13. Once Upon a Broken Frame
ONCE UPON A brOKEN FRAME
G enevieve Courtenay was very good at following events unfolding in fast motion. She thought quickly on her feet, she reacted in time, and was proactive. She excelled at being ahead.
Being early, being fast, guaranteed her many things.
Safety primarily, but also invisibility and space and peace to be herself.
She’d finish her chores, she’d deal with whatever needed to be dealt with after her family came and went, and then she could do as she pleased.
Mainly though, it meant she could stay out of the fray.
What she wasn’t very good at was slow motion.
When time stretched or stopped entirely, and when she was powerlessly watching things happen.
One after another after another. As a child, after having been immersed in Greek legends and myths, she always imagined the three Fates and their thread, as it stretched in front of them and as they ruled over it.
Chiara kissed her and Vi felt on top of the world, like she was the one threading time, every single caress of that beautiful mouth making her powerful, giving her strength, breathing light into her.
Life bloomed around her, and she was a thief, stealing something that couldn’t belong to her, for Vi Courtenay had been taught that she didn’t deserve any of this.
So when Chiara pulled back and gazed at her, Vi held her breath. Chiara would wake up from whatever had come over her and tell her—
“I’m sorry…”
Vi closed her eyes. The Fates must have cut the thread, because here she was, hitting the wall at full speed. One really could never outrun those divinities and their spindle and shears.
She shook her head, and Chiara’s hands slowly fell away from her cheeks. She made herself card her fingers through Chiara’s soft, silky hair one last time as she lowered her own hand.
“Don’t say anything. I guess this is that midnight moment. And I know exactly how Cinderella felt. After all, you’ve been calling me that all summer.”
Chiara opened her mouth to speak and caught Vi’s arm as she got up, but Vi was having none of it as she shook it off and almost blindly made her way off the roof through the exit towards Zizou’s bistro.
When she found herself on the sidewalk, the wind had changed and the sky was becoming more overcast by the minute. A strong gust blew leaves in her direction, and Vi wanted to laugh.
Yes, universe, she got the hint .
Summer was over. It was time to go home. She covered the camera with her hoodie and walked all the way to her apartment in the chilly rain.
* * *
Vi knew her father was in her apartment before she’d closed the door behind herself.
Despite the melancholy of being rejected after the absolute best kiss of her life—a kiss so earth-shattering that she would surely divide her life into ‘before’ and ‘after’ now—her senses alerted her it was time to be watchful.
And Vi sensed him before he stood up from the armchair.
“Hello, father.”
She took off her drenched sweatshirt, remarking that, despite its state, the camera was dry as she gently placed it on the kitchen counter next to her open laptop.
Something inside her clicked at seeing it lit, and Zizou’s words came back to her. Her suspicions, her premonitions. They’d not been baseless at all. She could see how certain things could have been accomplished despite her vigilance—the method to this entire madness and a way for her father to…
She was afraid to finish her thought. And at this point, there was nothing on the laptop of any importance. The Lilien Haus’ collection was out there in the world.
The most he’d find were her pictures of Chiara… Her brain screeched to a halt, the desire to scream in frustration rising in her along with bile, leaving a foul taste in her mouth.
Well, this must be why her stepsisters had mocked her about following Chiara around like a love-sick puppy and for being an embarrassing lesbian pining for a married woman.
Vi was so careful with everything pertaining to Lilien Haus and the collection.
It seemed she should have been more cautious about her and Chiara’s privacy as well.
Her father must have gone through her laptop before and found the numerous pictures she’d taken, and told them.
For some reason, it hurt less that he himself had never mentioned it or humiliated her about it in person. Small blessings.
Her shoulders sagged as he finally crossed the room to her. In the dark, that he seemed to prefer when he visited her place unannounced, his face looked strangely animated.
“Genevieve, you’re a mess.”
Well, maybe calling out her disheveled appearance was invigorating him. Because she hadn’t seen him emote in a really long time.
“Yes, father.” The prerequisite words were automatic.
“What happened at Lilien Haus? I heard the police were called?” His voice rose, as if he initially hadn’t intended for it to be a question.
He would know if she attempted to lie or evade, and the truth was easier, anyway. Easier, more expedient, and maybe it would save him. Vi bit her cheek until she tasted blood. It washed away the bitterness, but the copper lingered, so familiar, somehow safe.
Blood of his blood.
After everything, she still cared about what happened to him and thought she had an obligation to warn him, even if that left her sullied in ways she did not want to yet contemplate. He was all she had.
“I don’t know anything about the police. When I left, Renate and Frankie had a fight. But… The Lilienfelds hired a private investigator. He has been looking into me, into us, really, the whole summer.”
Charles’ face was stark and still in the darkness of the room. He shrugged, as apathetic and haughty as ever, and looked at her as if she wasn’t there, as if she had said nothing of importance.
And for a second, Vi thought that perhaps everyone, her own gut included, had been mistaken where Charles Courtenay was concerned. His reaction wasn’t one of a man almost caught. He looked down at his lapel, and with the practiced gesture of an aristocrat, removed a piece of lint from it.
“And your internship?”
“Two more weeks, father.” Vi pushed the camera farther from the edge of the counter and stood very still. Something was happening, and she couldn’t for the life of her find her footing, her speed and agility, the things that had saved her before, the things that would help her deal with her father.
The moment stretched, painfully so, as he touched a photograph on her wall.
Followed by another. And another. When he finally stopped, Vi could see, even in the dim light, that his hand trembled.
Her mother smiled easily from the last picture, a large bouquet of yellow tulips in her arms obscuring the bottom half of her face, leaving the shining gray eyes, the happy freckles and all that auburn hair, like the sun, all rays and all warmth.
“No…” Charles didn’t turn, but he dropped the hand that was still shaking.
The catch in his voice had almost caused Vi to reach out to him, but he suddenly took a step back and faced her, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It ended today. No more of this foolishness. Photography? Please, don’t make me laugh.
You are exactly like your mother. Creativity skipped two generations. ”
He spat out the last words, and Vi was afraid for a second that he would turn back and rip the photograph off the wall, there was so much rage emanating from him.
“I have contracts lined up in the States, father. And an apprenticeship. In a few weeks, I have to be in New York.” She was pleading, and she was not entirely sure why. Or for what. She was twenty-five years old, and she was begging her father to allow her to do the job she dreamed of.
God, why couldn’t she stand up for herself for once?
He came closer, and they looked at each other, her resigned and ashamed of herself, him despondent, angry, and right as he was a breath away from her, her mother’s picture fell off the wall.
They both startled, and her father stumbled back to the place where the frame lay in pieces, sharp glass shards strewn across the floor. He jerked away as if he’d cut himself and stepped back as Vi knelt in front of the portrait. Her mother smiled on. Behind her, the front door opened.
Her father’s voice was quiet, but Vi refused to turn around, refused to look at him.
“You are finished at Lilien Haus, Genevieve. You will come to the penthouse tomorrow evening, and we shall find you something else. I always knew fashion was wasted on all of you. You and Gigi and Kylie, but especially on you. And clean up here.”
Surprised by the soundless way the door shut behind him, Vi exhaled. Tears stung her eyes at the thought of surrendering the camera tomorrow, but at least it was her stepmother’s and not Chiara’s. She wouldn’t be keeping it, anyway.
She wasn’t going to keep Chiara either. Her evening at the ball had lasted longer than this particular Cinderella had ever dreamt it might.
And unlike the real Cinderella, Vi even got a kiss.
She looked down at her soggy Converse and laughed.
It sounded brittle in the quiet of the room.
Nobody, and certainly no princess, was coming to offer her a shoe.
She sat down and checked her laptop—just to make sure she didn’t unwillingly expose Lilien, in case her father did snoop around— absentmindedly scrolling through her shots.
After months of being around Chiara and the models, around other photographers, after reading her weight in photography books, Vi knew what was there to see.
And some of the images were good. Very good, in fact.
That feeling she’d always had, of having a vision, of her mind reeling from so much of it, was now quieted and sated, because here it all was, spilled onto the screen.
Quit? Forget about her future? About America? About Poise or all the other opportunities she had lined up?