Chapter 5
Loopholes
The plan to leave the house before either of her parents noticed her absence had been going well—so well in fact, that Celine thought she had just enough time to sneak through the kitchen and steal a few bites of breakfast before rushing out the door to meet with Bastien.
The delectable smell of pastries baking in the oven had awoken her earlier than anticipated.
It was for the best, really. If she could avoid her parents long enough, she could avoid lying about her whereabouts as well.
So the plan was going well…
Until her mother’s voice startled her into dropping her plate.
“Jesus!” Celine exclaimed.
“What did I say about your diet?”
Turning around slowly, cheeks puffed with the pastries Francine had baked that morning, Celine smiled sheepishly. She pointed at her mouth. “I swear this is yogurt.”
Madame LeBeau narrowed her eyes.
“Spit that out, grab a plate of fruits and join me and your father at the table.” Then she shouted. “Francine for God’s sake come fix the menu for lunch! And clean up the broken plate.”
Peeved at the delay, but abstaining from picking up a fight with her mother, Celine sprinkled a few raspberries onto a bowl and followed Madame LeBeau into the living room.
The balcony doors were thrown wide open, letting sunlight and the scent of jasmine filter through the curtains.
Celine’s gaze fastened on the clock up on the mantlepiece, slowly creeping eight.
Gritting her teeth, she popped a raspberry into her mouth and reclined on her father’s reading chair.
Across the room, her parents were enjoying their breakfast, an elaborate array of pastries, fruits and yogurt spread before them.
Celine decided to focus on the smell of her father’s pipe, hoping it would cancel out her hunger.
“Why so grouchy this morning, ma belle?” Monsieur LeBeau inquired.
The image of gracelessness and pity that his daughter and her five raspberries presented should have been answer enough.
“Starving to death does that to a person,” Celine replied, pushing her other thoughts away.
“The dress thing again?”
Madame LeBeau cleared her throat. “Whether you two like it or not, I won’t have speculations about my daughter thrown around like breadcrumbs for pigeons to peck at. The modiste has all her measurements, and if Celine’s waistline widens a little, she will immediately think—”
“Maman,” Celine whined. “Jacques and I haven’t—”
She cut herself short when Madame LeBeau brought her fork down on the table, rattling the china. The room settled into a strained silence.
Monsieur LeBeau, visibly uncomfortable, loosened his tie. “Best listen to your mother,” he said and picked up his paper again. Her father had never been up for difficult conversations.
Feeling a little foolish for her outburst, Celine slouched further into the chair.
Belatedly she noticed the dark wells of shadows underneath his eyes.
The marks of tiredness seemed to have deepened since the last time Celine had really taken the time to assess him.
Her heart lurched. The stress from dealing with his clients and preventing an imminent bankruptcy was leaving a mark on his health, while Celine stood there, in front of him, complaining.
Her mother was right. They were counting on her engagement to Jacques and the connection with his family to fix this, and she had to try her best. And…it could have been worse. They could be offering her like a ewe to a wrinkly old man.
“All I meant, maman—”
“I know what you meant, Celine.” Madame LeBeau folded her arms. “But that vampire thing was bad enough, I won’t have any other rumours spread about you.”
Celine held her mother’s gaze for a brief moment.
There was nothing in there that came as a concern for her daughter.
Part of it, sure. She had birthed her, after all, and twenty hours of pain and labour ought to count for something, but the main concern still remained the good name of the LeBeau family.
Which Celine was going to fix—by herself.
Her gaze slid to the clock again. If she wanted to make it to Maison Baudelaire before Bastien, she had to leave now.
As if reading her thoughts, Madame LeBeau said, “What was Bastien Ménard telling you the other night?”
Celine held back a grimace. “Nothing of importance.”
“Talk to him at family dinners, but not so much when other people are around. You know what they say about him.”
Oh, she knew. Still, “Don’t you think all those people are exaggerating? They say things about me too.” And they’re half right, but that is currently beyond the point. “He’s not all that bad.”
“You’re right,” Monsieur LeBeau agreed absentmindedly, not lifting his eyes from the paper. “Bastien is a nice boy.”
“I will not repeat myself,” her mother insisted, and looking at her, Celine knew a three hour long tongue-lashing was in store for her.
“D’accord, d’accord.” Pushing herself off the chair, Celine tried to hastily make an exit by excusing herself. “I have to go. I have some plans for today.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes…I…am looking for…a present!” Celine lied quickly, resisting the little itch to scratch the inside of her wrist. It was her tell-tale sign whenever she was lying—which was unfortunate for her poor skin.
“I’m compiling a list. Jacques asked me for it—he wants to make sure he gets me something I will have use for… since my birthday is coming up.”
Her birthday was almost two months away, but every excuse that had the word Jacques in it was bound to be approved by Madame LeBeau, however farfetched it sounded.
“Before you leave”—she handed Celine a wet tissue—“clean up that kohl from your eyes. It’s unbecoming.”
“Ugh, tu assassines l'individualisme, maman.” But Celine took the tissue nonetheless, too excited for her first day to keep the fight up.
· · ·
Her heels clicked down the cobblestones of Rue Cambon, sparkling with morning mist. It was quite early for the boutiques that lined the sidewalk to be bustling with customers, albeit the helping hands were already operating and dressing up the mannequins inside.
Warm lighting lit up the designs and jewelleries, and Celine drew her bicycle closer to the storefront, lingering before the windows for a few minutes, enjoying the new clothing line from Chanel even though her face was painted on all the posters that decorated the displays.
She made a mental note to drag Jacques through the store tomorrow—as payback for all the times he had dragged her along to the Jockey Club—when chatter from the opposite side of the street reached her ear.
A group of girls had gathered around a Morris column, looking at the theatre posters and, Celine noticed with a delay, one of hers wearing the latest design from Lanvin Modes.
Being the Glamour Girl of the magazines had evidently made Celine appealing to all the popular brands, especially Maison Lanvin, whose designs she had been wearing ever since she was a child.
None of them, however, knew that she wanted to join their ranks one day.
Turning away quickly so the girls wouldn’t see her, Celine continued down the street, towards Maison Baudelaire.
She found Bastien leaning against the wall, quietly smoking a cigarette with a book in his hand. A frown stretched across her face when she noticed he had cracked the spine and folded the volume in half.
Who did that to books?
Nevertheless, she was more surprised that he had shown up earlier than her. Monsieur Ménard’s demands must have truly turned Bastien into a desperate man.
“Just so you know,” she said, startling him, “I am not giving you a kiss.”
Bastien lifted his eyes from the text languidly and laughed at what she was wearing. “Aren’t you taking this whole secrecy business a little too seriously? It’s March. You will melt under that.”
Perhaps the shades, the cloche hat, and the scarf underneath it had been a little too much.
Celine sighed. “Melt or not, it is my business.”
“Come now, darling.” Placing his book away, he hoisted himself from the wall.
Instinctively, Celine took a stiff step back.
She realised she should have wedged more distance between them when Bastien easily reached out his hand and took her chin between his fingers.
“If you sigh like that every time we meet, I’m afraid it will go to my head.
And what would people think if—God forbid—someone happens to hear you? ”
“Are there ever any instances where you don't say everything that crosses your mind out loud?”
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Bastien let out a flippant, “Unlikely,” through wisps of smoke. He offered her his elbow. Celine hesitated.
“I don’t bite,” he said. “Unless you like that sort of thing.”
“The day that I ask you to sink your teeth into me, Bastien, trust that I am suffering under severe psychosis. And even then, I would be more inclined to ask you to shoot me.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such a violent woman. I might have to warn my brother, who knows what you’ll do to him in be—”
Celine’s hand shot to his mouth before he could finish that sentence.
“Let me make one thing clear,” she hissed, clamping her fingers tight around his jaw in hopes that the threat would reach him properly.
“People usually have a tiny voice in the back of their head, whispering that what they are about to say or do is entirely stupid. And while I am aware that yours is wholly corrupted and possibly so faint that it hardly goes through, do listen to it, before I get it in my head that sewing your lips together would be a great favour to the society. Understood?”
Undeterred, Bastien smiled against her palm.
“That was strike one,” she stated, and pushed his head away. “You have two left.”
“And after that?” Bastien taunted, voice lilting with a strange amusement that made her shoulders tense a bit. “What will you do after strike three?”
Celine was going to murder him, and she was going to delight in seeing his eyes pop out while she strangled him with her gloves.