These thin lines, p.9
These Thin Lines, page 9
The girls laughed, and Gwyneth proceeded to signal for a second helping with a snap of her fingers, already looking bored with the conversation around her.
Vi lowered her eyes to her plate. The joy of being more than that in the past weeks, the nights spent with Chiara practicing photography or being her own personal mannequin—even if she’d opened her big mouth and somehow offended Chiara—was all hers, and she was not going to be sharing any of that with her family.
Still, when she noticed the sudden chill, she lifted her head to see her father’s gaze on her. His expression was calculating, eyes cold and aloof. Vi had seen that look before. As if he wasn’t looking at her at all, as if she was not important in what he was thinking, a means to an end, a tool, and he was figuring out how to use it more efficiently.
Vi almost shivered, collecting herself at the last moment and reaching for her glass. Charles said nothing, his eyes finally leaving her, and focusing his attention on Kylie who was shifting in her seat, a ball of energy this evening, her voice high-pitched with excitement as she spoke.
“And how did you all like the mess at Lucci? Total disaster. I thought Romina would fling herself off that ridiculous, kitschy balcony of theirs. So much drama!”
Vi gripped the fork tighter as dread pooled in her stomach. Her stepsister was spending her summer working for them. She, of course, wasn’t a gopher. Tucked safely into the marketing department, away from any kind of hard labor, Kylie was enjoying a decidedly fun and easy time.
“How did Alberto react?” Charles’ voice held all the nonchalance of a summer breeze, yet it set Vi’s teeth on edge. He wasn’t the family member who’d care about any of this. Gwyneth was the gossipy fashionista. But her stepmother held her tongue.
Kylie—pleased to, for once, attract Charles’ precious attention—preened at being center stage at the family table. Vi could practically see Gigi fuming in helpless bitterness at being downgraded to ‘of no consequence’ again.
“Alberto was turning all kinds of different shades of color. I’ve never seen a man go from pale to red to purple in the span of minutes. I swear, I thought he’d suffered some kind of heart attack. He’s such a handsome man. Dunno what he’s doing with that insipid Romina.”
“Romina is the heiress to the vast Lucci fortune. The man is a leech. Albeit a handsome one.” Gwyneth’s remark made both Kylie and Gigi stick their heads together and giggle.
“You mean like Chiara?” Gigi’s remark was thrown out there carelessly, yet Vi dropped her fork with enough clatter to suddenly find all eyes on her.
“She isn’t a leech.” She heard the words drop out of her mouth and, more so than usual, desperately wished to grab them, to swallow them, to have never uttered anything at all. She so rarely gave her family any ammunition because, without fail, they’d load their viciousness onto those bullets and turn them against her.
“And what is she, Genevieve? Come now, impart your dubious wisdom on us…” Her father’s sharp gaze was unwavering. She’d given him an opening, shown a vulnerability, and he’d taken it and made that bullet hole wider.
“She… um… She does designs.” She looked anywhere but at Charles as she spoke and could sense the irritation radiating from him.
“Speak up, girl! Mumble, mumble. If that is how you speak at Lilien, it’s no wonder Frankie walks all over you.” His voice dripped with so much disdain, Vi, for the thousandth time, wondered why he hated her so much, and what she could do so her own father would look at her with something at least resembling love for once. She’d probably give her left hand for that. Right hand too. How pathetic was it to wish for love from a parent who had nothing but contempt for you?
Still, he glared at her expectantly, and Kylie and Gigi grinned from ear to ear, enjoying her misery. Gwyneth was scrolling through her phone and predictably could not be bothered.
“Chiara designs most of Lilien’s concepts. Frankie is just there. A figurehead, if you will. From everything I’ve seen, Chiara is solely responsible for all the new collections and has been for much of the past decade.” For a second, a pin could have dropped and it would have been as loud as thunder.
If Vi thought imparting this massive bit of information to her family would make her feel accomplished, she was mistaken. Because—despite the whispered ‘omg’, ‘no way’, and ‘this is huge’ from her stepsisters and stepmother—observing the sly smile curve her father’s lips, she instantly regretted divulging this tidbit to him.
To them, information did equal currency, after all. If Charles Courtenay had taught her one thing, it was that. And she had just given him power in some wicked game he was playing in which she knew she was nothing but a pawn. A pawn who seemed to have done her job for the day, because as his lips stretched back into a thin line, he looked at Vi with approval.
Still, something in Vi sensed that the approbation was dangerous. To whom or why, she couldn’t say, and so she did the only thing that remained. Misdirection. Call the fire onto herself and make him forget. Strange how she was doing so much of that these days. And all for Chiara. Maybe it was something she needed to think about more, but right now it was imperative he be distracted from whatever sinister plot he was concocting.
“And she is teaching me photography. I think she believes I can be one of the in-house photographers.”
That didn’t get Charles to even lower his wine glass.
“You? A photographer? Are we back to those useless ‘visions’ of yours, Genevieve?”
Charles reached for the newspaper again, obviously not impressed with either the conversation around him or his dinner.
“She believes in my abilities.”
Well, now she had his full attention.
“Genevieve, once this summer is over, you will go back to being what a Courtenay is, and all this ridiculous idiocy you call ambition and vision is just that… idiocy. A Courtenay is not a goddamn gopher taking pictures! They serve us. I have been teaching you for years, and you still don’t understand the place you occupy in society. You should aspire to marry, have children, continue my line. Bar that, at least make something useful of your life, not hide behind pipe dreams—”
“Charles.”
To Vi’s surprise, a quiet word from Gwyneth stopped the customary tirade. Her stepmother touched her temple and closed her eyes. Well, Charles’ outbursts were known to give headaches to those unfortunate enough to be nearby.
“Genevieve, that’s enough.” Vi almost smiled. Gwyneth knew Vi wasn't the one causing the commotion, but chastising her father wasn’t something her stepmother ever attempted. Funny how women always played this game of deflection in the name of peace.
Gwyneth’s eyes were as disinterested as always when she spoke again.
“Before Chiara realizes that she’s wasting her time, the minimum you can do is try to learn something. There’s a Nikon in the second parlor. At least have good enough equipment not to embarrass your father further, since I can only imagine what the people at Lilien think of the way you dress and conduct yourself.”
Vi mumbled her apologies and her thanks, but inside she was soaring. In spite of her long-term interest in photography, she’d never had money for a good camera. And while Chiara would surely have provided her with the right equipment, she knew she actually brought something to the table now, and there wouldn’t be any pity for her in Chiara’s eyes this time around.
Charles, clearly having moved on from the subject, leaned over to Gwyneth to ask about some reception or other they were going to after dinner.
Vi had never been more glad not to be invited, but when the housekeeper cleaned the table and brought her father his ever-present after-dinner glass of port, she again found herself alone in his presence as the other women went to get ready.
They were silent for a long moment, him sipping his wine and not paying any attention to her, and her trying to figure out how to unobtrusively get up and ask to be excused—from this exorbitant penthouse, perhaps from this family, if only that were possible.
He beat her to it, though, still not looking at her.
“You can leave, Genevieve.” He lit up his cigar, knowing full well she hated the smell, and frowned when she coughed. As she stood and hurried to the door, his quietly murmured, “and don’t screw up,” followed her out the door.
Screw up what?
The thought raced through her mind even as the smell chased her away.
The summer evening welcomed her with a light drizzle, and she mindlessly followed the crowds meandering in the warmth and in the remarkably fresh scent of the Parisian streets, thankful for her waterproof backpack that shielded her newly acquired camera. She had no destination, so the cafes and bars passed her by, people enjoying their evening under awnings and parasols, sipping Bordeaux or whatever else one sipped while enjoying an evening out, while Vi’s shirt was getting heavier on her shoulders.
The coolness of the raindrops provided a welcome distraction from the burning shame that was eating at her.
She understood her father didn't love her, although she didn't know why. She lived with it, was accustomed to it, and had long since stopped questioning the reasons. But on nights like this, the skin she'd grown over old wounds broke open, and the desperation of a child seeking her dad's approval surfaced in all its pitiful meekness for everyone to see. It was never pretty. Yet it was always painful. And as he rejected her again and again, shame always followed in the footsteps of her desperation.
Vi walked on, the drizzle turning into a steady rainfall, her shirt clinging to her skin and her Converses filling with water. She shivered.
The cold Vi could bear. It was the knowledge that she had once again been this hungry for approval and even for a hint of affection from her family, that she’d inadvertently spilled other people’s secrets that now burned her throat.
When her angry tears fell, the rain obscured them among the rivulets on her face, and she felt somewhat comforted.
And when Rue Saint-Honoré’s pavement greeted her shoes, she felt safer still. She said a silent prayer, even as the bellhop at the Hotel Crillon gave her his usual dirty look as she passed by.
Vi knew she looked awful. She didn’t need the overworked man to tell her so. Hair plastered to her scalp and clothes drenched, water sloshing in her shoes, she was sure a drowned rat made for a seemlier picture. It didn’t matter. Her legs were taking her to where her heart wanted to be. Guilty as it was. Of so many things.
So what was one more? One more secret. One more betrayal. One more instance of greed. Of coveting something that wasn’t hers and would never be hers.
Vi bit her lip in an effort to stop the tears, then bit harder when the treacherous emotions overwhelmed her, anyway.
By the time she reached Lilien Haus, she was shaking like a leaf and unable to stop. Clearly, this has not been her best decision. But the lights from the fifth floor shone like a beacon. Chiara was still here, and despite the way they parted the last time they’d seen each other, Vi knew she couldn’t turn away.
The lion-headed door knocker felt like it was made of lead, so heavy, her fingers seemed unable to even encircle it.
She sent a prayer that her feeble attempts would be successful, hoping the sounds would echo up the empty hallways, then shook her head at the situation where a ‘godless heathen’ like her—according to her father—who believed in nothing, had suddenly found religion.
Time stretched. Interminable. And among the storm and Vi’s turmoil, the door opened and there was the goddess Vi realized she was praying to.
Chiara stood in front of her, illuminated by the light of the bright foyer, her hair held up by the ever-present pencil, signaling she had been working. Her dark eyes widened with honest concern, followed by a semblance of understanding Vi could only wish to ever achieve. Since she herself couldn’t explain why she was even here.
But Chiara, in her great wisdom, seemed to comprehend. And in her even greater kindness did not ask any questions. She simply extended her hand, blue veins translucent under the pale skin, and Vi surrendered.
“Come,” Chiara took her frigid fingers in her warm ones and instead of heading for the stairs, led Vi to the rarely used elevator in the corner of the foyer. The ride up was slow, but Chiara’s hand did not let go of hers, and Vi proceeded to close her eyes and imagined the warmth of that hand slowly spreading through hers, up her arm and into her heart. The thought was so foolish. She was such a fool. And Vi was so done for.
When the door slid open, the lights of the studio were like a balm on her aching skin. Despite their brightness, despite their harshness, Vi felt at home. Even Binoche’s displeasure at her interrupted sleep was comforting. It was so damn absurd. So…
“…silly.” She heard herself say the word and stopped in her tracks, expecting Chiara to ask her, to react in some way. Instead, her hand was gently tugged in the direction of the bathroom. There, Chiara took one of the soft, fluffy towels hanging off the hook in the corner, and to Vi’s shock, slowly started to wipe her tear- and rain-stained face.
“It’s not absurd. Something happened and it hurt you, and it’s not silly to feel the way you do.” Chiara’s voice sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of pity or any other outward emotion, Vi was mortified.
“The way I feel?” She didn’t recognize her own voice, broken and hollow even to her ears.
“Adrift,” Chiara murmured, and her hand settled on the nape of Vi’s neck, steadying her, terrifying her with how amazing it felt to be touched, to be anchored.
“I guess… I’m sorry, I’m intruding. I don’t know why I came here…” Vi stumbled over her own words. But she was embarrassed and also scared.
It was too much. Too good. The towel was heavenly on her skin, so soft it was making her feel sleepy, which was quite a contrast to the strange sensation spreading through her from her neck, still being firmly held in that graceful hand.
“Are you hungry? Have you had anything to eat today, Vi? You’re shaking.” Chiara’s expressive eyes were staring right at her, and Vi felt herself sink deeper, breathless.
What was air?
“You called me Vi. Again.” She wanted the ground to swallow her. Why was her brain not connecting with her mouth today of all days? First at her father’s dinner and now here, twice already?
“I did, and I will go back to ‘Ms. Courtenay’ if you don’t relax. If I didn’t want visitors, I wouldn’t have come down, and if I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have opened the door when I realized it was you.”
Vi almost shook her head when her heart sped up a bit at the double entendre. Or at what she desperately wanted to believe was one.
“You’re busy.” Vi didn’t ask. Chiara was here, in this studio, so she was obviously occupied. That was the default for this woman, whom Vi had seen bent over the drawing board at all hours. Wouldn’t she be home otherwise? With Frankie… Vi’s stomach plummeted at that thought, and then she felt embarrassed again.
But Chiara just shook her head and tugged on the soggy tails of Vi’s shirt, hanging limply at her waist.
“I have some of my clothes here. You need to get out of these. I can’t imagine it’s all that comfortable, wet as you are.” But just as Vi opened her mouth to argue, a fingertip landed on her lips, rendering her absolutely still, certain that a mere breeze could knock her over. The skin against her mouth was soft, the subtle fragrance of patchouli reaching her, no doubt from being applied to that wrist all those hours ago when Chiara had gotten ready for her day.
“Don’t fight me on this, darling. I’ll bring the clothes, you dry off, and we will see about the weight of the world on your shoulders that brought you here.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving Vi with the ghost of her fingers on her lips and a whole heart full of longing.
7
ONCE UPON A FAMILY RECIPE
Genevieve Courtenay was in trouble. There wasn’t any other way to describe what was happening to her. Not when it came to Chiara Conti-Lilienfeld.
Thirty minutes ago, she’d basically sleepwalked her way to Rue Saint-Honoré and interrupted Chiara’s work, only to be smothered in fluffy towels, given a change of clothes that consisted of a pair of Chiara’s own jeans and a white, flowing button-down. It took all her strength of will to not bury her face in the soft, worn cotton that smelled like verbena, patchouli and something that could only be Chiara.
Vi mentally patted herself on the back for acting like a grownup and not a teenager with a crush. A teen she was not. Hrr feelings, however, was a lot tougher to disprove. She looked at herself in the mirror. Cheeks flaming, eyes alight. Yeah, some things she couldn’t deny. Like the crush. Or the sleeves that were way too long.
“I can’t help loving manly cuts.” Chiara murmured, reading Vi’s mind. It seemed this woman was always halfway in her head, and Vi fervently hoped she would be able to at least hide some of her thoughts from her. Some of her emotions. She was starting to recognize there were a lot of them. Hence her earlier realization that she was done for.
Vi rolled her eyes at herself. When you knew who owned a piece of clothing by simply sniffing it, you were indeed absolutely and completely in the deepest of troubles. The kind that was not only bothersome but also painful. Because, as Vi was used to reminding herself on a daily basis by now, this particular trouble, carefully rolling up the sleeves for her now—was it hot in here?—was somebody’s wife.
If Vi had any issue remembering Chiara’s marital status, her phone vibrated right on time, and one glance at the screen confirmed it was Frankie. Chiara’s eyes did not waver from her task of arranging the shirt’s open collar, and she kept at it until she was finished, giving Vi’s cleft chin a tap with her fingertip before she finally picked it up, only to lay it back down carefully. Too carefully.
