Madame Montrechet took Frederic on as her protégé, teaching him better technique and encouraging him to push himself. The young man she describes is so shy and self-doubting that I can hardly reconcile him with the man I’m getting to know.
I tell her what the directors said about him when he was in his early thirties, and she laughs. “Oh, yes, his ‘ead got a little big for his shoulders around that time. It was bound to ‘appen at some point. I gave him a good scolding when I heard, and he turned that sheepish smile on me like he was a boy of nineteen again and said he would do better. He has settled over the years, I am ‘appy to say.”
Trailing her pastry fork across her plate, she gives me an assessing glance and says, “You and Frederic. You are lovers?” There must be a look of blank shock on my face, as she laughs again. “Frederic and I were, you see, so I like to imagine that you are, too.”
Sabine is in her sixties and is encased in leopard-print chiffon. I can see that she would have been beautiful in her prime, but it’s hard to imagine shy, elfin Frederic, as he was then, romantically involved with such a boisterous character. “You, um, like to imagine?”
“Oui, there is a nice ‘armony to it.”
“That’s what Monsieur d’Estang said,” I mutter, and then when she smiles broadly at me, I say, “Oh, not about that, about you helping him and then him...” I trail off, embarrassed, because while we’re not lovers she seems to be able to tell that something has happened between us. Better to let her think we’ve just gone to bed together.
As I’m departing she asks, “Have you talked to Marion Prussard yet?”
Marion Prussard. Frederic’s ex-girlfriend. They were together for seven years and broke up last year. I’m dreading talking to her. It feels invasive, questioning her about a relationship that ended not long ago. “Not yet.”
“Si triste,” Madame Montrechet says. So sad. And she looks like she means it.
In between interviews I have a lot of transcribing to do. As the study can get hot I work mostly at the dining table. Frederic is at the studio every day and in the evenings he spends most of his time at the piano, working on a piece of music. He seems preoccupied by something, but I don’t feel like I can ask him about it as I’m prying into so much already.
Two nights after he spanked me and I sobbed all over his chest, Frederic presented me with the contract. I already had an email from my father approving it. I went over it twice. You’ve got very good terms and I’d sign it myself. Hope you’re having a good time. Dad.
Am I having a good time? The people I’ve been interviewing tell fascinating stories about the theater and about Frederic. I’ve already written several draft chapters, and while things between Frederic and I have been strained, we have moments of friendliness and laughter. I like the work. If I’m honest, the thought of seeing my name on a beautifully printed hardback book is alluring, too.
“If you’re sure,” Frederic said, passing me a pen once I’d finished reading the contract again. There was a meaningful look in his eyes: You can still back out, I won’t hold it against you.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not going to fall about crying at every little thing. I took the pen from him and signed it, almost angrily.
After days of non-stop interviewing and transcribing, I need a break. Taking out my earbuds, I close my laptop, wander over to the sofa and flop down. It’s nearly ten p.m.
Frederic’s at the piano, frowning down at his fingers as they ply the keys, sheet music spread over the glossy black lid. There’s something sexy about the way he plays. The concentration on his face, the movement of his hands, and the way he seems to use his whole body to create this wondrous sound. His words from the other day ring in my head. I wasn’t going to try and have sex with you. Not unless you asked me to.
Sex with Frederic. I wonder what it would be like to have someone like Frederic make love to you. Someone large and intense. Experienced. Who does unexpected things like spanking for foreplay. That wouldn’t ever in a thousand years have occurred to Adam to try. But if Frederic ever intended to take me to bed, he certainly doesn’t now. I suppose it’s better this way, as I’m here to do a job, not sleep with him. But my mind goes on presenting me with images of Frederic’s bare torso, one hand holding my wrists above my head as his thick—
I shift restlessly on the sofa. Great, now your underwear’s getting wet again. Pointlessly wet, because you cried and now he’s afraid to even make a loud noise around you in case you bawl. Even though he said I was a clever young woman who should be able to figure out why I cried, I can’t.
You could ask him what he meant and what you’re apparently not clever enough to work out on your own.
I look over at him, sitting at the piano, and think about bringing it up. Or you could hurl yourself out of the window, that’s also fun.
There’s a copy of Jane Eyre on the coffee table and I pick it up and open it. The first line greets me like an old friend. There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. Poor Jane, not even a walk to break the dreary monotony of Gateshead. I find myself sucked into the story, and curl up on the sofa and read on.
Frederic tinkers away on the piano, and as I reach Chapter two and Jane is being sent to the red room, a recurring motif in the music, bittersweet and mournful, pulls my attention away from the book. I lean my head back on the arm of the sofa, listening. When he pauses to make a note on the sheet music, I say, “That’s beautiful. Is it for the show?”
He looks up, eyes vague, and I realize he’s forgotten I’m here. “No. No, it’s something of mine, actually.”
I lift my head to look at him. “Oh? I didn’t know you composed.”
“I don’t, really. I, um...” He breaks off and gives me a lopsided smile. “What are you doing with that?”
I look where he’s looking, down at the cushion I’m hugging against my chest. “Oh, it’s just a habit I’ve always had. It’s comforting.”
Something seems to occur to him as he gets up from the piano and heads out of the room. He’s back a minute later carrying what looks like a doll, about a foot long and neat and pretty in a ruffled white gown. It is a doll, and as he places her into my hands I recognize her as Christine from Phantom. “Here, try her. She’s nicer than a cushion.”
I stroke the silken gown and long curls, and admire her embroidered face. “She’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t she? A lovely old lady from Pennsylvania presented her to me at the stage door when I was doing Phantom. She’s handmade. I don’t usually keep the presents I get from fans but this was too beautiful to throw away.”
Christine is squashy, like she’s filled with cotton wool. “But, Frederic, she’s a doll. I can’t sit here hugging a doll.”