Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Putting an arm around my waist, he leads me through the foyer to the lounge, which is packed with people. I recognize Cecile and Hadrienne, but none of the others.
His arm tightens around me as we stop in front of a thickset man with a drooping eye. “Zoe, this is my father, Raphael.”
Raphael holds out a hand. His expression is neutral, but I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.
“My father doesn’t speak much English,” Maxime says.
“Isn’t Belshaw an English surname?” I ask.
“Very French, in fact. One of the oldest.”
“Max!” Two women storm up to us, throwing their arms simultaneously around Maxime.
Sandwiched in the middle, he chuckles. “And these are my cousins, Noelle and Sylvie.”
The young women turn to me. They both have dark hair and green eyes. They look so much alike, they could’ve been twins. The only difference between them is that Sylvie is a little taller. They’re both wearing Dior, matching vintage dresses with a cinched waist. Noelle’s gaze moves over my off-shoulder jersey and jeans. I’m underdressed. This isn’t the laid-back Sunday barbecues I’m used to being invited to back home.
Sylvie takes Maxime’s arm. “I have to talk to you about something.”
She drags him away, leaving me stranded with Noelle. The silence is uncomfortable.
“I’m going to help in the kitchen,” Noelle says after a strained moment, slipping past me.
I look over to the terrace where Maxime and Sylvie are talking outside. It looks serious.
Hadrienne approaches me with a stiff back and places her hand on the shoulder of the man who’s chatting to Raphael to catch his attention. “This is my husband, Emile.”
Emile turns sideways to look at me. He nods but doesn’t shake my hand.
“Well,” Cecile says, joining our circle. “Look who’s here.” Pushing past me, she says, “I smell something burning in the kitchen.”
“Oh, dear,” Hadrienne exclaims, following on her heels.
Emile turns back to his conversation with Raphael. I stand awkwardly, feeling out of place. After another few moments, I don’t have a choice but to offer my help in the kitchen.
I go back through the foyer and follow the smell of rosemary and garlic to the kitchen where the women are gathered, talking in French.
I stop in the door. “Can I help with anything?”
They fall quiet. Cecile and Hadrienne exchange a look. Noelle glares at me.
“I suppose you could prepare the coffee tray,” Hadrienne says, waving a hand at a coffee maker on the shelf.
The atmosphere is toxic. What have I done? They don’t know Maxime is keeping me against my will. As far as they know, we met in South Africa, and now we’re together. Why would they hold that against me?
Unable to take the tension any longer, I ask, “Why are you acting like this?”
Cecile tilts her head. “What makes you think we’re acting in any way? You’re not that important. In fact, you’re nothing, neither family nor friend.”
My lips part in shock at her blatant hostility. Before I can say anything, the three women carry on with their conversation in French, acting as if I don’t exist. I’m tempted to run away, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, I go through the cupboards like I own them until I find the ground coffee and filters. A nasty part of me notices Hadrienne’s displeasure with ugly satisfaction. It only spurs me on. I open and close the cupboards loud enough to disturb their talking. Since I don’t see any mugs, I take the small espresso cups and place them on a tray with teaspoons and the pot of sugar. I arrange everything just so. There. Only then do I walk from the room.
My chest is tight with tension when I reenter the lounge. The men are nowhere to be seen. Walking out onto the terrace, I lean against the wall and stare into the distance to where the water glitters with sparklers of sun. It’s a clear day, sunny and cold. I shiver without my coat.
Sylvie steps out with two glasses of red wine. She holds one out to me. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
I take the drink hesitantly.
“It must be tough,” she says.
“What?”
She takes a sip of her wine. “Being the new girl.”
“I suppose adaption is always tough,” I say vaguely.
“They’re cliquish, my family.” She smiles. “It’s not easy to get in.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You can call me if you’d like to talk or grab a coffee in town.”
I look at her in surprise. “Thanks.”
“I’m only here until the end of the month before the new semester starts, but feel free to call me in Paris.”
“What are you studying?”
“Law. My father isn’t happy about it.” She laughs. “He thinks I’m wasting my time.”
“Why?”
She sits down on the bench. “Because he’ll marry me off to some wealthy guy who probably won’t allow me to work.”
“How can a husband make decisions for his wife?”