she had: everyone who grows up without one does (whether they admit to it or not). She’d gathered from her mother that he was not exactly a knight in shining armour but on the rare occasions when Josephine had spoken of him, and never by name, she had seemed to feel more pity than anything else. All men were bastards, apparently, but Sophie’s father no more nor less than any other.
“You certainly couldn’t say he ruined my life,” Josephine had said more than once. “It was ruined already.”
Anyway, Sophie had been lurking around the shadowy corners of her new home (what a luxury, that thought) and surrounding vines for quite some time and was hungry for conversation when she spied Patric Didier driving up to the door. He was easy on the eye, the cooper’s son, a little younger than her perhaps, tall, fair, slim, with sparkling blue eyes and a slightly wicked grin. She felt it the moment she looked at him, that spark of possibility, that warmth that came with knowing his arms could soon be wrapped around her, his naked flesh against hers. Another home, perhaps, for a while.
Désespoir
Mathilde swatted the faded pink drapes at her window, watching while Sophie transformed into a soft-eyed Bambi for the lanky lout in the courtyard. Something about her younger sister pulled at her insides, adding to the anger that swirled there already. She reached for a Xanax, tossing it down with a mouthful of pastis, trying to drown out that feeling, whatever it was.
Down below she watched scathingly as Clementine emerged from the winery like an old crab, recoiling at the sight of Sophie and the boy, waving her pincers around madly in the air then heaving herself onto her bike. That silly fat creature with her ugly hair and frumpy clothes, thought Mathilde, her discomfort easing. Clementine was just so easy to loathe!
She stepped away from the window and slumped into the rickety wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room other than the bed and termite-ridden armoire. She kicked off her high heels, stared up at the water-logged ceiling and waited for the Xanax to start working its magic. Numbness. That was what she craved. What was taking it so long?
Her eyes wandered down the once pretty rosebud wallpaper to her suitcase sitting on the floor and next to it to her cell phone, its battery flat, its charger still in her case. Sheâd been keeping in vague contact with her office using her Blackberry but felt the importance of work drifting away from her. Sheâd thought it would be a struggle, letting work go, but it hadnât been, not at all. They could cope without her: that was what she had decided. And it was about time, too. She had mollycoddled the over-paid namby-pambies for far too long.
Home, though, that was a different matter. She had thought letting go of that would be a blessed relief and to some extent she had been right. Just twice she had called, both times when she knew no one would be there, and had left business-like messages saying there was much to be done at the House of Peine and she couldnât be spared in the circumstances, didnât know when she could be. Sheâd felt a surge of power after each of those phone calls but in its wake had been the beginnings of that nagging itch she couldnât quite understand. Wasnât this exactly what she had been dreaming of these past years? Wasnât this what she had been so desperate for?
Mathilde closed her eyes with an irritated sigh. She had imagined her escape so many times but until that call from Paillard it had seemed impossible. Thanks to him, though, or thanks to Olivierâs stupidity at the video store, she had actually been able to do what she had longed for all this time. She had found the perfect excuse. Remarkably, when it came down to it, she had been able to shrug off her old life as easily as an Armani coat.
Her eyes flickered spasmodically beneath her closed lids. She had done it, she had fled, she had
“You certainly couldn’t say he ruined my life,” Josephine had said more than once. “It was ruined already.”
Anyway, Sophie had been lurking around the shadowy corners of her new home (what a luxury, that thought) and surrounding vines for quite some time and was hungry for conversation when she spied Patric Didier driving up to the door. He was easy on the eye, the cooper’s son, a little younger than her perhaps, tall, fair, slim, with sparkling blue eyes and a slightly wicked grin. She felt it the moment she looked at him, that spark of possibility, that warmth that came with knowing his arms could soon be wrapped around her, his naked flesh against hers. Another home, perhaps, for a while.
Désespoir
Mathilde swatted the faded pink drapes at her window, watching while Sophie transformed into a soft-eyed Bambi for the lanky lout in the courtyard. Something about her younger sister pulled at her insides, adding to the anger that swirled there already. She reached for a Xanax, tossing it down with a mouthful of pastis, trying to drown out that feeling, whatever it was.
Down below she watched scathingly as Clementine emerged from the winery like an old crab, recoiling at the sight of Sophie and the boy, waving her pincers around madly in the air then heaving herself onto her bike. That silly fat creature with her ugly hair and frumpy clothes, thought Mathilde, her discomfort easing. Clementine was just so easy to loathe!
She stepped away from the window and slumped into the rickety wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room other than the bed and termite-ridden armoire. She kicked off her high heels, stared up at the water-logged ceiling and waited for the Xanax to start working its magic. Numbness. That was what she craved. What was taking it so long?
Her eyes wandered down the once pretty rosebud wallpaper to her suitcase sitting on the floor and next to it to her cell phone, its battery flat, its charger still in her case. Sheâd been keeping in vague contact with her office using her Blackberry but felt the importance of work drifting away from her. Sheâd thought it would be a struggle, letting work go, but it hadnât been, not at all. They could cope without her: that was what she had decided. And it was about time, too. She had mollycoddled the over-paid namby-pambies for far too long.
Home, though, that was a different matter. She had thought letting go of that would be a blessed relief and to some extent she had been right. Just twice she had called, both times when she knew no one would be there, and had left business-like messages saying there was much to be done at the House of Peine and she couldnât be spared in the circumstances, didnât know when she could be. Sheâd felt a surge of power after each of those phone calls but in its wake had been the beginnings of that nagging itch she couldnât quite understand. Wasnât this exactly what she had been dreaming of these past years? Wasnât this what she had been so desperate for?
Mathilde closed her eyes with an irritated sigh. She had imagined her escape so many times but until that call from Paillard it had seemed impossible. Thanks to him, though, or thanks to Olivierâs stupidity at the video store, she had actually been able to do what she had longed for all this time. She had found the perfect excuse. Remarkably, when it came down to it, she had been able to shrug off her old life as easily as an Armani coat.
Her eyes flickered spasmodically beneath her closed lids. She had done it, she had fled, she had
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