Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

In her thirties. Not his type. But what was his type? I wondered. She seemed tired and fed up. One evening, she was holding a small girl by the hand. I nearly had a fit. My husband had a hidden child! He had never dared tell me. The blonde was his mistress. I remained rooted to the spot. I hadn’t known what to do.

A few days later, the blonde went by with a fat, hairy man. He was holding her by the waist, kissing her neck. I sighed with relief. Nothing to do with my husband.

Still no sign of a long-haired blonde. Was she already in the flat? Did she live there? They were never together outside. Was there another entrance? I checked. There wasn’t.

I wasn’t getting it. All sorts of qualms came over me. Maybe there was no blonde. Just a place where my husband went to be alone. But what about the tartlets, the flowers?

Was this a bachelor pad where he met a string of women? I couldn’t quite believe that. He was, after all, getting on.

What was he hiding from me, then? A fling with a man? I felt dizzy.

Writers really have too much imagination.

I had to calm down, to stop spinning stories in my head.

There was only one thing to do. Confront them.

No, better still. Tackle her, without my husband. Deal with her alone.

Face-to-face.

 5POWDER

I don’t think two people could have been happier.

VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

I have at last said all I have to say.

ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

CLARISSA WAS HAVING her breakfast, and reading the morning paper on her device. For a while now, she’d steadfastly avoided lingering on bad news, attempting to concentrate on what might instruct her, stir or touch her, or even make her laugh. It wasn’t easy. The news feed prospered on disasters and cataclysms. She also had to check each time that she wasn’t dealing with fake news. She had often been hoodwinked.

Mrs. Dalloway was heard.

“Good morning, Clarissa. We have a situation. A person has tried to come in several times. His name is not on the entry list.”

François. It could only be him.

“Is he downstairs, Mrs. Dalloway?”

“Yes. And he won’t leave unless he speaks to you. He went away previously, after speaking to security. But not this morning. What do you wish to do?”

“Can you confirm his identity?”

“Of course.”

François’s shattered face loomed up on the nearby control screen.

“I’ll give it a thought, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Absolutely.”

Clarissa got up, her mug in her hand. She tried to think rationally. She tried to remain calm. There was nothing she wanted to say to François, except for him to leave her alone. The pain concerning the purple studio was still there, as strong as ever. And now he was downstairs. What was he thinking? That she was going to go back to him? That she would forgive him, like she always had? That she would be the wonderful, generous, understanding wife she had been till now? Oh no. No, no. That Clarissa was gone. Gone forever.

She saw herself in the mirror and almost gasped at the expression on her face. The woman staring back at her was a warrior. It felt as if she were wearing armor, that nothing this man could ever do would hurt her or disappoint her again.

Go on down there, said the little voice. Give him a piece of your mind. Make him understand, for once and for all.

She drew herself up to her full height. Then she reached into her cupboard and pulled out a pair of badass black boots she’d bought last week on the spur of the moment, the kind she used to wear when she was younger, and that only a rock star or an actress would ever dare flaunt at her age. They added a couple of inches to her frame, exactly what she wanted.

She had purchased new clothes, as she had moved here with nothing. She was particularly fond of an elegant black jacket, unearthed in a vintage boutique, which contrasted with her red hair. She slipped it on and applied light makeup. She had no intention of coming across as pallid or worn-out. In the bathroom, Mrs. Dalloway asked her to go through the medical procedure: weighing herself, placing her hand on the plaque, looking into the mirror where the dots were.

“Another time. I’m in a hurry.”

“Fine, but Dr. Dewinter insists on your going through the evaluations regularly. I will remind you.”

Clarissa made a face. Then she mumbled, laughing up her sleeve, “Blah blah blah.”

She left, banging the door behind her, hurrying headlong down the stairs, as usual.

François was waiting for her a little farther away on the cobbled forecourt in front of the residence, like a lost, collarless dog. He had the bushy, unkempt beard of a nineteenth-century tanked-up Slavic writer; his face was puffed up, his eyes reddened. His back was curved, his chin glued to his chest. Was he overdoing it, so that she might pity him and relent? It wasn’t working. He was pathetic, she thought.

“It’s impossible to get into that fortress of yours,” he said with a feeble smile.

“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

His face fell. Then he began to speak hurriedly. What he wanted? Was she serious? He had been here three times already in the past weeks, only to be sent away by those guards, who treated him like a homeless person. He only wanted to talk. He only wanted to make her understand, nothing more than that. He had done something awful, something heinous. He could not forgive himself. But he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t let her walk out of his life. He needed her. He had always needed her. How could she turn over this page so fast? After all they’d gone through, after all these years? Couldn’t she just hear him out, let him explain? Surely she might let him explain?

Clarissa glanced at his disheveled shirt, his stained jeans. The sour stink of him wormed its way to her