Primrose
In my reflection, my black cocktail dress lies across the bed behind me. Do I wear it or not? Not that I plan on turning up naked, curling my bare leg around the door frame as I purr, I’m ready for my close-up, Monsieur du Beaumont.
Not that he can get any closer to me than he did in the herb garden this afternoon. Unless he’s going to crawl under my skin. I put my hand to my cheek, my eyes burning bright as I will myself to concentrate on the matter at hand. But it’s no good. My mind keeps turning back.
Tell me you need me.
I swear I’m the one who might never recover.
The intensity in his expression. The way he closed his eyes, like he thought I saw too much. The silly exchanges and laughter. The way he made me feel utterly treasured.
It was an experience like no other.
Is it any wonder I couldn’t hold back? The man turns my resolve to Silly String.
But back to my little black dress. Will it make me look like a try-hard or a sophisticated woman?
It’s not like we’re going out to dinner or anything—no wine, dine, and sixty-nine for me.
Just as well, I think, pressing my hand to my stomach.
I’m too nervous to ingest anything. Nervous with anticipation, and because of how intense this afternoon was.
My phone bings with a text. I move to the nightstand, where it should be on charge. But it’s not.
ZOE: I am still salty.
I smile. While I hate that I can’t tell her the truth, Zoe going scorched earth on my behalf is quite touching. She’d get on well with Lavender, I think as I type out a small row of heart emoji.
Her response is immediate.
ZOE: His main character syndrome is legit unhinged. Does he think the sun needs his permission to set?
ME: I just keep telling myself he signs my paycheck.
I end my text with a shrug emoji as I think, another fib. This is something I actively choose not to think about.
ZOE: You’re too nice, and I’m too feral. But we will drink wine and scream at the moon together sometime soon.
ME: Sounds like a plan.
And… my phone goes flat in my hand.
Ah, well.
Zoe was very curious as to why it had taken me so long to pluck a little rosemary this afternoon.
Good thing the kids were there as it prevented her coming to find me.
But I explained (read: lied) that one of the gardeners had turned up, and that I thought he said the rosemary I was cutting was no good, and that he’d find a better selection and take it to the kitchen himself.
But obviously, his limited English and my non-existent Spanish meant that something got lost in translation.
And then the boss sent me on an errand to find Maria, which was a whole other thing and so… yep.
I’m not sure if she bought it, but if she has theories, they don’t include Luc. When he’d surfaced later, freshly showered and all gorgeously damp hair, she treated him as she would normally, with the exception of a little stink eye when no one but me was looking.
As for me, I couldn’t look at him. Not without wriggling in my seat. Or sighing like a love-sick, I mean, lust-sick idiot.
When he’d taken my hand earlier, I’d let the realization wash over me.
This was it—the moment. Finally. And I keep remembering it in snapshots.
The crunch of his boots over gravel that seemed in step with the beat of my heart.
The taut set of his jaw set as he’d turned me and set me back against that clay wall.
The breeze that had ruffled through his hair, and how the sun had burst through the branches above, shining down on him like a blessing, though his expression was so dark and intense.
There was a moment his when his nostrils had flared, and he’d looked almost canine.
And like he was angry—angry with himself, maybe.
But then he touched me, and the moment had changed.
I shake my head. Reminiscing isn’t going to help me choose what to wear, and I have to wear something… even if only initially.
I wonder if we’ll end up in his bed or mine tonight.
I scan the room at that thought, then I remember I’m not living at home. The maid service is very efficient, so there are no stray socks, coffee cups, or undies littering the place.
Back to the matter in hand. My LBD dress or something more casual? Is it nerves making me so indecisive? It already took me twenty minutes to debate between black lace or cream satin for the bra and knicker set.
I glance at the clock and see it’s already ten past six. My stomach flips. Luc told me, not suggested, to be ready for seven.
Will I ever really be ready?
Fifty minutes and counting—three thousand seconds between now and the moment I see him again. The start of the night of my life. Unless anticipation can actually make a person spontaneously combust.
Still in my underwear—the cream satin that’s almost glass-like—I retrieve my earrings from a dish before finagling them into the tiny holes. No smutty internal commentary, please. We’ve already discovered we fit beautifully. My insides throb with the thought.
I turn back to the mirror, almost surprised to find myself staring back.
Maybe because I feel altered somehow. I put on lipstick, then blot.
Then consider wiping it off for obvious reasons.
But the thought sends a rush of heat through me as I imagine myself leaving lipstick rings on a certain part of his anatomy.
“Oh, grow up, Primrose.”
My reflection remains flushed and unrepentant.
I brush my hair until it shines, then muss it slightly, just because: try hard.
I’m being ridiculous, I know, selecting and abandoning clothes according to how Luc might view, touch, or remove them.
But it’s not just about him, and the woman staring back at me in the mirror is well aware of that.
She wears silken underwear and perfume because she understands anticipation is part of the thrill.
She’s bold and a little reckless, and she doesn’t wonder if she’ll need a cardigan tonight.
I feel somewhat changed, the girl who was told she was frigid. The woman who grew to trust it was true. The doctor who could discuss the intimate functions of the human body but couldn’t trust herself to tell a man what she needed. The lover who now has some understanding of her own power.
“You’ve brought spring to places that I thought were stuck in winter.”
Those treasured truths he spills in French. It’s in French he gives himself away. With his mouth against my skin, he whispers the tender, desperate things he can’t bring himself to say.
It’s a spell I won’t break.
At ten past seven, because it doesn’t do to look too eager, I leave my room to make my way down the grand staircase in something other than my little black dress.
I picked out this blue summer number imagining myself wearing it in Paris.
It’s girly and flirty with ties at the shoulders and a frill at the short hem.
It’s the kind of dress you should avoid on a breezy day.
Cartwheels and twirling in circles are also a bad idea.
Unless the plan is to flash your knickers, I suppose.
Down the staircase I go, serene and sedate on the outside while, internally, it feels like my organs have turned part jumping beans.
I’m barely a quarter of the way down when quite suddenly and very clearly, the sound of a woman’s laughter drifts up through the hall.
My hand tightens on the banister, and while Luc’s answering murmur is too quiet to catch, it’s warm enough to make my next step trepidatious.
I spot them, framed by the entrance to the great room, slightly obscured by the chandelier. Luc is dressed for the sultry Spanish evening in pale pants and a dark shirt, his back to me. There’s a Chanel handbag abandoned on a nearby chair that perfectly matches the woman wrapped around him.
Wrapped. Around. Him.
This isn’t a hug between friends or a platonic embrace.
Her arms are looped about his neck, her body pressed close, one elegantly manicured hand buried in the thick of his hair.
Meanwhile, Luc’s arms circle her waist with such familiarity that I get the insane and intense desire to snap them off from his shoulder socket.
She draws her head back, and I get a good look at her.
She’s beautiful. And smiling—mouth and eyes.
Her chestnut-colored hair is perfectly styled, her makeup flawless and her posture poised.
She laughs, then tucks her face against his cheek.
And there is no way to misinterpret the sight of him bending his head close as his lips glance her hairline.
My heart thuds to the base of my stomach as she pulls just far enough away to cradle his face between her hands.
“You look exhausted,” she says softly, her accent marking her as Parisienne.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” Her thumb passes over his cheek with such practiced affection. “You should have called me.”
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“That doesn’t matter, Luc.” Her expression softens. “For you? I will always come.”
Something small and fragile cracks behind my ribs.
I’ve no idea what’s going on. Why she’s touching him with the confidence of someone who’s no stranger to him.
Why his arms are looped around her waist or why she’s looking at him as though she adores him.
But I do know she looks like she belongs.
In this gleaming hall, and in his arms. In the parts of his life I know nothing of.
She looks like she knows him. Meanwhile, I know fuck all. I’m a summer diversion.
“I’ve missed you,” she says affectionately.
“I’ve missed you too.” His tone speaks of sentiment.
“You can’t keep shutting me out. Not after everything we’ve been through.”
“Life is… complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Oh fuck. An optimist. I think I must snort as she glances toward the staircase.
I step backwards, my heel striking the edge of the stair. The tiny sound seems deafening, but Luc doesn’t call my name. He’s too occupied with the woman whose familiar hands touch him.