Oh, here we go.
It’s cool and dark in the kitchen, the perfect place to quietly compose myself and try and get thoughts of Frederic putting rough, tender hands on me out of my head. But in march my sisters, as curious as cats.
“Well?” says Therese, propping herself against the counter and folding her arms.
“Well what?” I ask blankly, rinsing the jug clean.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Evie, we’re not stupid. Something happened between you and Frederic in Paris. You know, when you were staying with him. In his flat. The two of you are sneaking looks at each other like horny teenagers.”
A warm sensation fizzes through me. He’s been looking at me, too?
“You were too busy to write us emails the whole time you were there,” adds Mona. “Why? I don’t believe it was just because of the book.”
“Do we need more Pimms out there?” I ask, ignoring their questions. For something to do with my hands and to stop the silly smile from blooming on my face, I reach for the strawberries and start slicing them up.
Mona snorts. “God, you’re so transparent, Evie.” To Therese she says, “Well, they’ve definitely been sleeping together. The question is for how long.”
I’m grinning now, cutting cucumber into chunks as they debate back and forth.
“I reckon it was from that very first night, you know, when he was staying here and he took her out to dinner. I bet he was kissing her all over this house and we didn’t know it.” Therese is being deliberately goading, trying to get me to speak.
Mona wanders over to the chopping board and puts a strawberry in her mouth. She’s speaking to Therese but looking at me. “And the book contract Dad read over, did they make that up as an excuse to nick off to Paris together?”
I keep making up the Pimms and finally Mona turns to Therese and says, “Well, Prim Pimms isn’t telling us anything. Shall we go and ask Frederic?”
Therese grins. “Yes, let’s go and ask Frederic. Loudly.”
They turn toward the door and suddenly my nerve fails me. My sisters wouldn’t actually go out into the garden and ask Frederic in front of everyone if we’re sleeping together, but they would drop hints to him that they know something’s up and perhaps not be as subtle about as they think.
Besides, I’m sort of busting to tell them.
“Wait!” They turn to me, poised with expectation. I press the point of the knife into the board and say, “We’re, um, Frederic and I, um...” I don’t know how to express what we are so I settle for a stupid grin.
Their jaws drop. “Oh my god.”
“You’re not. We didn’t actually think... Do you mean dating, or...?” They stare at me, scandalized, and I hurry on, lest they start thinking it’s the affair of the century.
“It’s just a thing while the production happens. Then he’ll return to Paris or go off to Russia or New York or whatever for the next show.” I feel a pang saying it, and I remember with sympathy what Marion said. I thought it was time for Fred to slow down. He didn’t agree. It can’t have been fun for her, never knowing where he’d go next and when she’d see him again.
Therese and Mona exchange look
s, and Therese says, “Wow, okay. Do you think that’s a good idea? You’re not getting attached to him, are you?”
Their faces startle me. Isn’t this what they wanted to hear, that Frederic and I are having a fling? Isn’t it what they’d already guessed?
Mona throws up her hands. “Of course she’s getting attached. She’s been in love with him for ten years.” Turning to me, she says, “You shouldn’t get what you wish for. It’s dangerous.”
I frown and start on the cucumber again, angry now, the knife thudding on the board. “I have not been in love with Frederic for ten years. I had a crush ages and ages ago, and then I didn’t for ages, and now, well...it’s just different. He’s a person, not a crush. People are never what you imagine them to be.” He’s better. Much, much better. When I look at Frederic I don’t see Monsieur d’Estang, the mercurial stage performer. I see... Frederic. Sleepy morning Frederic, smiling at me with his black curls in disarray. Frederic making painstaking notes on his sheet music. Frederic eating ice cream under the Eiffel Tower and reciting lines from Jane Eyre. “We’re friends. It’s really nice.” But I sound defensive even to my own ears.
Mona, from her lofty advantage of the whole fourteen months she has over me, says, “Sex makes all these crazy bonding hormones rush through your body. You can get attached to the wrong person without meaning to.”
“I’m not attached,” I lie. “I’ve met some of the women who Frederic’s been involved with over the years. I interviewed them for the book. They all talk about him in the sweetest way.”
Therese folds her arms, an expression of catty disbelief on her face. “He’s cherry-picked the people who like him best, of course.”
My temper goes through the roof. “Frederic’s not like that. He doesn’t want a hagiography, he wants the book to be warts-and-all. I even met his ex-girlfriend. The worst thing she had to say about him was that he’s a workaholic. I don’t care. I admire his work ethic.”
They stare at me in silence and I realize I’m defending the wrong thing. They’re not questioning whether he’s a good person. They’re questioning the wisdom of me getting involved with an unavailable man.