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

nose. This was unlike him. François was usually impeccably groomed. He looked like he hadn’t slept or washed in weeks.

He went on in a calmer, plaintive, squeaky voice she found unbearable. They had to talk about the future, didn’t they? They had to make plans. If she really wished to leave, then they had to organize this. She had all her stuff at the flat. There were papers to sign, all sorts of things to do, if she truly wanted to go. Had she thought it over? Was this what she wanted?

She spoke at last. Her voice was clear and firm.

“Yes, this is what I want.”

She held herself tall, towering over him in her heels. How could she ever have loved this man who was so small in every single way? Every aspect of him was insignificant. The more she observed him, the more she wondered how it had been possible. How had she fallen in love with François Antoine? She remembered he had appeared at a traumatic moment in her life. She had not gotten over the death of her baby, despite Jordan’s birth. Her job as a surveyor was beginning to bore her. It was a complex, tricky period. She had met François Antoine at a mutual friend’s place. She had gone to the dinner alone; Toby had moved out long ago. What had she seen in François? There was something comforting and caring about him. It was François who had been the first to ever suggest hypnosis to her; he had sensed her fragility, the sorrow she had still not been able to overcome concerning the child. She didn’t have to explain. He suggested she give it a try, just once. And later, much later, that first hypnosis session with Elise Delaporte had changed everything for her.

“You’re so tough, Clarissa. So unkind. That’s not your style. You’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever done for you.”

He went on in his lamenting tone. Did she have a short memory, or what? Did she not remember the state she was in when he met her? Her first husband had already cleared off, after all.

“That’s enough, François,” she hissed.

But he went on with more intensity. Yes, Toby had gotten the hell out because Clarissa was wallowing in her own grief, because she couldn’t even smile anymore, let alone to her own daughter. Did she have any idea what he had endured? Did she even guess at the efforts he’d made to help her picture things in a more positive light, at all the trouble he had gone through to help her heal? Look at how she was treating him now, slamming the door on their marriage.

“Stop it, François. It’s over. It’s finished.”

His face crumpled up, and it was ugly to watch. She thought about the studio, the photos and the videos she had seen there, that hidden, double life. Ugly, as well. It was all so ugly. She didn’t want any of it. She could no longer stand it.

“Please give me another chance. Please forgive me.”

He was weeping now, his nose runny, his eyes screwed up. Disgust rose over pity. How could she tell him, again, that there were so many things she had put up with, too much she had taken in her stride, so many times she had pardoned. He had been unfaithful since the start. It had been an unpleasant discovery, but not a surprise. She was no young bride. But this was different. This had nothing to do with the previous flings. This was a repugnant blow that had dug into the very core of their marriage, delving into the throbbing heart of it, and there was no going back from that debacle; there was no healing, no possibility of absolution.

He didn’t seem to be getting it. He was still crying, his beard flecked with snot. He kept on mumbling that he had been such an idiot; he was so angry with himself.

“I imagine you’re still seeing her?” she asked. She felt invincible in her black jacket, perched on her high-heeled rock-star boots. But the pain always found a way to express itself, perfidiously snaking its way through her shield. Why ask such a dumb question? Of course he was still seeing her! He had installed her in a studio; he had a life with her. For a year now, he’d been sharing part of his existence with this creature.

François looked sheepish. He stared at his feet. Words weren’t coming to him.

“You know what?” said Clarissa bitterly. “Forget that question. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”

“I thought perhaps you might understand,” murmured François at last, with the same hangdog expression. “I was mistaken.”

She stamped her foot.

“For God’s sake, François, what is there to understand?”

He shook his head, raised his hand. Could she just listen? Was that possible? She remained silent. He took that as a cue. He said he had needs, like any man, and she knew that. The problem was, with age, his needs were still strong. He couldn’t ignore them. He had to face the facts. They had married late, in their fifties. Then he had been ill. Of course, there had been sex between them, but perhaps not as much as he would have wanted. Maybe he was wrong, but it seemed to him that as she grew older, she seemed to be less interested in sex. Perhaps it was menopause? Perhaps they hadn’t talked about it enough? He hadn’t dared. He hadn’t known where to begin.

Clarissa took a deep breath. She tried to put her anger and disgust aside.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she said.

François seemed to stand a little straighter. He looked her in the eyes. He had been meaning to speak to her, but he just didn’t know how. Never could he have imagined she’d follow him and discover the studio. He should have told her right away, and the more he waited, the more difficult it became to say anything. His voice became clearer, less shrill.

“I thought you’d