Chapter 7
Prince Charming
Bastien left the second Celine nodded her approval of the mock-up gown.
“I’d love to hang around and watch you struggle as you thread that needle—fascinating stuff by the way—but I have an engagement with Ana?s which I’m late for,” he said, one foot already out the door. “I will see you tomorrow for another try on.”
“Don’t tell her a thing about the competition,” Celine warned. “I will do it myself—Bastien? Did you hear me? Bastien!”
Certain she had been speaking to herself, Celine returned to sewing the dress until the bells of the nearby church rang six times, reminding her of her own engagement with Jacques that evening. And she couldn’t be late.
Attentively, she wrapped up her materials and headed downstairs.
There was a muck-covered mirror on the corridor, and she stopped to find a clean spot and check her appearance.
With a look of horror Celine noticed the measuring tape still hanging around her neck.
She pulled it off, tossed it aside, and went to open the door.
Then startled.
Jacques was standing on the other side of the street, hands in his trouser pockets and leaning against a car parked by the sidewalk.
“Jacques!” Celine called, awkwardly thrashing around to barricade the entrance. “I-I thought we were going to meet at the restaurant.”
“Yes,” he chuckled nervously, checking to the right before crossing the street.
He looked as handsome as usual, like Aphrodite’s Adonis, in his cream, pressed suit and meticulously gelled hair.
“The driver was heading there when I told him to turn over on the next street. I must admit, I got a bit curious when I heard where you were.”
“Oh. H-how did you hear?”
“I called your house to check if you were still up for tonight,’ he replied, meeting her halfway up the stairs.
The gold rays fell on his face; Celine lifted her hand to his cheek feeling as though she was holding the sunset in her hands.
Jacques leaned against her touch. “Francine mentioned you might be here, though she did not mention why.”
The inquiry seemed to rest on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t ask.
“Oh, you know—” Celine said, trying to block the view as he tilted his head, searching beyond her for a glimpse inside the house.
He still deserved an explanation as to why his girlfriend was roaming inside an abandoned house.
“—I came to look for something,” she mumbled. “A photo album. To show you.”
Jacques stooped to meet her at eye level as if he knew she was lying.
“And where is this album?” he asked, glancing at her empty hands.
“It’s a big house. My grandmother was a hoarder,” she chuckled nervously. “Who knows how long it will take for me to find it?”
Sliding past him, Celine scurried down the four exterior stairs of the building, and straight into the backseat of his car.
Jacques shook his head and entered after her. “You know, you’re a terrible liar, Celine,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket to throw it over her shoulders. To her surprise, he didn’t press on.
Celine felt horrible for doing this to him; for lying when she could tell him just as easily as she had told Bastien. Only she didn’t know why the words always got stuck in her throat.
“Are you still up for dinner at Larue or do you want to go elsewhere?” Jacques asked.
Her stomach rumbled with remonstrations at the thought of food. “Our original plan sounds perfect. But I demand dessert afterwards.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “As you wish, ma jolie.”
· · ·
The multitude of lights that had blossomed around the city reflected across the Seine, drifting on top of the tiny waves like miniature stars. The bateaux-mouches chugged thin streams of smoke out into the night.
On a whim, Celine linked her fingers through Jacques's as they strolled along the quay. The dinner had been delectable, the desert even more so, and Jacques had wanted to go an a walk afterwards—a little routine he had developed as of recently. Celine didn’t mind. It gave them a chance to talk.
“What are you thinking about?” Jacques asked. “You seem a bit zoned out.”
Celine looked up at him. Even after a long day Jacques looked like he had just stepped out of a fairy tale.
In fact, he could do the exact opposite and walk straight into a book—any book—and the princess would have never pointed any differences between Jacques Ménard and her prince charming. He even had a horse.
Holding his left hand in front of them, Celine began turning his signet ring playfully around his finger, watching as the light from the lamps slid over it and glinted like a tiny star.
Perhaps Jacques being Prince Charming was the exact problem—the very reason why she hadn’t fallen in love with him yet, even after a year of being together. He was prefect for every other person out there. Just not for her, apparently. Celine supposed that left only one option: the dark knight.
Her thoughts took a strange segue towards Bastien.
She frowned.
“Celine? Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yes. I was merely thinking,” she replied, attention sharpening on him again. “…About us.”
“Us?”
“How we came to be us, actually.”
They had never acknowledged the fact that they were dating because their parents wanted them to.
Neither of them had been able to say no then; neither of them had objected, or questioned it, or even discussed it with the other.
They had simply accepted the fact that they were to go out together and then one day get married, and that was it.
They had both learned the steps of the dance and went on performing, even in front of each other, to the point where Celine couldn’t tell anymore if Jacques was being genuine or simply putting on an act, like she was.
She didn’t know if he resented her, or if he was content with this decision. She, herself, was not.
By the confused look he was giving her now, Celine supposed he hadn’t planned on thinking about their situation at all.
“I know are parents suggested—”
She was cut off.
“I chose you long before that, Celine,” Jacques said softly.
“You did?”
An abrupt breeze flowed along the river, ruffling her hair from the gel she had fixed it with. Almost instinctively, Jacques tucked the strand behind her ear.
“Yes.” He didn’t move his hand from her cheek, instead he cupped it, smoothing the pad of his thumb along the tiny freckle beneath her eye.
“I had stopped thinking of you as just my friend before anyone suggested anything.” But when she didn’t respond, Jacques expelled a heavy breath.
“Why do I have a feeling you don’t believe that? ”
Celine looked down at her feet. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that…”
Long before there was Celine, there had been Emilie—Jacques’s childhood sweetheart. One word from Monsieur Ménard and Jacques had broken her heart for the sake of this relationship.
Now, Celine wasn’t the sort to be plagued by jealous feelings for someone she didn’t love, but she worried that Jacques hadn’t forgotten Emilie as easily as he claimed to have had.
And if that was true—and according to Ana?s it was true on Emilie’s part—who was Celine LeBeau and her faked romance to come between two people who truly loved one another?
She started twisting his ring again. “You realise we don’t have to go through with this, right? Our relationship, I mean. If you still love—”
Their thoughts must have run into the same channel because Jacques was already shaking his head. “That’s in the past. There is no one else in my heart but you now, Celine. Please believe that.”
Some small part of her had hoped he would end their feigned relationship right then and there, claiming his heart was still tied to Emilie’s. Celine would have been more than happy to oblige, relieved even. She felt like she was dragging him along, leading him on like…like a vampire!
Perfect. Maybe the magazines weren’t entirely wrong about Celine, even if she was doing it unintentionally.
“I do believe you, Jacques,” she said, easing the thoughts back into the remotest part of her brain.
“Good.” He leaned down to brush a lingering kiss on her lips. When he pulled away his eyes burned like two bright stars—a once in a lifetime phenomenon occurring right in front of her.
But there it was again! He was looking at her the same way he had last night. And the kiss had been different, too; nothing like the quick, impassive pecks they shared whenever others were around. It had felt as though he actually wanted to kiss her.
It hit her then—Jacques truly meant what he was saying. He actually liked her, maybe even loved—that’s what was different about him.
Celine swallowed, feeling like her heart had lodged itself in her throat. She didn’t know what to do with this revelation. Here she was, hoping he would tell her he hated the idea of their faked relationship as much as she did, only to discover he hadn’t been faking it for a while now.
Deep in thought, Celine started up ahead.
If Jacques felt this way—if he had been able to fall in love with her—who was to say she couldn’t?
She cared about him, deeply. So she would try; she just had to stop thinking that she didn’t love him.
Celine believed in love at first sight, and she believed in soulmates, too.
I they weren’t each other’s love at first sight, she might find out they were each other’s soulmates.
Ones that were still wandering to find one another, even as their corporeal forms were walking side by side.
“Can I request something else of you then?” she said.
“Of course.”