by Jane Green
9
Sylvie
The phone buzzes over and over, both Mark and Sylvie deaf to its persistent vibration, until both swim upward from their deep sleep, Mark registering the phone call first.
He grabs the phone and picks it up, whispering a hello as he crawls out of bed, going into the bathroom so as not to disturb Sylvie, but it’s too late.
She is now awake, heart pounding, squinting at the clock. Who in the hell is calling at 2:36 A.M., and why is her husband taking the call in the other room?
Sylvie creeps to the bathroom door and listens, hearing her husband murmuring softly as a wave of nausea sweeps over her. She can’t hear the words, but she hears his laughter. She pushes the door open, catching him midsentence.
“Sweetie,” he says, holding out the phone. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s your mother.”
She takes the phone, sighing as Mark stands up, kisses her shoulder, and heads back to bed, Sylvie sitting down on the edge of the bath in the exact same spot.
“Mom? Is everything okay? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. There are things I need that I can’t find. Where is my Hermès blue and orange scarf? My favorite one? I haven’t seen it for ages.”
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s probably in storage up in the attic. I’ll check. But it’s two thirty … -seven in the morning. I thought it was an emergency. This will have to wait.”
“What time is it?”
“Two thirty-seven. Mom, you can’t phone people in the middle of the night.”
“You’re not people. You’re my daughter.”
“But I’ve told you not to phone me late unless it’s an emergency.”
“I need Band-Aids too. That’s an emergency. Oh, and another of those Diptyque candles I like. You know the ones.”
Sylvie closes her eyes, inwardly groaning. “Okay, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m going now.”
“Wait! Tomorrow? What about today? I thought you were coming today.”
“I can’t today. I’m sorry.”
“Why? What’s more important than visiting your mother who gave up her entire life for you.”
Sylvie’s heart sinks. “Mom, I have a doctor’s appointment, remember?”
There is no doctor’s appointment, but Clothilde, who forgets so much, seems to quiet down when she is faced with her lack of memory.
“In San Diego,” she lies. “But I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“San Diego.” Clothilde murmurs, “Pity you never think to bring me into the city with you.”
Sylvie says nothing, knowing that her good night’s sleep is now over. A disturbance of a minute would be okay, might still enable her to go back to sleep, but a whole conversation? Her body may be exhausted, her eyes fighting to stay open, but she is experienced enough to know that her mind is now alert; there will be no more sleep tonight.
It is the scourge of middle age. Angie has taken Ambien for years; Laura, terrified of medication, can’t see anyone before 10 A.M., too groggy from the Tylenol PM she has taken every night since her children were born.
The nights she doesn’t sleep, Sylvie gets up, gets things done. She wasted too many nights lying in bed, willing herself to go back to sleep, thoughts flying through her head as she refused to push back the covers, refused to set foot on the floor, in case, by some miracle, she fell back to sleep.
Which never happened.
Now, she gets up.
By the time Eve needs to get up for school at 6 A.M., Sylvie will have made breakfast, paid bills, organized files, baked a cake, and managed to research whatever her obsession of the moment is, for a couple of hours online.
It’s not so bad, Sylvie thinks, tuning back in to Clothilde. “… and where are my pearls, Sylvie? The black ones. I know I had them here and they were in the bathroom, and now they are missing.”
“I don’t remember you having the pearls there. I think they may be in the safe with the rest of your jewelry. I didn’t bring them in.”
“Not you. Mark brought them. Or Eve. I don’t know, someone! But now they are not here.”
Sylvie’s heart sinks, for this is a regular occurrence, Clothilde deciding some piece of jewelry is missing, making the accusation before anyone has even had a chance to check.
“It’s that new nurse. She was admiring my bracelet the other day, and I saw the sly look in her eye.”
“Which new nurse? Nancy?” Sylvie almost laughed. “The sweet, quiet one?”
“There’s nothing sweet or quiet about her. She’s a thief. I’m going to talk to the director this morning.”
“Mom, don’t. Wait. Let me look for you. They might be here.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I do,” Sylvie soothes. “But if Mark brought them to you, perhaps he brought them home? Let me just check.”
There is a silence, then a harrumph. “Ça va. What time will you come?”
“Around three.”
“Maybe this time you’ll actually stay? You’re never here for longer than about five minutes.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Sylvie forces. “I will try to stay a bit longer today. Eve has a softball game this afternoon, though. I promised her I’d be there because I’ve missed the last two.”
“You can tell her she needs to come see her grand-mère. She hasn’t been here for weeks.”
“No, Mom. She came with me two days ago, remember? You wanted the moisturizer and magazines? Eve did your nails? Remember?”
“That was two days ago?” Clothilde is surprised, although this lapse in spatial awareness, time awareness, happens regularly.
“Yes.”
“Still. She doesn’t come to see me enough. Here I am, with this terrible life, in this terrible taudis, and no one comes to see me. I’m stuck here alone all day, with no family, and no friends. I don’t have anyone I can talk to, and no one cares how lonely I am. If you weren’t so selfish, you’d be here looking after me, making sure I’m not lonely.”
Sylvie takes a deep breath. I won’t react, she tells herself. I won’t take the bait.
“What about all the classes, Mom? There are activities all day that are really interesting. Last week they were doing découpage, remember? We went together, but you refused to do it.”
“I did?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Around two.”
“Don’t be late.” There is an audible click as Clothilde rings off.
Mark is fast asleep when Sylvie peeks round the bedroom door. There is no point climbing back into bed beside him, spending the next three hours thinking about nothing and everything. She drops a light kiss on his cheek, then tiptoes softly out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Downstairs, by the back door, is a large box filled with wax, next to it a box of essential oils. She may as well see whether she’s any good at making these candles after all.
* * *
After pouring herself freshly brewed coffee from the cafetière—her mother insisted fresh coffee must only be brewed in a cafetière, refusing even to call it a “French press”—Sylvie perches on a stool for a few minutes, inhaling the steam from the large cup before taking a tiny, tentative sip.
The kitchen, so ugly when they first saw it, is now charming. Eschewing the cold white-on-white that seemed to be the current trend, Sylvie had replaced the old melamine cabinets with open shelving, resting on pretty carved brackets, all painted a soft dove gray, stacked high with white plates and dishes.
The countertops are a honed marble, etched, marked, and all the lovelier for it. The patina they so quickly acquired remind Sylvie of the old patisseries in Paris, the more aged and stained the marble, the more warmth and charm the patisserie had.
Sylvie laid a soft limestone slab on the kitchen floor, color-washing the beams above with a pale soft gray.
Cookbooks fill a floor-to-ceiling hutch on the other side, piled haphazardly in varying directions, interspersed with marble pestles and mort
ars, collected by Sylvie over the years.
The oval dining table is in front of the French doors, a painted Swedish bench with faded blue-and-cream-check cushion pulled up on the window side, four curved French chairs curving around the rest of the table.
It is now a kitchen that is the envy of all her friends. Not because it is perfect or pristine or nearly as big as many of their own kitchens, but because it feels like home.
Nothing is perfectly matched, yet everything matches perfectly. Sylvie, born and bred in America, has the sensibilities of her mother, preferring old and interesting over new and perfect, knowing without even thinking about it how to mix different styles to come up with something uniquely beautiful.
Picking up the coffee cup, she moves to the table, to a cluster of small ramekins, each filled with essential oils. She dips her head to inhale deeply, a small smile playing on her lips as she closes her eyes and smells again.
She has written down exactly how many drops of each oil she mixed, and in which order. She sniffs the pure Mediterranean fig again. It is sweet and spicy but, compared to her newly mixed fig, has no depth, no warmth.
What else does her scent need? She smells again, knowing she is close, but there is something missing. She goes through the bottles she hasn’t yet used, pausing at cassis. It is rich and fruity; it might be just what she needs.
She pours half her perfume into another bowl, noting the quantity down in her notebook, before adding three drops of cassis.
Nearly there. Nearly there. Another three drops, and it is perfect. She smells the sweetness of fig, and orange, the richness of amber, the warmth of sandalwood, the heady scent of tuberose and gardenia, with the cassis bringing them all together.
4.15 A.M. Still plenty of time to get the candles made. After pouring the chips of wax into the metal pot, she waits for them to melt before checking the temperature, pouring in the oils, letting the temperature drop to 160 before pouring it slowly into the waiting glass jars.
Frowning at the wicks bending all the way to the side, Sylvie grabs a handful of knives from the kitchen drawer and then carefully balances them on the top of each jar, holding the wick perfectly in place in the center of the candle, and she smiles. It may not be the way the professionals do it, but it’s doing the job.
She lifts the cookie sheet the containers are balancing on, and then walks slowly and smoothly to the back door, trying not to disturb the wax, setting the tray on the steps.
Back inside, Sylvie examines the contents of the craft closet. Brown paper, raffia, a roll of cellophane. She smiles, glad she never sorted through this closet, never threw anything away.
Now all she needs is a label. After pouring herself a fresh cup, she sits at the computer and experiments with fonts, sizes, colors until she finally comes up with something she likes.
CANDLES BY SYLVIE
MEDITERRANEAN FIG & AMBER
It’s not great, but it works. It works even better when she sketches a fig leaf and scans it in, adding it to the label and changing the colors to a warm gray.
“Perfect.” She grins, whispering to herself. Elegant and simple. Her mother will approve.
10
Sylvie
Angie flies into Harry’s, two shopping bags from Sigi’s on her arm, unaware of the heads turning at the gorgeous redhead, striding through without thinking to look around to see who she knows, focusing only on smiling at her friend, sitting at the back.
“Oh God.” She dumps the bags on the floor next to Sylvie, planting a kiss on her cheek as she sits down. “Simon’s going to kill me. I just spent a fortune.”
“Tell him it’s your birthday present.” Sylvie smiles, for Angie continually vows to stop spending money, but cannot resist popping into Sigi’s or Bowers whenever she finds herself passing by with a moment or two to spare. Leaving empty-handed is unthinkable, she explains. It would be “plain rude.”
“These are my birthday present.” She shows off beautiful sparkly earrings. “He gave them to me the other night after everyone left. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They are. Gorgeous. And speaking of the other night, we had the best time. Thank you so much. Everything about it was perfect. Honestly, I think I had more fun than I’ve had in years.”
“I know!” Angie grabs a passing waitress and orders a skinny cappuccino, extra shot of caffeine. “Wasn’t it great? I could barely move the next day, though. Oh my God, I’d forgotten what champagne does to me.”
“Right. Because you drink it so rarely,” Sylvie laughs as she pours herself some more tea.
“Not bottles and bottles of it. I tell you, I didn’t even mind turning forty, that’s how much fun it was.”
Sylvie frowns. “I thought you were forty-three?”
“Sssshhh,” hisses Angie. “The only people to know that are you and Simon, and if you tell anyone else, I may have to kill you.” She grins before lowering her voice. “Speaking of gossip, and I know we shouldn’t, but could you believe those pictures of Bill?”
Sylvie sighs. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I feel so awful for both of them. Are we sure those pictures mean he’s definitely been having affairs? What about that congressman who did the same thing? I don’t think he ever did anything other than send the pictures. Maybe that’s what Bill did?” she asks doubtfully.
Angie snorts. “Where there’s smoke … In any case, in this instance, unfortunately, Bill has definitely done more than just take pictures. Caroline’s discovered all kinds of terrible things. E-mails, receipts from Victoria’s Secret for underwear she’s never seen, and—”
“Victoria’s Secret?” Sylvie can’t resist a half smile. “Of course she’s never seen it. Caroline in Victoria’s Secret? Surely she’s much more a designer underwear girl.”
“That’s the point. She is. The Victoria’s Secret stuff is for the mistresses.” Angie shakes her head. “Frankly, Simon would be thrilled to have me in Victoria’s Secret. The one time I tried the flesh-colored T-shirt bra, he threatened to divorce me unless I burned it immediately.”
Sylvie laughs. “I guess Simon thinks all Victoria’s Secret means black lace?”
“Red, preferably.” Angie rolls her eyes. “I do try from time to time. You have to keep things hot to stop them from straying, but honestly, I’m so much more comfortable in the T-shirt bras.”
“Wow.” Sylvie sits back. “Do you really think you have to keep things hot to keep them from being unfaithful?”
“Absolutely.” Angie nods vigorously. “You think it’s any coincidence that all these men keep leaving their wives for young women? It’s not because they’re interested in their brains, or even their hot bodies. It’s because those women haven’t been ground down by childbirth, and PTAs and running a family. Those women don’t crawl into bed every night hoping their husbands will leave them alone so they can read their magazine in peace and get a decent night’s sleep in order to be able to do it all over again the next day.
“It’s biological.” She shrugs, sipping her coffee. “Men need sex. It isn’t about wanting it, they actually need it, and if you don’t give it to them, they’ll find someone else who will.”
Sylvie wipes imaginary sweat off her forehead. “Well, thank God Mark and I are absolutely fine in that department. Better than fine. I’ve been known to drag him out of parties because I can’t keep my hands off him.”
“I don’t blame you. If Simon looked like Mark, I’d do the same thing,” Angie says wistfully as they both smile, both picturing Simon: portly, receding hairline, brilliant mind, and biggest heart you could ever hope to find.
“Simon is many things, but a sex machine he is not. Mark is just about the best-looking man in town. Maybe in the state,” Angie says thoughtfully. “But Simon’s all mine, oh lucky girl that I am, and he’s a good boy, even if he does need retraining every once in a while. Truth is, I don’t know what I’d do without him, and I make damn sure that if he wants red lace and black tassels, I give him red lace and black t
assels.”
Sylvie snorts with laughter. “Simon would never dare cheat on you. First of all, you’re gorgeous and he’d never find anyone like you again, and secondly, you’d cut his penis off.”
“I would.” Angie nods seriously. “It’s true. I couldn’t be forgiving after something like that.”
Sylvie frowns. “I’m not sure any of us really knows how we’d react until we’re there.”
“Wow!” Angie looks at her. “That’s so … magnanimous of you. You’d be able to forgive?”
“I didn’t say that. I just think it’s impossible to know. Every marriage is different, and it’s easy to theorize on how you’d react. Plus, some people have an understanding.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s what people tell themselves when they’re frightened of the alternative. How could you possibly allow the man you love to sleep with someone else? Simon’s no oil painting, but if I imagine him kissing someone else?” She shudders. “Urgh. It makes me feel nauseous. I may be one hell of a flirt, but I take my marriage vows seriously. Deep down, I’m just a good Southern girl, and I can’t condone infidelity. Ever. It goes against everything marriage is about.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Sylvie says slowly. “Honestly? I’m not sure it’s the worst thing that can happen to a marriage.”
“What?” Angie barks. “You cannot be serious! How can a breakdown of trust and publicly humiliating your wife not be the worst thing that can happen?”
Sylvie nods. “I think, in Bill and Caroline’s case, the public humiliation is awful. But we’re human; we’re flawed; none of us infallible. We make mistakes. Everyone assumes that if someone’s unfaithful, it means there’s something wrong with the marriage, but I don’t know that I believe that’s true. Sometimes sex is just sex; it’s possible to love someone deeply, and to have sex with someone else. It can be about many things, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t love your spouse.”
“You surprise me.” Angie leans back. “I never expected you to say that. Is this the French part of you talking? All men have affairs and all that stuff?”
