heerful voice grounds me, even this far from Oxford, as being home, and I feel another stab of wistfulness for Paris.
“Well, bon-jaw mad-ma-zelle. Are you in England yet? Are you nice and plump from eating croissants every day?”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Yes, I could barely get onto the train. We’re going through Kent now. How’s Oxford?”
“So boring. Did you remember that it’s Lisbet’s birthday tomorrow?”
“Yes.” No. Crap, I’m a terrible sister.
“We’re having a party for her. Afternoon tea. Can you make it?”
I want to say no, because I intended to be naked with Frederic all afternoon tomorrow as it’s our last full day together for a while. But that would be too cruel to little Betty-bun, who always complains that she gets forgotten because she’s so much younger than the rest of us. “Of course, I’ll be there just after lunch.” I’ll have to buy her a present this evening or first thing before I get on the train. Frederic’s flat isn’t far from Bond Street.
Lisbet’s voice pipes up, as if she’s grabbed the phone from Mona. “Can you bring Frederic? Will Frederic come, too?”
He’s overheard and nods, and then gives me a look that says, If you want me to, that is?
Frederic around my family. Me around Frederic around my family. Oh, hell. I’d rather they didn’t know we were involved seeing as it’s a short-term thing. I’m sure parents are squeamish about their children having short-term relationships as it means you practically have a sign taped to your forehead that says, We’re fucking!
But all the same, having Frederic at the party with me, Frederic wanting to come, makes me want to dance in my seat with happiness. I put my hand over the receiver and whisper to him, “That’s so lovely of you, but don’t you have things to do?”
He smiles and caresses the back of my neck. “Not so many things that I can’t sit in a garden with you and watch you eat shortcake in a pretty dress.”
I practically purr under his touch. He always says the most perfect things. Lisbet, I’ll fight you over who has the bigger crush. She’ll be beside herself that he comes to her birthday and I mouth thank you to him.
“I’ll be there,” he calls when I take my hand away from the receiver, and Lisbet squeals with happiness.
“Mona? Yes, we’re both coming. See you then.”
I hang up, and notice an older couple watching us from the other end of the carriage. I can tell they’re British from their solid, tweedy appearance. As Frederic turns back to his newspaper I notice the woman frowning, looking between Frederic and me. He’s too old for you is written all over her face.
I scowl at the woman. Oh, piss off.
Frederic has rented a residence in the West End near Soho Square Gardens and we take a cab there from St. Pancras, the black hackney carriage wending its way south through the streets of Fitzrovia. The Georgian town house stands between a redbrick Victorian church and a 1950s office building. As we enter the town house’s foyer, with its tessellated tile floor and ornate brass chandelier, I’m reminded of the novels of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, and the well-heeled families who would take such a residence as this for the London season. As it’s just Frederic and me, though, and not an entire family with a full complement of servants, he’s rented a flat on the third floor, not the whole place.
It’s a modern space, like his home in Paris, but with the high ceilings and brass fixtures of a much older, grander building. There is, of course, a piano, and as he passes it on the way to the bedroom with my suitcase his fingers lovingly caress the keys.
I stand by the window fiddling with the pendant on my necklace, zipping it back and forth on the chain. The buildings are familiar, but I feel like I don’t recognize them.
A few minutes later Frederic comes up behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking.” He waits for me to collect my thoughts. “This is London, my London that I know quite well. But it feels different being here with you. As if I’m in another dimension. Though I quite like the feeling.”
“You’ve been away for several weeks. Sometimes it can feel strange, coming home. Or you’re right and it is a parallel dimension.” He smiles and kisses my neck. “In this dimension are you my sweet little girl?”
I turn in his arms and wrap mine around his neck. “Alw—of course, daddy.” I’d been about to say always. He kisses me, his hands finding the zipper on the side of my dress, sliding it down and making my body sing, but there’s a small, regretful part of me that wishes we were still in Paris, where it was easier for me to pretend I am his, always.
There’s a production of The Phantom of the Opera in London and the next morning we go there to buy Lisbet’s birthday present seeing as she’s grown so enamored of the show. I was just going to purchase some souvenirs for her in the burgundy carpeted lobby, but then Frederic suggests we get her tickets to see the show as well.
“You could bring her up to London with you one week soon and she can stay with us overnight in the flat.”
I grin at him. “She’d love that, but don’t be surprised if she goes on and on about how your Phantom is a much better Phantom, because I think she’s been watching your production to death.”
There are a group of middle-aged women ahead of us in the queue at the box office. Pricking up her ears at what I just said, one of them looks over her shoulder and does a double take at Frederic. Then she turns quickly to one of her friends and I hear her whisper, “The American production, Frederic something, isn’t it? French name.”
“Frederic d’Estang,” I say to her, making her jump, and Frederic, who hasn’t noticed any of this, turns toward me curiously. “Yes, it is him. He’s playing Rochester in Jane Eyre, opening in just a few weeks' time. Make sure you all come. It’s going to be wonderful.”
Frederic gives the women a polite nod and they all give him the glazed smiles of those dazzled by celebrity, and assure me that they certainly will come to Jane Eyre.