Lilienfeld be the one requesting things instead?
” Vi would have given just about anything to take those words back the moment they fell out of her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say all that out loud. It’s really none of my business.”
Aoife gave her a sidelong glance, then just shook her head.
“First, you are a philistine, Cinderella. You’ve been with me for a week and still have no idea about dress styles.
Just ask them. The women at Rue de Bretagne will give it to you if it’s ready.
And second, you are right for once. Chiara is none of your business.
And neither is Frau Lilienfeld. And it would pay for you to remember that they’re both Frau Lilienfelds, kid. ”
Vi almost choked on the remnants of her shake and scurried to throw the plastic cup in the bin and hide her embarrassment. Aoife thumped her on the back. “Now, don’t feel bad. Some things are what they are. Run along, Cinderella.”
* * *
Even with Aoife’s attempt at wiping the sting off the truth, Vi moped all the way to Rue de Bretagne, and once she got there, had no time to focus on anything other than the issues at hand.