Soft Limits Page 13

  I swallow a sigh. Though I was angry and hurt at the time, I understand now how hard it was for her to have me absent for months at a time. I used to ask her to come with me to Montreal or Moscow while I performed in shows but she always refused. Marion preferred her own space, her own things around her. It annoyed me, this stubbornness of hers, and when we finally broke up she tearfully told me that yes, she did prefer to be at home, but that I had never really meant it when I said I wanted her to go on tour with me. That I had never tried very hard to share my career with her, and all my hopes, my aspirations, and especially my doubts. I kept those to myself.

  I was stunned at the time and angrily refuted it, but with a little distance I think maybe she was right. She wasn’t creative herself, so perhaps deep down I felt like she wouldn’t understand. Mainly, though, I think I was worried that if I confided my doubts and insecurities to her she’d realize I was fallible. I didn’t know until recently that that’s what I wanted to be in her eyes, but she knew. Oh, she knew.

  But there’s no point dwelling on it. I’ll always love her, so it makes me happy that she’s now with someone who can be there properly for her. I’ve met her fiancé and he’s a good man. A physiotherapist.

  I glance down at Evie and she’s smiling, a warm, blissed-out smile. Good. I don’t want her to be tangled up in painful memories like I am right now. I want her to enjoy her afterglow and the fact that she’s happy, not crying and ashamed. I notice that she’s nibbling on the edge of her forefinger, her eyes still closed. On impulse I say, “Put your finger in your mouth, baby.” And to my surprise she does, her pretty lips move rhythmically as she sucks it. Mon Dieu, she’s fucking cute. I could watch her do that all day. She’s a lot younger than the subs I’m usually attracted to, and I don’t just mean her age. She acts younger, when she’s happy at least, and she smiles at all the things I say to her after she’s come. Little girl. Let daddy take care of you. You just sit in my lap and be pretty. It’s adorable and it makes my dick hard at the same time. The thought of her crying while she sucks her finger or her thumb as I fuck her makes my balls tighten.

  You’ve got the nastiest tastes, Frederic, I tell myself, watching her and smiling. But then, you always knew that. How wonderful it is that she likes your sweet cruelty, too.

  In the warm silence, I come to a decision. I will keep Evie close to me and safe until I have to say goodbye. It will be hard, letting her go, but she’ll leave me with a smile on her face. I’ll become a distant memory to her as the years pass, but she’ll continue to blossom long after everything has ended for me.

  She’ll be fucking beautiful, whatever she becomes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Evie

  But I don’t want to go home. I glare at the Eurostar carriages that line the platform at Gare du Nord. The weeks in Paris have evaporated into nothing in the summer haze and now it’s time to return to England, the new university year, and for Frederic to begin rehearsals. I feel like throwing my handbag to the ground and having a good cry. Reality. It sucks.

  In Paris I’ve been untroubled, joyous, existing entirely on kinky sex and good food and work. Who will I be once I return home? What if food tastes different and I can’t concentrate enough to write, or—horror—sex with Frederic becomes bland and stilted? What if I can’t slip into that blissful, childlike state after, where I feel small and cherished and cared for? Or he doesn’t tell me to suck my finger and be a good baby and all the rest of the weird, kinky things he says and does that I just eat up?

  Frederic notices the look on my face as I glare at the train and hooks me into his side with his free arm. “What’s that pout for? Am I going to have to spend as much effort persuading you to go home as it took getting you here?”

  He did have to persuade me, didn’t he, when I’d made up my mind so firmly not to go to Paris. I don’t want to be petulant about going back to England but I really do feel dreadful. Pushing my face into his shoulder I mutter, “Yes.”

  “I know,” he murmurs into my hair, kissing the top of my head and wrapping his arms around me. “It’s been wonderful having you all to myself. I’ll miss Paris, too.”

  A knot loosens in my chest hearing him say this, and because I don’t have to pretend with Frederic. He understands. Even so, going back to England is a reminder that time is passing, and I hate being reminded of that. At night I lie awake in Frederic’s bed while he sleeps next to me, playing “maybe.” Maybe we could have more time together if he gets another show in London. Maybe we could commute back and forth between London and Paris to see each other every other weekend. Maybe he’ll fall in love with London and want to stay.

  I’ve even found myself imagining impossibilities. Maybe if I was older he’d see me as more than a short-term thing. I don’t feel the eighteen-year age gap between us when we’re alone together. It’s easy to forget about it, lying in his arms and talking sweet nonsense. It’s easy to ignore in a city like Paris, too. Europeans keep their noses out of each other’s business and nobody looks twice at us on the street. But when my mind pushes down the avenues of what if, I imagine what my friends would think, what my parents might think. It would, as my mother says, raise eyebrows, me being with Frederic.

  But who cares what they think? What does Frederic think? No. That’s not it either. What do I think?

  I’m being ridiculous, that’s what I think. It’s just temporary, this relationship, so I need to stop thinking in crazy circles and just enjoy this time we have together. Besides, it’s ice cream for breakfast with Frederic, remember? This sort of relationship can’t last, not in the long term.

  I look up at Frederic and give him my bravest smile. As usual, being this close to him makes my heart flutter. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how beautiful his eyes are. “I’m all right. The end of summer, you know. Always makes me melancholy when the weather starts to turn.”

  He looks down at me for a long time, still holding me, hesitating as if he wants to say something. If we were in his flat right now he’d pull me onto his lap and kiss me and talk to me until I really was smiling, not just pretending. I wonder if the fact that he can’t do that here is what’s making him uncertain. “D’accord, petite fille. Let’s go and find our seats.”

  “Can I have the window again?”

  Grinning, he kisses me. “Of course you can.”

  As the train pulls out of Gare du Nord I mentally catalogue the coming weeks. Once university opens, Frederic and I have worked out that we can spend Wednesdays to Sundays together in London, and while he’s rehearsing during the day I’ll be able to work on the book, grade student essays and pick at my thesis. It’s reached that irritating, why-did-I-even-choose-this-stupid-topic stage so I need to pull back and rough out a plan of attack to reinspire myself. Frederic’s biography is slowly coming together and I have about a third of it written and some good notes for the rest.

  I’ve even reworked and sent my short story to a different magazine, telling Frederic about it after the fact. He was so thrilled that he composed a short song in its honor, inspired by the themes I’d written about. “But that’s amazing,” I tell him when he’s played the composition for me, a bright, elastic piece that fit perfectly with my story. “You compose as beautifully as you sing. You should do something with it.”

  He brushed off my words, his face closing. “Tinkering on the piano is like completing crossword puzzles. I just do it to pass the time.”

  I’m not so sure about that. I’ve never seen someone fill in seven-down in the passionate, focused way he scribbles all over his sheet music, and the compositions he’s been banging out on the ebony and ivory are as stormy as a Gothic novel. This is one of the few things that Frederic seems unwilling to talk about, though, so I leave it alone.

  We’ve emerged on the English side of the Channel Tunnel for only ten minutes when my phone rings. It’s Mona. Her c
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 weeksʼ 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.

  He gives me a wry look as we leave the theater. “Worried the show’s going to flop?”

  “No,” I say, planting a quick kiss on his lips. “Proud of you.”

  The train to Oxford departs Paddington at one p.m. and we rattle westward out of London, a shiny paper gift bag on my lap containing a Phantom mask, a program and a pair of stalls tickets for Lisbet and me in two weeksʼ time. Playing with the ribbons on the bag, I stare out the window, chewing my lip. I am proud of Frederic and I want to hold his hand and feel the warmth of his affection everywhere I go. But I also don’t want to field a dozen awkward questions from my family today. How did it happen? How do you feel about him? Where is it going? And, perhaps worst of all, You and Frederic? Really? Because it is improbable, Frederic and I being together. We don’t have much in common, not our backgrounds, not our ages and not our careers.

  Frederic notices my pensiveness and asks, “Penny for your thoughts, petite fille?”

  The train chugs out of Reading Station, sunlight drenching the platforms and the suburbs beyond. “My sisters and parents are going to figure out something’s up between us, aren’t they?”

  He muses on this a moment. “Yes, they probably will. Perhaps not today, as I was going to give you space, if you wanted it. But with you coming up to London every week for the next few months and staying with me they’re going to work it out. Does that worry you?”

  I hope he doesn’t think I’m embarrassed by him or anything, because I’m not. I’m so proud of him, to be with him, of the things he does. He’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. “It doesn’t worry me, exactly. I just don’t know how to say what we are to each other.” The words hang in the air, loaded with unspoken meaning. What it really sounds like is I don’t know what we are to each other.

  He answers
my unspoken question first. “We’re lovers, chérie. We care about each other. But I understand if you don’t want to say that to your family. If they’re tactful they’ll figure out the truth on their own and not ask you about it.”

  I give him an ironic look. “Tactful? You have met my sisters, you know.”

  “True. What would you like to tell them?”

  That I feel more for you than I have any other man I’ve ever met. That I crave you and desire you, but that I also want every happiness for you. When I think about you leaving London to begin another show in some far-flung country it’s bittersweet because I will miss you like a limb but be happy thinking of you treading the boards, strong, proud, talented, and where you’re meant to be. But, oh, how I shall grieve.

  I swallow this down and smile at him. “Well, I’m not going to call you daddy in front of them, that’s for sure, so I had better get it out of my system now.” I wrap my arms around his neck and whisper against his mouth, “Kiss me, daddy.” He does, a slow, tender kiss full of feeling, and just enough heat that means I’m flushed when he pulls away.

  We hold hands walking out of Oxford Station, and in the back of a cab. As the car pulls into my parentsʼ driveway Frederic gives me a quick kiss and we disengage, walking to the front door with two feet of space between us.

  Stepping into the hall is like being swallowed up by a hive of friendly, colorful bees. As well as my family there are half a dozen other girls Lisbet’s age, darting between the kitchen, lounge and back garden, and all their attending parents. Frederic and I are greeted by Mona and Therese with kisses and peppered with questions we don’t have time to answer as we’re shepherded through the house and out onto the lawn. Mum’s arranging plates of sandwiches and cakes on tables under the trees.