He picks up my skirt, folds it neatly and hands it to me. “Nothing better. Go and wash your face, I’ll wait here.”
Then he changes his mind and pulls me into a hug. After a second I hold him back, my cheek resting against his chest and my eyes closing. I’m not used to a man making me feel this way—so secure and cherished.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, minette,” he whispers into my hair, holding me tightly. “Stop worrying.”
As easy as that? Well, I could try perhaps. For him.
Chapter Six
Evie
There’s nothing wrong with you.
I splash cold water over my face and stare into the mirror, my chin dripping. Can it really be true? In Adam’s eyes, toward the end, I was all wrong. Even the way we broke up was my fault. Yeah, well, I’m sorry, Evie. I was starting to feel all fucked up and she doesn’t make me feel that way. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it’s just one of those things.
Wincing, I dry my face on a towel. One of those things, like a misdelivered letter or rain on a Saturday. Did he tell her about me? Was I part of their pillow talk? God, you’re so normal, Rachel. Evie’d be bawling about now. Speaking of, I’d better go meet her. Yeah, I’m going to break up with her. This week, I promise. He’d heaped humiliation on top of shame by telling me he’d been too afraid to break up with me because I was so “unstable,” so it wasn’t really cheating that he’d got involved with his best friend’s sister when he hadn’t finished with me. Mona had found me at the bottom of the garden, almost paralyzed from sobbing, but I couldn’t tell her why. Only that Adam and I had broken up. To this day she doesn’t know the real reason.
When I pull off my underwear I find it’s slick with arousal. What the hell? Frederic said he spanked me to discipline me, but he also said he’s done it at other times as foreplay. I recall how bright his green eyes were as he was counting down from ten. Despite his stern, for-your-own-good attitude I had the distinct impression he was enjoying himself. Did he enjoy it like that? And after I asked for more, was that still part of the punishment, or was that something else?
I bite my lip and I think about his strong arms, the feel of his hard torso against my ribs, my breasts. He’s very attractive, but more than that, I like the feel of him, the scent of him. My body likes his. I remember how his hands felt, caressing my behind, running a finger under the lace of my underwear. The satisfied rumble of his voice as he said, You’ve made this so easy for me. If I hadn’t started crying would I be in bed with Frederic right now?
I look back at myself in the mirror, expecting to be flooded with the familiar mortification over my tears. It doesn’t come. In fact, I feel lighter, almost cheerful, despite my puzzlement, like the tears have been a release.
Maybe I don’t need to be embarrassed, because Frederic’s older, had many lovers and has probably seen all sorts of strange behavior from women. Maybe I’m not even the weirdest. That would be nice.
Frowning at my reflection, I wonder, why did Adam make me feel so terrible for crying? Why couldn’t he have talked to me like Frederic just did and helped me figure out what was wrong?
I pull on a fresh pair of underwear and a different skirt and top, and walk back out to the lounge. Frederic’s waiting for me, and he looks up from his phone, smiling. He’s changed his shirt to one without tearstains, I notice, and I look away quickly. Even though he didn’t seem bothered by all the tears I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of me. But what about him? He acted even more bizarrely than I did, putting me over his knee. The way his hands ran over my skin, the way he seemed to relish the act. Is Frederic a bit kinky?
If he is, he’s showing no sign of it now as he tucks his phone into his pocket. “Are you sure you want to go out? I could get something delivered.”
Going out will be a distraction from all the strange heat and excitement and confusion that’s still spinning through me. “No, I want to go out. I’m fine, honestly.” Fine. Completely normal. Can barely feel the hot brand of your hand against my ass.
He takes me to a dark little bistro near the flat, with tiny tables and wine in tumblers. It smells heavenly and I find I’m ravenous. I order something called crêpes au sarrasin avec pétoncles, or buckwheat crepes with scallops, and devour them. Frederic watches me closely as I eat, asking if I have everything that I want and helpfully translating the dessert menu. His manner is respectful, without a hint of flirtation or suggestiveness. I wonder if he’s regretting what he did and is trying to be professional again.
As we walk back to the flat our conversation dwindles and awkwardness congeals between us. The awful, shameful feeling that I knew with Adam creeps back, and the more attentive Frederic is, the worse I feel. When we’re inside again he politely asks me if I have everything I need and I can’t bear it any longer. I mutter a yes and flee for my bedroom.
The street lamps are lit and I stand at the window in the dark and watch a skinny tortoiseshell cat wend its way up the street. I thought I’d left all these horrible feelings behind in Oxford but they’ve followed me over the Channel. It’s tempting to storm back out into the lounge and tell Frederic he’s a jerk for muddying our relationship with something sexual, and that I’m getting the next train home. He might not think it’s a big deal, getting involved with someone he’s working with, but I’m not used to it. Another part of me wants to pull off my underwear, go out there and tell him to finish what he started. I remember his rough hands on me, and the embarrassed but horny sensation I felt as I draped myself over his lap, waiting for the sting of his spanks. But even a
s I picture it I know I don’t have the guts to do anything of the sort.
Over the next few days I throw myself into the book. I like work. Work is cathartic. Work means not having to think about tears and sex.
The people whom Frederic has suggested I interview are mostly former co-stars, directors and producers and I call them to set up interviews. They’re pleasant enough on the phone, and all thankfully speak good or excellent English, but when I turn up on their doorstep with my notebook and questions they give me doubtful looks, as if they expected someone older. I ignore the looks and get to work, and they answer my questions just the same.
Most like Frederic, some wholeheartedly so, while others are more ambivalent. He seems to have been a tedious person to work with when he was in his early thirties. When I check the dates against his theater credits I see that he had just finished his first run as the Phantom in New York, where he was adored. I can imagine that went to his head and make a note to ask him about it when I interview him.
His colleagues conclude, practically to a person, “But he got over himself within a few years, and he really is very good, so.” And they follow this with a Gallic shrug or a flick of their cigarettes, and that is that.
One or two directors are less forgiving and say quite insulting things about Frederic’s interference with their intentions and his overbearing attitude. They cite a period around the Phantom run, too. When I read the quotes back to Frederic he roars with laughter and insists I put them in the book.
Some of the women I talk to give me suggestive smiles as I question them, and I guess that he had love affairs with them. Most tell me about their affairs, unasked. They don’t go into details about what he was like as a lover, which I’m grateful for, but they say things like, “He was very demanding. Très...régnant.” And then they smile even wider.
I look up régnant later. It means prevailing, ruling.
Finally it’s time for Sabine Montrechet, his mentor as a young man. She’s a glorious, blowsy rose of a woman and greets me enthusiastically at her front door. Leading me through to the lounge filled with sunshine and potted palms, she spreads cake and coffee and tiny glasses of pastis out on the coffee table. We sit and eat and talk, and she’s so happy to speak about Frederic in her heavily accented, throaty voice that I barely have to direct the conversation.
Nibbling a mille-feuille, she tells me, “‘E was such a sweet boy. Those curls. That shyness. And his voice! I met him at an audition for a part he did not get. How downcast he was, ready to give up. So young, and already so jaded. I 'ad to do something.”