She raises her brows.
“It’s true,” I go on. “And I don’t have the time to find anyone suitable. I’ve been too fucking busy now with Blaise and Seraphine gone. The new hires are of piss-poor quality.”
“You hired them.”
“And they were the best of the lot. Now I need you to find me someone who I can depend on, who can handle working for me, who can take shit and thrive on it. Someone smarter than your average maid. Someone who can handle more than just wiping piss off my toilet seat and making the bed.”
Her upper lip curls in distaste. “Really, Pascal.”
I shrug. “At least I’m honest about it.”
She frowns, her nostrils widening as she inhales. I’m surprised that part of her face can even move, considering the amount of Botox she has injected in there.
“As it so happens,” she says slowly, with a touch of smugness in her eyes, “I do know of someone who would be perfect for you. Perfect for this family.”
I give her an expectant look to go on.
“Gabrielle.”
Though the name is instantly familiar, I have to rack my brain for the meaning.
“Gabrielle Caron,” she goes on, though the last name means nothing to me. “Jolie’s daughter.”
Jolie. My mother and father’s maid, who has been with the family for the last twelve years. I’d almost forgotten that Gabrielle had been living in the servants’ quarters with her mother until some years ago, when she suddenly disappeared.
“She’s here?” I ask. “How do you know?” I certainly haven’t seen her around, but then again, I’ve been at the office most of the time.
“Jolie told me the other day.”
“And is Gabrielle here to get her job back?” I was seventeen by the time Gabrielle came to live with her mother. I’m guessing she was around twelve or thirteen at the time. A gangly-looking girl with big teeth and even bigger eyes. Kept to herself. I rarely saw her much until she was sixteen and started working alongside her mother. I remember liking her, as much as I liked anyone. At the very least, she did what she was told and always had a warm yet professional demeanor about her. She became my father’s personal maid for two years. Seemed to handle it well, perhaps because my father always acted rather fond of her. Then one day she left, never to return.
Until now.
“I’m not sure why she’s back,” my mother says. “But Jolie says she’s been studying in New York all this time. Business, I think. She was a smart girl, if I remember.”
“I don’t remember much of what goes on with the staff,” I say, “but I do know that she was working for us full-time when she should have been in school. Her mother was never smart enough to teach her anything, so she’s really just a dropout. Business school in New York sounds like a stretch.”
My mother yawns and gets to her feet, clutching her silk robe. “You asked me to find you someone, and I just gave you an option. I’ll ask Jolie tomorrow.”
“I’ll ask,” I tell her. “And I’ll put Gabrielle through a proper interview.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to bed.”
Her walk to the bedroom is a mix of drunken staggering and the overcorrection of that, causing her to sway with her head held high. Once she’s in her room, I hear the pop of a cork and assume she’s having another nightcap.
I shake my head, and for a brief instant, I feel something like pity for my mother. To have everything and find alcohol the only way to enjoy it. To waste a life like that.
But those feelings never stay long for me. I turn to head back to my room, and they dissolve like dust behind me.
I wake up the next day with an erection the size of a skyscraper. I can’t remember my dreams, but images flit through my mind, me balls deep inside some leggy blonde up against the wall of my office. It makes sense; I’ve been so busy lately in the office that I haven’t had time to get off.
I’ll fix that tonight, I tell myself. Scroll through my phone and find a model who knows how to give me a good time. I should do something about my erection, too, but as my mind latches on to all the things I need to do today, it fades in an instant.
There’s work, of course, but then there’s Gabrielle.
I hate hiring people, and I’m already doubting she’ll be good enough.
I take a shower and get dressed, a sharp black Dumont suit with an ice-blue tie that I know brings out my eyes. I might have to be a bit charming today, so it can’t hurt.
Then I head downstairs, swinging by the kitchen where Jolie is making the morning espresso for my mother. My father has most likely left for work already. He can’t afford to be outdone by me. Always the first one in the office these days, though I’m more than certain he’s not particularly doing anything. I’ve been carrying the entire weight of the company’s changes.
“Jolie,” I say to her as I adjust my cuff links. She looks up from her duties with surprise. I rarely address her, nor pay her any attention.
I’m sure I would have when she was younger. I suppose she’s still an attractive woman, if she wasn’t so thin and didn’t look so hardened. She’s tall, with frizzy blonde hair that never seems tame despite it being tied back, but her eyes always vacillate between eerie blankness and pure anxiety, as if she can’t choose which state to live in.
“Yes, Mr. Dumont,” she says, standing at attention.
“It’s Pascal,” I tell her. I hate being called Mr. Dumont.
She just nods curtly and waits for me to go on.
“I heard your daughter was back in Paris,” I tell her.
A tight smile comes across her face. “She is.”
“Is she here to work? Because I might have a job for her.”
Her expression doesn’t change. Perhaps she was waiting for someone to ask, or maybe my mother already said something to her.
“I can’t speak directly for her, but I think that would be wonderful,” she says.
I nod and flip through my phone to check my schedule. “Where is she staying? Would she be able to come by the office at noon?”
“I believe she is in a hotel.” She pauses. “She did not think it right to stay in the guesthouse with me. I can text her and let her know. Your office at noon.”
“You do that. Thank you.”
After that, I get in my Audi and drive to work. Traffic can be hellish, and we live quite a bit outside Paris, but I don’t mind the time in the car when it’s just me and I can think.
Naturally, my mind goes back to the letter.
It goes to my father.
It goes to what Blaise said last night: How is it living in that house of horrors, knowing full well what our father is capable of? How does that sit with your conscience?
The truth is, I don’t let myself think about it. That’s how I get through it. That’s how you can get through anything in life, no matter how horrific, immoral, or appalling. Just don’t think about it.
Pretend it doesn’t exist.
Pretend that there is no truth.
And yet . . . I can feel something stirring inside me, sinking through my veins like black oil. Maybe it is the truth. Maybe it’s the realization that as the days tick on and the closer I work with my father, the more I become my father.