“Yes, chérie?” There’s a hint of anxiety in her tone and I put a finger under her chin, coaxing her to look up at me.
She moistens her lips and says, “Thank you—not for this, exactly, but for everything. Getting me out of Oxford. I’ve been miserable for the last few months.”
Me too, I almost respond, but I tighten my jaw on the words. Evie doesn’t need to be filled up with my misery. She deserves lightness and happiness and pleasure. There are so many good things I can give her, so why spoil it with the bad.
When she spe
aks again her eyes are clear and soft and there’s a smile curving her lips. It’s the way she should always look. “But I feel happy now.”
“So do I, ma princesse.” And I kiss her, thinking that this is at least one truth I can give her.
Chapter Ten
Evie
Dear Evie,
You haven’t posted a single picture or status update online. What are you up to?? You’re meant to be making us all insanely jealous of your summer in Paris while we mooch around Mum and Dad’s house and pick stupid fights with each other. Have you been up the Eiffel Tower? How much cake have you eaten? What’s Frederic’s flat like? Is he making you work too hard, and is that why you’re not online? Therese has gone off with her boyfriend to Greece for a week and has posted a thousand pictures. This beach, that beach, calamari, ouzo. Sick-making.
Lisbet is reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and loves it, even the really boring chapters that go on and on about walls and windows. She seems to think it’s brilliant, though, and has watched Frederic in Phantom six times since you left. I reminded her that she was terrified of him when she saw him in Notre-Dame when she was little but she doesn’t remember that and thinks it’s impossible. She reminds me of you at her age. Send her a picture of the two of you, she’ll go into raptures of delight and jealousy.
And me? I’m bored and hot. I suppose I could take a trip with a friend but you know me, too lazy to organize anything. I’m going up to London tomorrow for an audition, so wish me luck.
Mona
I read Mona’s email over twice, trying to decide how guilty I should feel. She’s right, I haven’t posted anything or even texted her how I’m doing, and that’s not like me. We aren’t super close like we used to be when we were younger, but we do still talk. Looking out over the treetops toward the cathedral, I wonder why that is. I suppose I got tired of her finding the things I’m interested in boring and she became obsessed with being famous. Or maybe it was the problems I was having with Adam. It was so isolating, wondering if I was wired wrong or something, and never being brave enough to ask my friends or my sisters if they’d ever felt the way I did. It was easier just to fold in on myself and try to ignore it.
I look again at the computer screen. Now she’s emailed me I’ll have to write back, and what the hell am I going to say? You know how you thought Frederic and I were lovers just because we had dinner, and I told you all you were mad? Well, now we are lovers. My thirteen-year-old crush, my reason for masturbating the first time, he’s my lover and I call him daddy. Now there’s a perfectly ordinary English sentence.
How could I ever put into words how having Frederic as my dom feels? He holds out his arms to me and I step into his embrace with a smile on my face and a tingling between my legs—never unthinkingly, like I’d first imagined submitting would be, but with trust and desire and willingness. It’s just for Frederic. I couldn’t do this for anyone but him, and I wouldn’t want to.
There’s a silly grin on my face. Concentrate, I scold. Mona’s email, remember? At least it’s only an email and Mona hasn’t phoned me. It’s easier to fudge things in an email. Taking a deep breath, I hit Reply and start to type.
Dear Mona,
I’m sorry! Between Frederic’s book and finishing another one for a client I’ve barely had time for much sightseeing, or anything really. The weather is beautiful, very hot and clear, but I’ve mostly glimpsed it through the window while working at my laptop.
The people I have interviewed for the biography are so very chic and French. I’m bumbling about trying not to look too provincial. Frederic’s flat is swanky as anything and I bumble about in here, too, trying not to spill on the sofa or the rug.
Now, go and have a holiday somewhere! You can’t just lie about the house between auditions and waste the summer. Someone needs to humblebrag about their room upgrade online and show Therese up.
Good luck with the audition!
Love,
Evie
I read over the email then press Send, and feel my conscience prickling. I don’t like lying to Mona. Even though she gets up my nose sometimes she’s the sister I’ve always been closest to, and there’s only fourteen months between us. I wonder what a truthful letter to my sister would sound like? Having an amazing time. No time to write or take pictures because Frederic and I are lovers. Oh, Mona, when he looks at me and says minette or good girl I melt inside. He still hasn’t taken me to bed, though. He’s being so careful with me because he thinks I’ll bawl all over him (again!) but I won’t. I need him to fuck me. It’s all I can think about. Why won’t he? I’m so desperate for him my fingernails become claws just thinking about it, and I know he doesn’t like to be clawed. Well, anyway, must go, I need to slink into his lap and call him daddy and have him kiss me some more because it’s been at least an hour and I crave him like air.
I can just imagine the phone call I would get if I sent that. Maybe I’ll tell her the truth one day, after my five months with Frederic are up and I need someone to debrief with—after I’ve made her sign her name in blood that she’ll never tell anyone about us. And there’s no way I’m telling her I call him daddy. She’d laugh for days. It might actually kill her she’d laugh so much. I would laugh, if I was her. But I’m not her, I’m me, and calling Frederic daddy is the most delicious, debauched, decadent thing I’ve ever done and I love it.
After my five months with Frederic are up. I secretly looked up the production of Jane Eyre online and it closes January 25. Frederic will return to France and I’ll go back to the spring term. Oxford is very gray and dark in January. I wonder if my life will feel gray and dark, too, without his green eyes to brighten it and his hands mapping pleasure on my body.
But it’s nonsense, getting wistful over the end of an affair before it’s even properly begun. I look up to where Frederic is sitting at the piano. “I’ve just written the most awful pack of lies to my sister.”
“Minette, you bad girl,” he murmurs, marking a correction on his sheet music. “What have you been lying about?”
“I said I’ve been too busy to take photos of Paris and post them online.”