Soft Limits Page 6

  Nibbling a mille-feuille, she tells me, “‘E was such a sweet boy. Those curls. That shyness. And his voice! I met him at an audition for a part he did not get. How downcast he was, ready to give up. So young, and already so jaded. I ʼad to do something.”

  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.”

  “Why not? Do you like her?”

  “I do,” I admit, hesitating. I didn’t bring my sewing with me because I wanted to be very mature and self-assured in his flat. I miss it, though. What’s it like living with the Phantom? I ask Christine’s sweet, pretty face. Does he confuse you as much as he confuses me?

  “Well, there you are. And she’s not much different to the ones you make. She’s just bigger.” He goes back to the piano and plays a few bars of “All I Ask of You,” looking at me from beneath his brows.

  “Silly,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. I contemplate Christine. I like her very much, but she reminds me so much of the sort of dolls little girls cart about with them and I want to put her down. But that would be rude. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I tuck her under my chin and wrap my arms around her.

  Frederic keeps playing the love song from Phantom, the b
right notes stringing out on the night air, and I feel a rush of emotion as I listen. Despite all the weirdness of the last few days I suddenly feel very comforted. I roll my head to the right, toward the piano. Frederic can be comforting, too, in his way. Comforting, and—

  I look away again because I can feel affection for him welling up. Thoughts of going to bed with him are bad enough. A crush would be disastrous. I spent several of my teenage years crushing on him from afar. It wouldn’t do to get silly about him all over again, especially when I have to be objective and write about him.

  I’m a grown woman, not a girl, I say to Christine as I pick up my book again and scan the page. Now, where were we?

  At eleven thirty I yawn and head off to bed. I’m tempted to take Christine with me but I have to draw the line somewhere. I’m not going to sleep with a doll, so I leave her propped up against the sofa cushions so she can listen to the music.

  Frederic’s still bent over the piano. He’s been playing the same three bars for the last forty minutes and he looks terribly annoyed. The sheet music is a mess of scribble and crossings-out.

  “Bonne nuit, Frederic.”

  “ʼNight,” he mutters, not looking up as I pass him.

  He’s still tinkering when I turn my light out and get into bed, the soft notes rising and falling in the darkness. He seems to have a breakthrough finally, and the completed refrain makes me smile as I drift off to sleep.

  When I wake in the morning and stretch, my elbow bumps against something soft. It’s Christine, and her hair is mussed and she’s warm as if I’ve hugged her close all night.

  Chapter Seven

  Frederic

  When I wake up my voice coach’s words of yesterday afternoon are ringing in my ears. Frederic, you’re being ridiculous. Why do you have to do these recordings and the show? Can’t you pick one or the other?

  Rolling my shoulders to work the tension out of them I stalk to the kitchen, which is cool and dim at this hour of the morning. Choose between recording all my most beloved songs, like I always thought I had time to do, and starring in a final show? She knows me better than that. It’s now or never, and I’m not a never sort of person.

  Giselle was pissed about that. Overusing your voice will make your disorder progress faster. You will grow hoarse, and your voice will deepen by an octave or more. Then there are complications like airway obstructions. You could choke.

  I waved off her scare tactics. I’ve read up about Reinke’s edema, a progressive, benign swelling of the vocal cords. Benign, but fucking disastrous if you’re a singer. There’s no medication and no cure and in time my voice will be toast. I don’t know how much time, no one does, but I’m betting on it holding out till the end of January, when Jane Eyre closes, and for now it is.

  Give me vocal exercises to help or just leave me alone, all right? Giselle gave me the exercises, but she brought up the surgery again.

  Over my dead body I’m getting the surgery now. It won’t cure the disorder, I’ll take months to recover, and if I’m admitted to hospital there’s a good chance it will get out that I’m damaged goods. Most days I feel like I’m racing against time, trying to squeeze as much out of my voice as I can while it’s still sharp, still has range, all the while knowing the more I use it the faster I will lose it.

  The recordings, Jane Eyre, and then I’m done. That’s not too much to ask, is it? All right, a compromise: I’ll take a day off. How’s that?

  Two days, Frederic, though I’d be happier if it was a week. I’ll see you on Wednesday.

  Alone in the studio after Giselle had gone I felt a pang of regret for being sharp with her. It’s distressing for her, as a coach, to see me going through this. But I will not be treated like an invalid by anyone.

  I look around the kitchen for something to do. It’s a quarter to nine, so I suppose I’ll cook breakfast. Evie’s still sleeping but she should be awake soon. I head for the fridge, wondering if I have eggs.

  Evie. I noticed that my agent’s daughter was very attractive from the moment I saw her lying in the road in front of my car, startled and embarrassed, that pretty pink mouth parted. And then what happened the other day when I spanked her made the beast stir. Hit me again. It’s not worked yet. Fucking hell. Just remembering her say those words makes me harden. I’d intended it to be an experiment into whether she liked a little submission in real life as well as on the page, but as well as uncovering the answer—a resounding yes—I uncovered a whole lot of unhappiness, too. What kind of prick was she dating to put her through such misery, again and again? How many times did he fuck her and just let her cry? I’m not a violent person but it would be a pleasure to find this man and punch him in the face.

  Now I don’t know what to do about Evie, because as much as I’d enjoy discovering how wet and flustered another spanking would get her, I don’t want to push her to inconsolable tears again.

  By the time she comes yawning out of her bedroom in her pj’s at nine thirty, clutching Christine in her arms, I’ve made a mess of counters with my clumsy cooking. She looks sleepy and cute in an oversized T-shirt with her feet bare. Every now and then I come across a submissive who likes to be babied and coddled a bit more than others, and I find it supremely satisfying to oblige. They tend to cry a bit more than others, too, and as long as it isn’t crying from actual misery I find it to be a huge fucking turn-on. Baby, you think I’ll be merciful if you shed a few tears? Go ahead, I’m just going to fuck you harder.

  She puts up a hand to muffle another yawn. “Morning. Not recording today?”

  “Day off,” I explain as she pulls up a stool and sits at the counter. “Oeufs en cocotte pour la petite mademoiselle et Christine?” There’s some hoarseness to my voice but I don’t know how noticeable it is to anyone but me. Evie doesn’t seem to mark it.

  “Oeufs. That means eggs, doesn’t it?” She surveys the mess of scattered parsley and eggshells on the countertop. “Good lord, Frederic, you’re using your fabulous kitchen.”

  In the evenings we’ve had food sent up from the local restaurants or Evie’s gone to the market to buy fish and vegetables, despite my protests that it’s not her job to feed us. But she says she likes to cook and it’s part of her Parisian adventure, and I hear her practicing phrases like deux filets under her breath as she heads out the door.

  “Café?” I ask, holding up the cafetière.

  “Oui. Blanc, or au lait or however you say it. It’s too early for French.” She points at Christine in her lap. “There was an interloper in my room last night.”

  I wonder if she’s annoyed with me. It was late when I got up from the piano and saw Christine lying on the sofa, and I took her into Evie without thinking. I just felt Evie needed her, and though she was fast asleep she cuddled right up to the doll as soon as I put her into her arms. It made my heart ache sweetly to see it. “She looked lonely on the sofa.”

  “Gentleman callers in my boudoir, Christine,” she says to the doll, but she’s smiling.

  I pass her a mug of milky coffee, the way she likes it, and ask, “What do you have planned for the day?”

  “Nothing planned, actually. I thought I’d take a break today. You?”

  She says this with a questioning lift of her eyebrows, and some of the anxiety I didn’t know I was carrying eases. We’ve spent an uneasy few days and I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to leave her alone so she can work. I got carried away when she was over my knee. She asked several times for me to continue, and I wasn’t brutal, though by then I had guessed she’d never experienced what she was asking for.

  But that was part of the enjoyment for you, wasn’t it? You couldn’t believe your luck when this sweet thing said she hadn’t had enough of you spanking her. Seeing a few tears on her pretty face and then kissing them away was such an arousing thought. Maybe even her saying, Oh, but Frederic, I feel s
o confused and turned on at the same time, what’s happening to me? But you misjudged things and actually upset her, you idiot.

  I’ll make it up to her, and I’ll leave her alone in that way. She’s had enough bad sexual experiences without me adding to them. Though I could make her feel good in ways she doesn’t know she needs. Think about that.

  No, don’t think about that. “Good, neither have I. Would you like to do some sightseeing with me, perhaps stroll along the Seine to the Eiffel Tower?”

  She smiles. “That would be perfect, yes please. Do I have time to shower and get ready before breakfast?”

  I check the oven timer. “If you’re quick.”

  Evie comes back just as the timer pings, looking fresh and happy in a sundress and plaiting her hair over one shoulder. There hasn’t been a woman in the flat for months, smiling and pretty and driving away my gloom, and I’ve found myself watching her as she nibbles on her lower lip while reading and sings show tunes under her breath as she cooks. A lot of them are songs that I have sung, and that I’m recording right now. I want to tell her about this project of mine, to record my very best version of these tracks, once and for all. This is my version of an autobiography. My way to say goodbye. But I’m afraid that if I tell Evie what I’m doing she’ll figure out all the things I don’t want anyone to know.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” I say, placing a plate and spoon before her.

  She exclaims over the little ramekin. “This is so cute! What is this oeufs thingy?”

  “Eggs baked in cream and cheese,” I say, watching her dip a toast soldier into the runny egg yolk and cream. The strap of the sundress she’s wearing is sliding off one shoulder and I find my eyes following the curve of her neck, remembering how she looked half-naked and draped across my lap—how embarrassed but eager she was for me to spank her. Keen but inexperienced, and just begging to be taken in hand.