by Victoria Fox
She was unpacking when she heard the door go, followed by a flutter of greetings in French. Aurora heard her own name occasionally puncturing the surface, the Rs making it sound like someone clearing their throat—’Or-hor-ha’. She stepped out to meet them.
Pascale and her mother were smoking, Gisele still in her coat, slim cigarette held between the long fingers of a chocolate-leather glove. They were chatting more like sisters than mother and daughter, so similar in appearance, both raven-haired, both petite, and with a fast, matter-of-fact way of speaking. Arnaud was pouring brandies. He was extremely French in appearance, and didn’t smile when he saw Aurora. Grey-haired, lean, rangy. Long nose. Liquid eyes. A white linen shirt that was open at the neck, a thin gold chain resting on the crinkled skin.
Pascale jumped up. ‘Maman, Papa, meet Aurora Nash, ma meilleure amie.’
Gisele embraced her. ‘A best friend of Pascale’s is a best friend of ours,’ she said. Her voice was sweet and girlish, but you knew she could drop it in a second and eat you for breakfast. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘Uh … oui, merci. Très bien. Merci.’
Pascale rolled her eyes but Aurora didn’t know what she’d done wrong. Arnaud extended his hand and she shook it. ‘Bonsoir.’
They had dinner—or, three of them did; Gisele just smoked—and Pascale talked about school, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, and Aurora contributed where she could. She wasn’t used to feeling self-conscious or like a sitting idiot: normally she was the one in control. In fact she’d never felt inadequate before in her whole entire life, and that was really the only word. Because despite her wealth and privilege, what did she herself, not her parents, not her PR people, not her rep—what did she have to bring to the table?
When Gisele politely enquired after her parents, ‘les chanteurs’, Aurora felt embarrassed. It was horrible to say, but Tom and Sherilyn seemed so cheap and cheesy in comparison with the Devereux lifestyle. Gisele and Arnaud discussed history, politics, art … no wonder their daughter was so well informed and sure of her mind. The only things her mom and dad discussed were their record-breaking album sales or the ratio of honey to cinnamon in Tom’s hair. And she couldn’t remember the last time they had eaten a meal at home together.
She tried to remember as much of Madame Taylor’s French lessons as she could. She’d never paid attention, had lost interest during an enforced debate with Eugenie Beaufort over the respective merits of a croque monsieur and a croque madame. Having to pretend she gave a croque.
‘Ils sont … bon …’ she began, before giving up and speaking English slowly.
Pascale interrupted. ‘They’re fluent in seven languages,’ she said witheringly.
Seven? She had barely known there were that many. Gisele laughed, not unkindly, and Aurora suddenly longed to clarify that just because Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose were her parents, she didn’t always feel like their child, in fact she hardly felt similar to them at all, and anyway, it didn’t mean she had to end up like them, singing corny all-American rock ballads to hordes of hollering housewives. She herself might well end up a member of some highflying intelligentsia or political cabinet or a writer or artist or something like that. It could happen.
The reason for her visit, the A-word, wasn’t mentioned. She felt as if she should, to thank them, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you dropped into conversation over tarte tatin. Besides, Pascale had assured her it was no big wow, and the only one who thought twice about it was her. Part of her wished her friend could be more sympathetic. But Pascale wasn’t a terribly sympathetic person, and why should she get sympathy anyway? It was her own dumb fault.
Once, Arnaud talked about demain, and mentioned a docteur, but that was it. Aurora went to bed feeling strange in her head and her stomach, and tried very hard not to overthink what she was about to do.
It happened the following morning, the Saturday. Pascale came with her to the private clinic, armed with a stack of French gossip magazines and not appearing fazed by any aspect of it. The doctor performing the procedure, an esteemed private physician with silver hair and capped teeth, was a close friend of Gisele and Arnaud. He was careful to conceal his disapproval.
They used a sucky vacuum-cleaner-type thing. Aurora wasn’t sure what she had been expecting—probably something akin to a Caesarean, if she were honest—but in the event it was a rubber sort of tube that they stuck inside her and flushed the growth out with. She didn’t want to use the word ‘baby’, even though the doctor kept saying it. Bébé. Why did he have to keep saying that? She wondered how many of these he had done. Had he done Pascale’s?
Aurora concentrated on the ceiling. She kept waiting to hear the doctor’s horrified gasp as he saw the six-legged freaky inbred whatever-it-was shoot down the tube. But he didn’t. It was just a baby. Bébé. Or might have been.
A tear slid out the side of her eye and coursed a hot track past her ear. Stupid! Why was she crying? This was a necessary thing. But all the same it made her think about what it might mean to one day become a mother herself. When she’d heard of girls back in LA getting rid of unwanted pregnancies, Aurora had always felt she belonged on some theoretical higher ground: she’d never get herself in that sort of situation—what kind of a woman did? And now here she was lying on her back in the middle of France having an abortion.
At that moment Aurora vowed things would change. She was a woman now, not a kid. She’d been foolish in the past, chasing the next thrill without a thought for anyone else, because that was how it worked being Aurora Nash. But this … this bébé was a wake-up call. It had to be, otherwise what was the point? What was the point of anything if you could make a life and then get rid of it, the most miraculous thing in the world, just like that, all in a morning while your best friend sat outside reading Paris Match and eating pain au chocolat and next week would have forgotten all about it?
Afterwards they gave her some pills and warned her of cramps. Pascale took her back to the apartment and propped her up in bed. Aurora drifted in and out of sleep. At points she was aware of Gisele and Arnaud returning: hours passed, light turned to dark. Her door opened, a silhouetted figure checking on her, the back of Gisele’s hand pressed against her forehead, whispering kind words in French. Pascale slept next to her in bed and stroked her hair. Aurora had strange dreams, dreams about rivers travelling into the sea, and woke at four a.m. and sat on the loo and felt all the red stuff fall out. She thought about where the bébé had got to. Was it in a bin somewhere? Wrapped in a plastic bag? She knew it was just a blob, it wasn’t really a person, but she had it in her head that way so it was difficult to get rid of.
Sunday morning, she felt a bit better. Pascale had to go back to St Agnes and Gisele telephoned Mrs Stoker-Leach to tell her Aurora had been beset by a further bout of flu and would be remaining in Paris for a few days.
‘Don’t be long or I’ll kill myself,’ Pascale informed her when she departed.
‘See you in a few days,’ Aurora promised. Her experience had left her feeling fragile and emotional, like clinging to her friend and saying thank you over and over again. But Pascale hugged her briefly and said goodbye to her mother and was gone. In that moment Aurora knew that when the day came where the girls no longer spent every minute in each other’s company, and that day would come, holding on to Pascale would be like holding on to water. Pascale didn’t need anyone.
Gisele stayed with her. Around lunchtime Aurora surfaced in a towelling dressing gown and sat on one of the sofas, her legs curled up under her. Her body felt contained that way, more held in. She still felt like her guts were about to fall out all over the carpet whenever she got to her feet.
They drank bitter, grainy coffee and ate sweet biscuits and Gisele told her about when she and Arnaud had met. They’d been eighteen, at university, involved in student politics. It sounded so romantic, so. intellectual.
‘Was it love at first sight?’ Aurora asked, pleased to have another thing to think abou
t.
Gisele was so elegant. She leaned on one elbow and gazed out of the window. ‘It was his brother I loved first,’ she said, with a little expression of apology. ‘Paul.’
‘Did they fight over you?’
Gisele laughed. ‘No. Paul loved Emilie. We all knew each other—Arnaud and Paul did everything together, same school, same college … but, really, they were very different. Paul and Emilie thought we were very boring, I am sure.’ Another laugh, a softer one. ‘We loved our sociology, our history, our revolution, the things our country was capable of. They loved fashion and music, money and parties. But Paul was very handsome. And they say that opposites attract.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Well, they did for me.’
‘What happened?’
Gisele sipped her coffee. ‘He introduced me to his brother, Arnaud. Perhaps he felt sorry for me.’ Aurora couldn’t imagine anyone feeling sorry for Gisele. ‘So Arnaud and I became friends, then lovers. And then we married.’ A lift of the shoulders, a half-shrug, as if sometimes that was how life turned out.
‘Do you still see his brother?’
Gisele frowned. ‘Paul and Emilie died.’ Aurora kicked herself—she remembered Pascale telling her that. The cousin’s parents dying. That cousin with the scar on his top lip.
‘Oh.’
‘Paul and Emilie Moreau?’ Gisele prompted.
Aurora’s mouth fell open. ‘The Paul and Emilie Moreau?’ The Moreau fashion house was major league. Aurora had several pieces in her closet at home, each with a price tag that made your eyes water (not that she’d know: her dad had bought them).
‘Of course. He and Arnaud had different fathers, hence the name.’
‘Shit. I had no idea!’ She was shocked. The boating disaster had happened years ago, before she was even born, but it was the stuff of industry legend. So Pascale wasn’t just the daughter of famous French politicians, she was also the niece of fashion legend Paul Moreau! And she hadn’t mentioned it once!
‘The guy in the picture …’ She struggled to untangle it. ‘There’s a photo by Pascale’s bed at school. Of you and Arnaud, with a man. He’s their son?’
Gisele’s manner changed. ‘Yes,’ she said brusquely ‘Though we hardly see much of him these days.’
Aurora recalled the image. ‘Aren’t you close?’
‘We were.’ Gisele stood and took the cups. ‘I should say, he and Arnaud were. Arnaud always wanted a son. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘When JB was young,’ she said as she made her way into the kitchen, her voice becoming fainter as she disappeared behind the partition, ‘we thought he was a troubled child. Some children are. He didn’t say much, just used to sit by himself, always by himself. You could tell he was a thinker and he had a good brain, but when people have good brains and they don’t share them, you wonder what they are doing with what’s inside.’ She came back in. ‘He liked Pascale, as far as he liked anyone. I wasn’t fond of him, but then Arnaud would say, “You cannot think that, he is an eight-year-old boy.”’
‘And then his parents died?’
‘That was later,’ she said, resuming her seat. ‘JB was fourteen when that happened. Poor thing was on the boat with them. Arnaud stood up for him unconditionally, of course. A tragic accident.’ She trailed off.
‘But you never liked him?’
‘It’s not that I never liked him. I just didn’t know him. JB Moreau has been in my life for thirty years and I didn’t—I don’t—feel I know him at all.’
Aurora wanted to find out more. ‘He and Arnaud, do they still see each other?’
‘Until recently. Several years ago JB became involved in … well, let’s just say we didn’t approve of what he became involved in. Arnaud has seen less of him since then.’
‘What did he get involved in?’
But Gisele wasn’t saying. ‘Come now, you ought to get dressed.’
‘Surely he’s in charge of his parents’ legacy?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I want to know.’
‘No.’ Gisele’s vehemence shocked her. ‘You don’t.’ There was a pause wherein it became clear the conversation had ended. The French woman shook her head once, her expression grave, and Aurora knew that she could not be pressed on the subject.
26
Stevie
Back in LA, Stevie’s apartment was shrouded in gloom. The blinds were drawn and there was a bad smell of bins and washing up. Clearly nothing had changed since she’d been away. Depositing her keys in the hall, she steeled herself for the familiar sight of Bibi’s brother languishing on the sofa under a duvet, his hand buried in a tub of popcorn, avidly watching TV.
But the sounds emanating now from the living room were altogether different: moans and groans, and a woman’s voice chanting, ‘Fuck me, baby!’ over and over again, punctuated by frequent references to the man’s ‘bigfathardthickcock’. Any notion that Ben himself was having it off in there was quickly dispelled—she’d seen him emerging naked from the shower once or twice: he was moderate, and that was being generous.
God! Putting up with it was bringing out the worst in her. She had to ask him to leave before she turned into a total bitch.
Outraged, Stevie stalked in to join him.
She stopped in her tracks, mouth open, incredulous.
Instantly, she knew. The ambiguities of the last twelve months, the secrets and the dodged questions … it all came together now, pieces slotting into place with terrible clarity.
The woman’s face wasn’t visible—that was the point—but the voice, however forced, was one she recognised. She recognised the tiny frame. She recognised…
I want to get a tattoo on my back … of a butterfly …
Stevie remembered the day they’d met. Bibi’s ramblings about her appearance.
Just a little one because they’re cute …
The air got knocked out of her. She couldn’t speak.
Sweet, funny, happy-go-lucky Bibi. Starring in this gratuitous filth.
Rigid with horror, she turned to Ben, who was sitting in profile, eyes wide on the screen, his fist delving into his jeans, oblivious to her presence.
When at last she found her voice, it came out little more than a croak.
‘What the—?’
Ben shot up from his position on the couch, zipping his fly. She spied a box of man-sized tissues on the floor and practically gagged.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she managed. The bags she was carrying fell to the floor. Horribly transfixed by events on-screen, she stormed over and furiously killed it.
‘S-sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I, er, didn’t think you were coming back till tomorrow…’
‘Ben—’ she was trembling all over ‘—do you have any idea—?’
‘It won’t happen again,’ he muttered moodily, as though she were the one imposing. ‘Thought I had the place to myself, didn’t I?’
With dismay Stevie realised he had no clue what he’d been witnessing. who he’d been witnessing. It was bad enough watching any woman pushed into such a vile, exploited position—for fun, for kicks, for what? She didn’t get it: it was despicable—but this…
‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded quietly.
He shrugged like a kid. ‘Downloaded it,’ he grumbled, and she saw his laptop was plugged in under the cabinet. Next to it was a stack of DVDs, all boasting a close-up of the ubiquitous star’s naked back, complete with the butterfly tattoo that told Stevie all she needed to know. Each was crowned with hot-pink lettering: THE FACELESS VIXEN. And it seemed the Vixen had been busy. She’d faced cyborgs from the future in The Ejaculator. She’d been paid a flying visit by Harry Rutter and the Philosopher’s Bone. She’d even taken the reins in the Christmas Big Dong Merrily on Thigh.
‘Get out,’ she said coldly.
‘What?’ he puffed. ‘Because of some lame porno?’
Stevie was st
ruggling to process how things had got this far. How could she have failed to notice? How long had B been embroiled in this sick game? How many films had she done, five, ten, a dozen? More? And if she knew, if she ever found out, who’d been indulging…
‘Ben,’ she said slowly, unable to stop the words coming. ‘That woman—’ she gulped ‘—that woman you’ve been … The Faceless Vixen. That woman is your sister.’
He blinked. Then he laughed.
‘Fuck that,’ he said. ‘She’s just some tart.’
‘“Some tart” is Bibi.’
He’d gone pale. Greenish, like pea soup. ‘How would you know?’ he spluttered.
‘Because I know B.’ She was close to tears. ‘And so should you. Here!’ She snatched up one of the DVDs, brandishing the cover, forcing him to look.’ See this? I know she wanted that tattoo, she told me! Look at her shoulders, her hands! I know she won’t be frank with me what she’s doing for a living. I know she’s about to be married to a depraved human being … a movie producer. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s staring us in the face, Ben.’
He stood for a moment, swaying gently like an axed tree about to be felled, and she saw what remaining colour there was in his face drain out like dirt through a plughole.
‘I’m gonna barf.’ He clamped a hand over his mouth and darted from the room, staggering and tripping in his haste, holding out a hand to break his fall and heaving with a ferocity so basic and wrong that the upsurge belonged more to some grisly underworld, an inferno of the damned, a burbling River Styx. Seconds later she heard him retching over the loo.
Stevie remained in the gloom for she didn’t know how long, the DVD in one hand, eyes closed to the facts, letting silent tears run.
She watched it. Or, she watched as much of it as she could manage before she felt so appalled she had to turn it off. Nothing could have prepared her for seeing her friend in that revolting context. So this was what Linus Posen had been working with her on all this time. This explained the vanishing light in Bibi Reiner, the spark being put out.
