it?”
“I didn’t,” bursts out Sylvie. “I made it.”
“Made it? What do you mean?”
“I made the candle. As in, I melted the wax, mixed the fragrance, poured it. Remember the candle-wrapping class we did here? I was quizzing the instructor about how to do it. I wanted to make you a scented candle that you would really love. I know you love fig, and that perfume you love is tuberose, so I came up with this myself.” She forces herself to stop, sit back, for her voice is bubbling with excitement as she waits for her mother’s delight.
Clothilde stares at Sylvie, her initial confusion having given way to blankness. She dips her eyes back down to the candle. Saying nothing.
The smile slides off Sylvie’s face as she turns her head slightly to stare deliberately out the window, silently berating herself for trying to do something nice, for being so naive as to think she could do something to make her mother happy.
Picking the candle up, Clothilde smells it again. “It’s really very nice,” she murmurs. “It smells good and it’s pretty. Well done.”
Sylvie just stares. Is she hearing what she thinks she’s hearing?
“Dreadful name, though.” Clothilde stares at the label. “You can do much better. I was always very creative. I’m sure I can come up with something clever. You remember that advertising campaign for the soap? You know that was all me? We were at a dinner for the CEO of…”
As she talks, Sylvie drifts off, her mother’s compliments reverberating in her head, mixed in with the voice of Sally Field: She likes it. She really, really likes it.
She is brought back to earth with a bump.
“So where is that husband of yours?” Clothilde asks. “He hasn’t been to see me for far too long. I’m going to phone him and demand he come to see me.”
Sylvie, relieved Clothilde will deal with it directly, says nothing.
“Is he traveling again?”
“Yes. You know how it is. Always on the road.”
“Oh yes, I know how it is. A different town, no wife, no children, he’s out there having fun. You need to seduce him back home.”
Sylvie snorts. “Mom! Are you implying Mark’s out partying? With other women? Because that’s just ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? For a handsome, young, virile man like Mark? Men can’t survive without sex, and if he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from someone else.”
“We have a perfectly wonderful sex life, thank you.” Sylvie tries to laugh.
“I’m sure you do. But he’s not getting it from you enough, because he’s never with you. How much do you see him? A week a month? Don’t be stupid, Sylvie. You need to start making him want to be home.”
“It’s not a week a month,” Sylvie says furiously, mentally working it out in her head. Surely it’s not a week a month. It’s always roughly been two weeks a month, half here, half in the California office or on the road. But apart from his surprise visit this past weekend, he has been here less of late.
The palpitations start again. Could her mother be right?
Could her mother be right?
15
Sylvie
It has never occurred to Sylvie to check Mark’s e-mail. She is not, or has not been, insecure enough to feel she has to delve into her husband’s life. There have, of course, been occasions where she has called him, has heard a woman’s voice in the background, but as she well knows, half his colleagues are women. Part of his company’s policy is engendering a close team by constant, fun, extracurricular activies.
Has she, as her mother seems to think, been naive? Should she do the unthinkable and snoop? Terrifying, yet she is increasingly compelled to do so?
Her brain is firing. First with fear of the possibility being true, then a calmer voice talking her down, telling her how unlikely it is. This is Mark. This isn’t Bill. This isn’t a man who is flirtatious, a little too tactile with the women in the neighborhood, a touch too familiar when they’ve had a glass too
“I didn’t,” bursts out Sylvie. “I made it.”
“Made it? What do you mean?”
“I made the candle. As in, I melted the wax, mixed the fragrance, poured it. Remember the candle-wrapping class we did here? I was quizzing the instructor about how to do it. I wanted to make you a scented candle that you would really love. I know you love fig, and that perfume you love is tuberose, so I came up with this myself.” She forces herself to stop, sit back, for her voice is bubbling with excitement as she waits for her mother’s delight.
Clothilde stares at Sylvie, her initial confusion having given way to blankness. She dips her eyes back down to the candle. Saying nothing.
The smile slides off Sylvie’s face as she turns her head slightly to stare deliberately out the window, silently berating herself for trying to do something nice, for being so naive as to think she could do something to make her mother happy.
Picking the candle up, Clothilde smells it again. “It’s really very nice,” she murmurs. “It smells good and it’s pretty. Well done.”
Sylvie just stares. Is she hearing what she thinks she’s hearing?
“Dreadful name, though.” Clothilde stares at the label. “You can do much better. I was always very creative. I’m sure I can come up with something clever. You remember that advertising campaign for the soap? You know that was all me? We were at a dinner for the CEO of…”
As she talks, Sylvie drifts off, her mother’s compliments reverberating in her head, mixed in with the voice of Sally Field: She likes it. She really, really likes it.
She is brought back to earth with a bump.
“So where is that husband of yours?” Clothilde asks. “He hasn’t been to see me for far too long. I’m going to phone him and demand he come to see me.”
Sylvie, relieved Clothilde will deal with it directly, says nothing.
“Is he traveling again?”
“Yes. You know how it is. Always on the road.”
“Oh yes, I know how it is. A different town, no wife, no children, he’s out there having fun. You need to seduce him back home.”
Sylvie snorts. “Mom! Are you implying Mark’s out partying? With other women? Because that’s just ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? For a handsome, young, virile man like Mark? Men can’t survive without sex, and if he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from someone else.”
“We have a perfectly wonderful sex life, thank you.” Sylvie tries to laugh.
“I’m sure you do. But he’s not getting it from you enough, because he’s never with you. How much do you see him? A week a month? Don’t be stupid, Sylvie. You need to start making him want to be home.”
“It’s not a week a month,” Sylvie says furiously, mentally working it out in her head. Surely it’s not a week a month. It’s always roughly been two weeks a month, half here, half in the California office or on the road. But apart from his surprise visit this past weekend, he has been here less of late.
The palpitations start again. Could her mother be right?
Could her mother be right?
15
Sylvie
It has never occurred to Sylvie to check Mark’s e-mail. She is not, or has not been, insecure enough to feel she has to delve into her husband’s life. There have, of course, been occasions where she has called him, has heard a woman’s voice in the background, but as she well knows, half his colleagues are women. Part of his company’s policy is engendering a close team by constant, fun, extracurricular activies.
Has she, as her mother seems to think, been naive? Should she do the unthinkable and snoop? Terrifying, yet she is increasingly compelled to do so?
Her brain is firing. First with fear of the possibility being true, then a calmer voice talking her down, telling her how unlikely it is. This is Mark. This isn’t Bill. This isn’t a man who is flirtatious, a little too tactile with the women in the neighborhood, a touch too familiar when they’ve had a glass too
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