“This is an opportunity, not your whole career. I am your Sabine Montrechet, and I assure you she was merciless with me. Now, tell me your ambitions.”
“I want to earn enough money from my writing—”
But he shakes his head. “Not what you told me over dinner. Something more. Something that resonates with you.”
I can’t think while he’s holding my hands and I feel claustrophobic. When are we going to get out of this tunnel? “Can I drink my coffee?”
“When you tell me what you want.”
I want to drink my coffee. That’s all I know I want, can’t you see? “Stop being so pushy, will you? You’re as bad as Mona.”
Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Oh? Do I tease? Do I roll my eyes at you? Have I ever laughed at you or made you feel silly?”
“Well, you’re very demanding.”
“I told you I was.”
He did, didn’t he? But he was also on his best behavior in the garden and over dinner, it seems, because he was nothing like this. I haven’t signed the contract yet as he told me it won’t be ready for a few days, but I’m tempted right now to tell him where he can shove it.
If you ever make me feel silly or foolish I will make you sorry, I think at him, my eyes narrowed. Then I take a deep breath and try to answer the question. What do I want? Or what do I not want? That might be easier. I don’t want to feel that I’m forcing myself to be something I’m not. That was the problem with Adam, I think.
“I want to be honest with myself.”
That sounds vague and I expect it won’t satisfy him, but to my surprise he releases my hands. “Good. I like it.” Settling back with his coffee, he asks, “What is being honest with yourself?”
If I knew the answer to that don’t you think I would be doing it? Because it’s easier than talking about my feelings, I say, “I wrote a story. My own story. For a magazine.” I wrote it weeks ago. If I don’t open up the file and look at it again it might not be terrible. It’s safer where it is so I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.
He smiles like he’s delighted. I’ve seen him smile many times during curtain calls and in publicity shots, but nothing compares to the real thing, up close. “Wonderful. Have you sent it in?”
I hesitate. “The deadline’s tomorrow at five.”
The smile dims, and he looks suspicious. “You weren’t going to send it in, were you? You thought that now you had this job you didn’t need to. I will not be your excuse, Evie. Are you going to send it in before the deadline?”
Drat the man. I did think that yesterday, and I was glad. Well, what could be the harm in sending it in? It will be a step toward something, even if I don’t know what that something is. “I suppose.”
He puts down his coffee and speaks slowly. The emerald glimmer is bright in his eyes. “Not suppose. Promise me.”
“I’m going to put in the book how much of a bully you are, you know.”
“Say, I promise, Frederic.”
“I promise, Frederic. There, are you happy?” I hope Sabine Montrechet drove you up the wall when she was your mentor.
He smiles at me like he is happy. “Good girl. I am.”
* * *
The morning dawns clear and warm and I push the casement windows open in my bedroom and lean out into the day. Paris. No university. No family. Just me, some very well paid work and a beautiful and exciting place to explore.
My room’s small and simple, with white linen sheets on the bed and a thin, very soft gray blanket lying over the comforter. It’s too hot for anything but sheets, though. There’s no more air-conditioning in France than there is in Britain. My handful of sundresses are hanging in the closet and I’ve put all my socks and underwear, T-shirts and shorts into the drawers. My toothbrush is sitting by the ensuite sink.
Frederic’s not there when I pad out to the kitchen at half past nine, but he’s left me a note. At the studio all day. Call me if you need anything. Home by six. F.
I make a pot of tea and drink a mug by the window. Frederic’s large, airy flat is in a district called Le Marais on the right bank of the Seine. It’s an old part of the city, with narrow cobbled streets and eighteenth-century terraces.
When he gave me the tour of the flat yesterday afternoon he concluded with “And you can just see the Cathédrale Notre-Dame from that window.” It’s the window I’m standing in front of now. I can see the two tall, square towers of the cathedral and I’m reminded of Frollo and Esmeralda.
The day is too lovely to be shut up in the study he’s given me so I get my laptop and work at the dining-room table. It stands in an impressive living space filled with natural light. There’s a baby grand piano in front of the windows, gleaming darkly, with the sofas arranged in a sunken space below. On the other side of the long room is the kitchen, which seems perfectly functional but unused.