“Probably not.”
“Well, Nicola. I see you’re settling into life in the big city.” Mrs. Spencer gave a half smile. “Far cry from the French country, no?”
Madame Vileroy, who had no need to rise to this challenge, simply nodded.
“How are those daughters of yours? I hear Belle is dating our own Thomas Goodman-Brown.”
“Is she? I hardly keep track.”
“You don’t keep track of your own daughter?”
“Too much supervision is detrimental to a young woman’s development. I’m sure you know this.”
“Well, that’s not how I raise my daughter.”
“Perhaps if you let her have a bit of freedom . . .”
“To do what? Grow armpit hair and have sex with hooligans?”
“Hmm . . . No, but I understand that Thomas had asked her out first.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. Poor girl. So little experience. She let him slip right through her fingers.”
Mrs. Spencer let out a chortle. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Darling, I just think you should spend a bit more time on yourself. You look so very tired. And all this worrying and chasing after your daughter can’t be good for you. What she needs now is space. Lots of space to work out her own little high-school problems. You’ve taken care of the important things. She doesn’t date waiters now. She knows what she wants and how to get it. Any more attention from you and she will be a stifled, frustrated old maid all tied up in her mother’s skirts.”
Mrs. Spencer’s hand flew to her chest. “Well, I never!” she gasped.
“Oh, come on, darling,” said Madame Vileroy with a smirk, “we both know you have.”
Mrs. Spencer was shocked — partly from the fact that Madame Vileroy had the nerve to say such things, and partly from the image she had planted in her head. She was about to respond, but something about Nicola Vileroy made her stop, something about the way she looked at her, the bored and contemptuous look on her face that somehow still left room to desire her company. Something made Mrs. Spencer not want to retaliate. Instead, she cowered, said a quick good-bye, and ran off, holding Madame Vileroy’s words close to her, clinging to them tightly so that they could slither under her skin like microscopic bugs and corrupt and ruin her.
On Tuesday after the golf tournament, Belle took another painful bath. Madame Vileroy didn’t have many house rules. She could go out anytime she wanted. No curfew. No restrictions. That night, she was going out on a date with Thomas, who’d had to negotiate with his dad for an hour before he could get permission to go out on a weeknight. Thomas’s dad didn’t become the city’s top banker by losing negotiations to fifteen-year-olds. By the time it was over, Thomas had given up next summer to intern in his dad’s office, sat through a lecture on modern finance, and enrolled in a Japanese for Business class.
On her way out, Belle ran into Madame Vileroy, sitting in the center space of the house. “Be careful . . .” she said sweetly. “Don’t get too attached to the boy. And don’t forget Sunday.”
“Everything’s great with Thomas. He loves me.”
“No. He thinks you’re beautiful.”
“Right. Whatever.”
“But not really, since that’s not your face. He thinks I’m beautiful.”
“Yes, I know.” Belle was annoyed at the constant reminder.
Christian walked in with Bicé just in time to hear that. “Her own looks aren’t so bad. Belle and Bicé have a very nice-looking face.” Bicé smiled and patted Christian’s hand.
Madame Vileroy ignored her and said, “Maybe Christian’s on to something. How about we stop the treatments and see how Thomas likes the real Belle?”
Belle shuddered. She knew the others thought she was incredibly vain and that Bicé saw her reaction and was insulted, but she couldn’t help it. She needed Madame Vileroy. And she couldn’t give up now. Last time they were together, Thomas had stood so close. He had played with her hair and held her hand, as he always did. But why did he never try to kiss her? Could he still smell it? Was the bath not enough? Was he afraid to get close to her? He seemed to have passed all the usual phases. He seemed so addicted . . .
“You’re a good girl, Belle. You’ll bring him here next Sunday, and then we’ll all have a lovely time together.”
“OK,” Belle whispered.
“Don’t be so sad. The other girls don’t rely on what they’re born with either. They all have some tricks up their sleeves. Yours are just better.”
Belle walked out and slammed the door shut. She might as well enjoy this night with Thomas, because after Sunday, she wasn’t sure anything would be the same. Belle had spent the last two days feeling guilty, clinging to Thomas like a schoolgirl. She had stopped playing coy games because she’d realized that Thomas didn’t play games. He liked Belle, and sometimes Belle thought it wasn’t because of the baths. She had switched from irresistible to indifferent, hoping that the effect of her bath could be a mild one that they could overcome with something real between them. But she couldn’t keep him from acting paranoid and jumpy like the rest of her friends.
For her part, Belle did all she could to be close to Thomas, and to Madame Vileroy’s disgust, she was having a harder and harder time playing the vixen. At Marlowe, everyone knew that Thomas and Belle were together now. They loved to gossip about the beautiful new girl who had swooped in and stolen Thomas from right under Lucy Spencer’s nose. Lucy was in a state of denial, preferring to think of Belle as a flavor-of-the-month. She was focusing her hatred of the whole family on Victoria — for the time being.
Belle arrived at the SoHo bistro, where Thomas was already sitting at a table by a window. The days were getting longer now, and it was just beginning to get dark. Spring had always been Belle’s favorite time of year. But there was something about New York that made her like it a lot less than before. It wasn’t flowery and fresh and full of new things. It was more like the last dregs of winter. The melted yellow ice. The chilly air. But somehow, Thomas had managed to pick the one street that didn’t depress Belle. There were little pots of flowers in the windows. A couple of the shops had old-fashioned signs hanging off the awnings; one of them had a picture of a bird. The cafés and restaurants had a charm that made every meal feel like Sunday brunch. “This is a pretty restaurant,” Belle said as she looked around. She waved away a moth that was flying around her face as she sat down.
“I didn’t think Madame Vileroy would let you come out. She looks really strict.”
“Yeah . . .” Belle said vaguely. She blushed as Thomas reached for her hand.
“Well, anyway, she did let you come out. And she let you invite me over for dinner on Sunday,” said Thomas. Belle felt a giant lump in her throat. She took a drink of water and smiled faintly.
Thomas went on. “So what’s she like?” he asked, leaning forward as if she would tell him a secret.
“You know . . . just the typical governess.”
“Ah, yes of course . . . typical governess.” Thomas switched to a snooty British accent that was so right on, Belle remembered the way Victoria used to speak before losing her accent. “And your manservant? Is he typical?”
Belle laughed and made a face.
“You have a cute laugh,” said Thomas in his normal voice. Belle’s smile faded as she thought of Sunday again.
“Is this bug bothering you?” Thomas asked, waving his hand at a moth nearby. “Maybe we should move.”
“I’m OK,” she said, not wanting him to let go of her hand.
“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked, looking at her sad face.
“Oh, just Vileroy . . . It’s stupid. . . . I hate her.”
“I’m sorry. You said she adopted you, right?” Thomas said carefully. “I mean, you look a lot like her . . .”
“Yeah, we were . . . um . . . orphans. Madame Vileroy found us when we were babies.”
“What happened to your parents?” asked Thomas with obvious interest,
his eyes growing wider.
“We’re not sure. But could we talk about something else?”
“Sure.” Thomas couldn’t help but ask one more question. “But how can you all be the same age?”
Suddenly Belle noticed the nervous tapping of his feet, and her stomach dropped.
“Well, we’re not all really related. She adopted us . . . um . . . separately.” Just then, Belle got the urge to tell Thomas something true. “Bicé and I are twins.”
“No way! I thought Bicé was teasing when she said that at the play. She’s nothing like —”
Thomas caught himself because Belle looked a little insulted.
“We’re fraternal,” she said shortly.
“Yeah.” Thomas cleared his throat. “I just meant that . . . she looks different from you.”
“We have the same eyes,” Belle said.
“You know, I did notice that.”
“Really?” Belle asked, her face full of skepticism.
“Yeah, they’re my favorite part of you,” Thomas mumbled.
“Thanks,” Belle said slowly. Thomas had no idea that this was the first compliment he had actually paid to her. All the other compliments — they weren’t really for her.
For the rest of the night, Belle kept the conversation on Thomas, who could have talked for hours as he unconsciously played with Belle’s fingers. She barely interrupted him, for fear that he might stop. But as much as Belle wanted to avoid talking about her own family, Thomas mentioned Victoria.
“You know your sister’s really hard-core. She’s taking this debate tournament really seriously.”
Belle didn’t want to talk about the tournament. But she gave a small nod.
“I’m not worried.” Thomas smiled.
“Why’s that?” Belle asked playfully.
“Because . . . I have a secret weapon.”
Thomas sat up in his chair. He leaned in closer, though his chair was already pulled up next to hers. Suddenly the romantic tone in his voice was gone, and Thomas’s mind was elsewhere.
“The topic is intellectual property rights versus the right to life. Whether it’s ethical for small companies in India to reverse-engineer patented drugs and then sell them cheaply to patients that can’t afford the prices of the large drug companies.”
Belle was so taken off guard, she chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Thomas, letting go of her fingers. Oh man, Belle thought, her fingers suddenly feeling cold.
“Just that you’re so excited by such a boring topic! I barely understood half of what you said.”
“It’s not boring! It’s about life and death.”
“OK, sorry, go on. I’m all ears.”
“Well, my dad works in finance, right?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of him,” Belle said jokingly.
“He put me in touch with his friend who specializes in this type of law. He’s really well known. I got some great quotes and data from him on both sides of the issue. Some of his arguments are actually pretty new and impressive. So I’m in great shape.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because! Most people prepare for debate by clipping quotes from articles. Since those are public sources, anyone who’s up against me can just find the same sources and prepare the opposite case. But if I have private quotes and data, and if I make points that are not as obvious, it would be harder for them to tear down my arguments.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.”
Thomas beamed. “I’m trying to prepare like a real lawyer . . . for practice.”
“What do you mean, practice?”
“Don’t tell anyone. I mean, I haven’t told my dad yet, but I think I want to become a lawyer.”
“Doesn’t he want to you work with him in finance or something?”
“Yeah, he’s got his heart set on it. And maybe I will, eventually. But I want to do some human rights stuff first, like my dad’s friend Mr. Yamin does in Turkey. And I just want to find the right time to tell him.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“You’re actually a good person, aren’t you? Like, you actually care about all that stuff, and how your dad feels, and doing good for people.”
Thomas blushed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a saint.”
As the evening passed, Thomas and Belle grew more and more engrossed in their conversation. They moved on to other topics and hardly noticed the hours pass, the people leave the restaurant, even the bustling scene outside. Belle felt as if she had known Thomas for years — that she had loved him all her life. And still, after so many weeks, he made no attempt to kiss her. As the pair chatted, a moth circled the solitary candle on their table. Halfway through their conversation, as if summoned by an outside force, the moth rose up from the table, zigzagged in the air, and flew out the French doors.
Victoria was barely visible in the cloud of insects that circled her like a dust devil. She was no longer afraid of them. They were her friends now. Just as Madame Vileroy had predicted, they had become like family to her. More than family — they were her eyes and ears. Still, somehow, each time she visited them, their touch became harsher, more intrusive. Somehow, each time, the experience degenerated to something worse, so that it was always as scary as the first time. A few times, when Victoria looked up, she thought she saw other insects mingled with the moths. Was that a bee she saw? Were those flies? In any case, something felt a lot harsher than the soft feathery moths she had felt before. From the scratches on her face and neck, it was obvious that she had been waiting for hours, listening, but never getting enough.
At a glance, the scene surrounding Victoria might be familiar — like a perverse version of something ordinary. Standing there, in the cloud, with her arms in the air, eyes closed, twirling, she looked like a little girl dancing in a flurry of flower petals or a rain shower. She spun her arms, creating waves in the sea of insects. They moved with her, parting to make way yet never losing their enveloping hold on her body. At times, as she stood on her toes, it seemed as though they would lift her up and carry her around the room on their tiny wings. How pretty it would be if it weren’t quite so gray, so thick . . . so unsettling. It would be a beautiful sight, if it were possible to forget what it actually was.
Victoria’s mind was shut off. She was in a state of complete relaxation as she took in all that the moths had to say. She didn’t see the three tiny ones flying in through the window to join their millions of brothers and sisters. Like a drop of blue ink released into a cup of clean water, their information disseminated through the maze of insects in seconds. It rapidly made its way to Victoria’s open mind, along with dozens of other tidbits from all over the city. Just then, Victoria stopped twirling. Her moment of relaxation was gone; she was now paying careful attention. She stood upright, muscles tensed, mind alert, taking in all that her spies had to say. Belle was on a date with Thomas. Thomas had a secret weapon. Thomas had a resource that she didn’t know about. She listened carefully as the moths told her all that they knew from Thomas’s conversation with Belle. “Say more. Say more,” Victoria said out loud. But there was nothing else. Thomas hadn’t told Belle the actual content of his conversation with the patent lawyer.
Victoria stood on her tiptoes, tense as a rock, arms stretched behind her like the Winged Victory, straining to hear more. A few more hours showed her nothing. Thomas didn’t do any work on debate that night; he didn’t have any more conversations with his dad about debate; he didn’t even have his notes in plain sight. Victoria dropped to the floor, looking defeated. Stupid Belle and her ridiculous crush. None of the others have to work this hard. Belle doesn’t deserve so much of Vileroy’s attention for doing nothing. It’s OK, she thought. I’m still the favorite. I’ll get all the information I need out of Thomas on Sunday. The moths followed her to the ground. She got up, put her hands on her ears as if she was about to scream, and ran out of the room. The moths continued to circle one a
nother, creating a vortex where Victoria had stood a moment ago. The roar of their wings was deafening, and Victoria could still hear words flying back and forth as she ran down the hallway.
“Growing up in Edmond, did you ever think you’d be a rock star?”
“You know, I don’t actually remember much, but I couldn’t have imagined something like this . . . I mean, Rolling Stone, that’s a real — this is a real honor.”
“Thanks. What was it like starting out?”
“Awful. It was like, gig after gig, we were getting booed off stage . . . and sometimes there wasn’t even a stage! We played dumps.”
“What happened?”
“Inspiration, I guess. I met this chick. Our first three hits were about her actually —”
“‘Unmensch Wench,’ ‘You’re So Hot I’m Buyin’,’ and ‘Don’t Leave Me Addicted’?”
“Exactly! Yeah, those were all about this crazy time we had.”
“You did a lot of drugs together?”
“Didn’t need ’em.”
“But you said you can’t remember much.”
“Yeah, weirdest thing . . .”
“Says here you used to tell people you were raised in Ontario.”
After the tournament, Bicé started to watch Christian more carefully. She knew what he had done to Connor. She knew he felt guilty about it. For some reason, she felt responsible toward him. She noticed that Connor wasn’t himself at school. He’d started to skip classes and (according to Christian) even a few practices. One day at lunch, Bicé tried to tell him that no one else cared that he had lost the golf tournament, but Connor didn’t see things the same way as everyone else. His life was all about sports, and he just thought Bicé was being weird again. Thankfully, Christian had found plenty of friends among his admirers. Even though Bicé herself didn’t have any friends, this fact made her happy. Still, she knew that every time Connor missed a practice or bolted for the door at the end of the day, Christian felt a pang of guilt. Christian didn’t linger long after school either. Like Connor, he preferred to be alone. Unlike Connor, Christian had something to rush home to. He spent a lot of time in the chamber over the next few weeks. He said it seemed right that it made him feel like he was lying in a coffin. He said that it felt like an atonement. Bicé tried her best to shake him out of it. But what could she do? The coffin made her nervous — the way he would lie there and pretend that he was dead and free from the guilt of what he’d done, of what he would do again.
Another Faust Page 21
