by Roxie Noir
“I don’t have to be able to read your mind to know you weren’t thinking flowery.”
She bites her lips, looks into her drink, embarrassed and trying not to laugh all at once.
“I imagine you were thinking something rather more prurient.”
Now she laughs.
“Such as, smartass?”
“I did just say I can’t read your mind.”
Frankie gives me a long, slow gaze, her eyes lit up with a smile, the corners of them crinkling. She’s dolled up impeccably but sitting on an ugly, dirty speaker looking as if she might come disheveled at any moment, the ring on her finger shining like the point of a very sharp knife.
I ignore it like I’ve been doing.
“I was thinking that flowers are very... yonic.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that ten-pence word,” I say. “You’ll have to explain it in great detail.”
“You’re a difficult bastard, you know that?”
“And you’re still sitting in my sound closet, tolerating me,” I say. “Come on, explain your posh word to a bloke who barely graduated high school.”
I’m just winding her up, because from context alone, I know exactly what yonic means. I just want to make her say it aloud.
“Fine, it means vaginal,” she says, still bright red but laughing. “Flowers are famously vaginal, I’m sure you’ve seen a Georgia O’Keefe painting before.”
“Probably,” I say, grinning.
“Jerk,” she mutters, draining the last of her drink, and I just laugh.
We both pause for a moment, and I’m suddenly uncertain, because there’s something so easy and normal and lovely in baiting Frankie into saying the word vaginal aloud, but then the next second, I’ll remember why she’s here and who she’s with.
And that she ought not be here, but she really ought not be here with me, drunk and laughing about flowers. That if Elizabeth or Alistair knew where she was right now, they’d likely make my life quite unpleasant.
“Sorry about that,” she says, her voice suddenly serious. “I don’t know why I told her you were a florist, I sort of just... panicked and it was the first thing I thought of.”
“You’re not a very good liar,” I admit.
“God, I’m a terrible liar,” she says. “And I shouldn’t have lied, but I also can’t just tell Lizzie to her face that she’s driving me to drink because God knows that’s improper, so then I lied about it again and now I’m stuck in this whole web of lies, Liam.”
“It’s not a very big web,” I point out. “It’s really just a single strand of lies. White lies at that.”
She clinks her ice cubes around in her glass, darts her eyes at me, and for a moment I’m quite certain we’re both thinking the exact same thing.
They’re bigger than white lies.
“I should head back out there,” she says, though she doesn’t move. “Someone’s probably looking for me.”
“Stay a bit. Give her a problem to think about,” I say. “I admit you’re much more interesting than trying to untangle this mess of cables out of boredom.”
Frankie scoots forward to the edge of the speaker she’s sitting on, her dress glimmering faintly, and she leans on one hand, a half-smile on her lips.
“You already got me to say vaginal despite my best efforts,” she teases. “What else is left now?”
I nearly tell her that saying the word is just the beginning. I nearly tell her that I’m utterly certain I can do things to her that Alistair’s never dreamed of, that I want to map her freckles with my tongue and push her up against the wall and whisper her name in her ear and hear her moan mine in response.
That I know what it’s like to give into temptation, and that she’s as tempting as anything I’ve ever given in to. That I don’t want to be that version of myself anymore, but I would. In half a heartbeat I would.
But I behave myself. For once in my life, I do that.
“You’re right,” I say, leaning forward, bringing our faces closer. “That’s clearly the zenith of all conversation. I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”
“You were just thinking that you wanted to hear me say something dirty,” she teases, one eyebrow raised.
“Frankie, if I wanted you to talk dirty, vaginal isn’t the word I’d be getting you to say,” I tell her, leaning forward another inch.
The drink wasn’t strong, but I’ve been good these last few months, and when you’re not chasing heroin with a pint of vodka nightly, a single drink has quite a bit more effect.
Enough effect for me pretend that it’s just us, here. That there’s no Alistair outside, no Elizabeth, no future family. Enough for me to pretend that maybe to her I’m more than some amusing-but-harmless bartender.
“What would you be getting me to say?” she asks, her voice suddenly quieter, a whispering purr.
Our knees touch. Just the outside edge, bone to bone, but suddenly this tiny room feels like a sauna, heated to the boiling point. Frankie tilts her head a fraction of an inch, a cord in her neck moving under the skin.
“You have to go,” I tell her, shutting my eyes.
“That’s not very dirty.”
“They’ll be wondering where you are.”
She goes quiet.
“And if you’re found in here saying words like vaginal I don’t imagine it’ll end well for either of us.”
Frankie clears her throat. I open my eyes and she’s looking away, toward the door.
“You’re right,” she finally says, giving her head a slight shake. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have — I don’t know what I was thinking. I just needed a break from all of everything out there.”
I stand, offer her my hand, a gentleman for once.
“Can’t be seen fraternizing with the help,” I say, and that gets a laugh from her as she takes my hand, rises to her feet.
“Have fun with these cords,” she says lightly, her hand still in mine.
She looks at me, I at her, but the spell’s broken and I’m no longer in such deadly danger of taking her, kissing her, running my tongue along her neck, tearing the ring from her finger and tossing it into a corner.
Frankie lets me go. She walks the few steps to the door, opens it, leans out, looks around. Glances at me over her shoulder once, indecipherable, then leaves.
I slump back down onto the amplifier, lean back, the cool air from the open door more than welcome.
Chapter Nine
Frankie
The moment I leave the sound closet, a wave of cold, bright relief washes over me and I have to stop, eyes closed, find my balance in these shoes again, stand there for a moment and face myself.
I can’t believe I did that.
No. Not quite. I haven’t done anything besides talk to someone I’m not engaged to, and there’s nothing technically wrong with that. It’s the twenty-first century, I’m not a maiden locked in a tower.
I’m not a maiden at all, obviously, but that’s beside the point.
I can’t believe what I almost did.
There it is. I almost did cross that line. I wanted to, I wanted to so badly that I’m still shaken, standing here in the hallway, because I was millimeters from leaning forward, kissing Liam, climbing onto his lap in the designer dress that the Winsteads paid for.
Suddenly I’m nauseous and I take a deep breath, grab my long skirt with both hands, and walk as fast as I can for the bathroom.
That’s not me, I think as I push through the heavy door, forcing myself to smile at the bored-looking attendant.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets drunk and cheats on her boyfriend.
Fiancé. I don’t cheat on my fiancé. I don’t even think about it.
The bathroom stalls are well-built, a full tile wall separating each from the next, and I stand in mine, forehead against the cool tile, breathing deeply.
Don’t puke. Don’t cheat. Don’t puke.
Stop drinking, get your shit together.
Ano
ther deep breath and there’s a split second where my concentration wavers and I think of his lips on mine, Liam’s of course, rough and needy, the way he’d laugh at me if I finally gave in.
Don’t think about him, think about Alistair. He’s nice to kiss, right?
Sure he is.
But I don’t think about kissing Alistair. I think about him coming up behind me today at the bar, talking over me, ordering me a scotch when I wanted a glass of wine.
I think about him volunteering me to his sister for this gala without even warning me, and later when I asked him about it, he smiled and acted like he’d been doing me a favor. I think about the hundred tiny little ways since we’ve been here that he’s done something that affects me without bothering to ask my opinion.
I think about the way that he’s been treating my job like a hobby, and the more I think about that, the longer it seems like it’s been true. I didn’t notice it back in New York, but there we’re on equal footing, at least.
I keep breathing. The bile’s not rising in my throat any more, and I flatten both palms against the cool tile, try to collect my stupid drunken self.
The solution to all this is talking to Alistair, not drunkenly grinding on someone else, I remind myself.
Stop drinking, go be a good hostess, and when you’re not drunk any more talk to Alistair about his occasional shortcomings as a life partner.
I back up from the wall. I rub my hands together, feeling the faint lines of my palms together, flex my fingers. I almost did something bad but then I didn’t, and everything is okay. People make mistakes sometimes, and as mistakes go, this one is minor and fixable and in the grand scheme of things, not that big of a deal.
I pee, wash my hands, and give myself one short, final pep talk in the mirror before heading back to the gala.
An hour or two later, everything is fine. The gala’s in full swing, dinner is over, the string quartet is playing, and even though Elizabeth’s been giving me dirty looks every so often, I’ve been ignoring them.
I’ve also been drinking water, because alcohol is bad. It makes you nearly kiss men who aren’t your fiancé, and I don’t want to do that. And even if I do, I’m not going to, because part of being an adult is not giving into temptation.
“Darling,” says a portly, older woman who’s wearing one hell of a hat. “But really, when are the two of you moving back to England and raising a family?”
She’s talking to Alistair, acting a bit like I don’t exist, but I’m honestly getting used to that. He’s the future Earl and for now, I’m just some American girl on his arm. At least here, and at least in my experience, upper-class British snobbery runs very deep.
Alistair looks down at me, smiles a winning smile.
“I’m pushing for it sooner rather than later, but Françoise here is insistent that we stay close to her family in the States,” he says.
I swivel my head to him in surprise, both eyebrows going up.
“We don’t currently have any plans to move to England,” I say, searching Alistair’s face because I’m still tipsy enough to ignore the woman in front of us, even though I think she’s some distant relation of his.
Alistair just laughs, glances at me, puts his hand over mine, tucked into his elbow.
“She’s quite attached to her parents,” he says. “They’re in New Jersey, and she’s an only child, so of course they’re close.”
“New Jersey,” the woman says, her voice perfectly, completely neutral.
I know enough British people by now to know what a perfectly, completely neutral tone of voice means. It’s far worse than outright disdain.
“Yes, New Jersey, though Alistair and I are across the river in New York, City,” I say, forcing a smile that I’m sure looks horrific. “And as far as I knew, we were planning on staying there.”
“Well, I’m quite glad that it sounds as if you won’t be, dear,” she says so condescendingly that my teeth stand on edge. “That city is no place to raise a family. Dirty, crime-ridden, no fresh air. Why, I think it ought to be considered child abuse to give birth within city limits!”
The words fuck off, you ignorant cow are on the tip of my tongue, but Alistair pats my hand again and laughs.
“I’ve just got to convince her,” he says, laughing.
I swallow hard, trying to calm myself down. Telling myself he’s just being polite because he has to be.
“Well, I’m delighted to hear that we’ll be seeing you next weekend at the Davenport estate’s Christmas formal,” she says to Alistair, then looks at me.
Next weekend?! I think.
She’s just confused.
“And pass my compliments on to Elizabeth, dear, she did a lovely job just like she always does. I’m sure you’ve been a great help.”
She holds out her hand to us. Alistair kisses it and I half-ass a curtsy, then she walks away in the direction of a knot of other ladies of similar age and headwear.
I pull my arm out of Alistair’s, lowering my voice.
“What’s this Christmas formal?” I ask, taking a sip of my water.
“Oh, God, it’s this event that the Davenports insist on doing every single year,” he says with a sigh. “They call it a formal, but I promise it’s no such thing. Last year they hired actors to play the parts of the Nativity scene, right there in the corner of their great room, and honestly it was just embarrassing to watch them do the same tasks again and again. The Davenports are very... splashy.”
“But we’re not going, because we’ll be back in New York by next weekend,” I prompt. “You forgot to tell her that.”
He looks down at me, taking a long sip from his gin and tonic.
“Alistair.”
Alistair sighs.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he starts.
Something cold runs through my veins. A chill of disbelief.
“You wanted what to be a surprise?” I ask, careful to keep my voice low.
A gray-haired man in a tuxedo passes close to us, nods. I nod back.
“Let’s dance,” Alistair says, putting his drink down and grabbing for my arm.
He gets me in his grasp, but I step backward, try to free myself.
“I don’t want to dance,” I say, careful to keep my voice low and even. “I want you to tell me what the surprise is.”
“Don’t be unreasonable,” he says. “Dance with me, Françoise, why won’t you?”
“Because you’re keeping something from me,” I say, not budging.
“You’re impossible to please,” he says, his eyes glittering dangerously. The ice falls in his empty glass, sitting on a table, and I dart my eyes to it. “Come on. Dance with me like a lady instead of making a scene.”
“This is not a scene,” I say between my teeth, but he doesn’t answer. Just tightens his hand on my arm, and I tighten my jaw and give up.
We walk to the dance floor. Thank God, this isn’t some sort of organized dance with steps and all that, it just looks like couples swaying vaguely in time with the music. That, at least, I can do.
Alistair puts one hand on my waist, one on my hand, and stares out over my head.
“What’s the surprise?” I ask yet again.
He sighs, looks down at me.
“I extended our tickets by a week because we’re having such a lovely vacation,” he says, his voice suddenly all sweetness and honey. “I wanted to surprise you with another week on holiday after the gala was over.”
For a moment, my feet stop moving and I nearly trip. Alistair grabs my hand to right me, a little too hard, and I catch myself.
“You already changed the tickets?” I ask, a swell of panic rising inside my chest.
“As I said, I thought it would be a lovely gift. Don’t worry, darling, I’ve paid for everything of course—”
“I have a job,” I hiss.
“I’m sure the diner can find someone—”
“No, I have a costume job,” I say, nearly spitting the words at him. “It
starts Tuesday, it’s for a miniseries that’s shooting at the docks for a few days—”
“Haven’t you got time to cancel, then?”
I look up into Alistair’s face, the remnants of everything I drank still sloshing and seething inside my brain. He’s neutral, placid, a near saintly expression on his face as he whirls me around, just a bit too fast.
“I don’t want to cancel, Alistair, I want to work on this project so that I can work on another one later, and then another and another because that is what a career is.”
He sighs, like I’m being dramatic, but now I’m really getting started.
“You can’t change our plans like that without asking me,” I say, voice low. “Did it not occur to you that I might have plans that week? That there might be something more important to me than staying in England for another week, that I also might have something I need to do?”
He looks down at me, and I can just tell he’s not sorry. He’s not even a little bit sorry, he’s only sorry that I’m angry about it right now.
Alistair looks at me for a long, long moment like he’s gauging something about me, balancing his words carefully.
Apologize, I think. Please apologize and at least acknowledge that you know you fucked up.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I thought you’d enjoy an extra week of holiday here, and frankly, I thought you liked spending time with my family. I’m sorry I miscalculated.”
“You have to ask,” I say again.
“You work so much,” he says, his voice gentle. “I feel as if I hardly get to see you, and when mother and father asked if we’d like to stay an extra week, I was having such a lovely time here with you that I hardly gave it a second thought. I swear it won’t happen again.”
Is it that bad? I think to myself. It’s another week of being waited on hand and foot, of never having to make last-minute pasta for dinner or being on your feet at the diner all day, hoping for a chance to spend hours and hours sewing sequins onto something.
Alistair smiles at me, charmingly, and I know I’m going to go along with this because I don’t want to make a fuss while we’re here, visiting his family. I’m trying to be a nice, good daughter-in-law and throwing a shitfit over a present probably isn’t the way to do that.
