22. Primrose #2
“And isn’t it a beautiful one!” she adds enthusiastically from the corner of the island, a paring knife in one hand and kiwi fruit in the other.
Dressed in dark shorts and a white tee—to my dark shorts and white button down—her hair is post-shower curly and tied back in a messy bun.
I seriously have no idea how she’s so perky given she’s up at sparrow fart every day to prep breakfast.
“Er, yeah. It’s lovely.” I almost crabwalk past her because I can’t look at her, and I certainly can’t look at the marble counter.
I anti-bac’d the whole island top last night because I knew I wouldn’t have been able to sleep for the thoughts of the kids eating their breakfast this morning in the place their father ate… well, you know.
“You feelin’ okay?”
“I slept funny,” I say, still avoiding her gaze like she’s one of the Gorgon sisters. “Morning, squids,” I croak as I gently tug on Sylvie’s messy braid as I pass. “Someone forgot to brush her hair this morning.”
“I am not a squid,” she replies laughingly, looking up from what looks like, a bougie acaí bowl. No Cheerios in this household.
“Octopus, then?”
“I am Sylvie!”
“That’s what I said. Sylvie the squid. Good morning, Felix. How are you?”
He grunts his response, spoon-deep in a jar of fancy chocolate spread next to a piece of tostada. It would appear Felix is as reluctant to look me in the eye as I am his father. Not that the daddy Du Beaumont is here. Huzzah!
“Primrose, please may we go swimming this morning?” Sylvie decorously pats her mouth with a linen napkin.
I press my hand to my chest. “I am honored you want to hang out with me. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”
“I like you very much, she says, her eyes wide and earnest. “And I enjoy to spend time with you, but I also enjoy to spend time with my Spanish friends.”
“You don’t have any friends,” Felix mutters.
“I have Sophia and Maria and Jose. Andiamo, and Bouton, and oso Lola,” she says, going on to list off the names of the other llamas.
“Also,” I gently correct as her brother grumbles,
“Animals don’t count.”
“Felix,” she says, tipping her cute little nose in the air. “Do you think you could stop being mean to me?”
“Do you think you could stop asking stupid questions?” comes his retort.
I slide onto the kitchen stool the farthest away from Zoe, thanking the stars I’m not supposed to understand them bickering in French. But the arguing continues and their volume increases, and that I can’t ignore.
“More eating, less talk,” I say over the din. Then slap my hand to my mouth.
“Something wrong?” A hawk-eyed Zoe asks from the other end of the island.
Oh, Zoe, yes. Something is very wrong. You see, I said something very similar to their father last night. And je regrette… a bunch of stuff. Like disregarding his no-condom warning. I practically begged the man to gimme a lil more than just the tip.
“Primrose?”
“Surprise yawn,” I offer in explanation before faking another for continuity.
“Trouble sleeping, huh?”
“You could say that,” I answer in an undertone as I reach for a carafe of orange juice from the lavish breakfast setup that includes a tiered pastry tower of freshly baked sweet and flaky artisanal offerings, tropical fruit platters that look so good, they look like they might just be for display.
There’s smoked salmon, thinly sliced jambon, capers and pickles and dill-sprinkled cream cheese, and of course, every child’s favorite, caviar. Not.
“May I cook you something this morning? Maybe eggs Bene with a little shaved truffle? Pancakes with a candied bacon?”
“No thank you.”
This is becoming our morning exchange. Zoe sets out a lavish breakfast and then offers me a cooked option. Yesterday’s breakfast temptations included a Hong Kong-style breakfast sandwich or Turkish eggs. But there’s already so much food on offer.
“Come on, let me flex my cooking chops.”
“You are kidding, right?” I stare at the cornucopia of breakfasts that even includes a few miniature choux pastry Horns of Plenty filled with shiny berries and cream, then dusted with sugar. “I’ve put on three kilos just looking at this lot.”
“I never kid about food, Rose. And breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
I grab a glass. “No additional food required but thank you for your kind offer.”
She sighs in reply.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, what happens to all this afterwards?” Because no two mornings seem to contain the same offerings.
“We’re a highly waste-conscious operation, Rose.
Llama’s, horses, and other four-legged folk,” she says, pointing vaguely in the direction of the fruit.
“And hungry workers are always appreciative of a lil’ sweet treat for the almuerzo.
Mid-morning break,” she adds in explanation as she points at the pastries.
“F—fudge.” The sunshiny liquid spills from the jug as she appears in front of me.
“Spill the tea,” she invites, all amused, sparkling eyes. “And not the juice.” She grabs a bunch of napkins, passing them over to me as she adds, “Was it Alejandro?”
“Was what Alejandro?” I continue to mop, all calm nonchalance. I hope.
“Who kept you from sleeping,” she says, barely moving her lips.
“Why would he?” I pull a confused face as I stare into my juice as though I can see something floating in it because I can literally feel her gaze trailing over me.
Like ants over spilled sugar. “I couldn’t sleep and found myself in the kitchen at stupid o’clock, craving chocolate cake.
Then all that sugar must’ve kept me from sleeping,” I add as I cup my hand to my neck and lean my elbow on the marble countertop, all je suis fatigué.
“It wasn’t post-make-out munchies.”
I pull another face: dunno what you’re talking about.
“Then I guess you must’ve… bruised yourself shaving,” she says as her eyes dip to my neck anyway.
“Women don’t shave,” Felix mutters without looking up from his plate.
“Shows what you know,” Zoe singsongs back.
“I mean women don’t shave their-their faces.” His belligerent tone turns slightly panicked as his gaze meets mine, and his skin cheeks flush red before he quickly looks away. “I know they shave other places,” he mutters just loud enough to hear.
Zoe’s brows lift to her hairline.
I don’t have the mental fortitude to deal with this. One crisis at a time, people, please!
“Ladies don’t shave their faces, but they can do many things men cannot,” Sylvie says out of nowhere.
“Bof!” Felix scoffs, the French equivalent of meh.
“They can brush your hair and put it in braids. And they know if you are sick just by touching your head.”
“Papa knows when we are sick,” Felix interjects. “And he asks Zoe to make soup.”
“Yes, but he needs a doctor to tell him we are sick before he asks Zoe to make the soup. But now we don’t need the doctor because we have Primrose.”
“Sweetie, I’m not going to be—”
Zoe catches my eye as she dramatically throws the kitchen towel over her shoulder. With a meaningful look, she chucks it across the island at me. I mirror the action; as far as camouflage goes, it’ll have to do. I direct my attention Sylvie’s way again.
“A doctor and a woman,” she hurls at her brother as though playing her trump card. “Aussi—I mean, also—women can hear you whisper from a room away!”
“That is stupid,” Felix mutters.
“You didn’t say that when Emmy heard you swearing at your stupide game all the way from my bedroom!” Her head swings my way as though struck by a thought. “Women can also have babies, Primrose, yes? Men can’t do that.”
“Women can have babies.” I leave the explanation there. The depth and breadth of this biological minefield is way above my pay grade. But I do find myself wondering just how many different women Sylvie has had in her life so far. Nannies, chefs, housekeepers, maybe doctors, and other staff.
“Women can do a lot of things.” She gives a pause as a tiny frown mars her cute little face.
“But I think I would rather have a beard than a baby,” she announces.
“Because you can grow a beard for a little while,” she says, flicking her bed-messy braid over her shoulder.
“And if you don’t like it, you can make it go away.
You can’t do that with a baby.” She looks my way, the apparent voice of authority.
“Er, that’s right,” I say, taking a sip of my juice.
“Babies are a lot more work than bristles,” Zoe puts in.
“Papa’s bristles tickle my cheek when he kisses me.”
Can relate, I think with a little cough, though I manage not to choke on my juice. And because this morning isn’t enough already, this is the precise moment their father walks into the kitchen. FML. M. LDH.
“Papa!”
“Bonjour, ma famille.”
Don’t look—don’t look. But, of course, I do.
His hair is a shower-fresh tousled mess, and his shirt impossibly white against his tan, sleeves rolled like he knows to show the good stuff. Wrists. Veins. Fingers that know how to play my body like a well-tuned instrument.
Immediately, my pulse forgets how to behave.
He has the audacity to look extremely well-rested as he presses his lips to Sylvie’s downy head, repeating the action with a bristling Felix.
“Papa,” he complains.
“It’s the law,” Sylvie pipes up, holding up three fingers. “Parents must kiss their children at least three kisses a day.”
“Don’t say stupid things,” Felix retorts.
“When you stop looking stupid,” she snipes back.
“It’s too early to be arguing,” their father says magnanimously from the far side of the island.
“We started much earlier than this,” Sylvie reasons in French before turning my way and barely pausing for breath as she switches language. “Primrose, what is that on your neck?”
Her father feigns interest in the fruit platter as my stomach takes a sudden dive. But I don’t immediately answer as Zoe catches my attention, mouthing something from the other side of the island as she points at her neck.