When I enter, he gets up and pulls out a chair for me.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Yes.” Surprisingly. “Why are we going to Marseille?”
“You have a doctor’s appointment.”
Of course. Relief flows through me. The last thing I want is an unplanned pregnancy.
He checks his watch. “I have a few instructions to give to Fran before we leave. Any meal preferences for this week’s menu?”
I shake my head. I don’t care what I eat. I hate that I have to eat Maxime’s food at all.
“Maybe later,” he says with a stiff smile.
I eat quickly, and when he returns, I’m ready.
Like yesterday, Maxime drives us while two men follow in their own car. I stare at the scenery outside, at the cliffs, the beach, and the city that comes into view forty minutes later. From afar, the buildings aren’t impressive. The only piece of architecture that stands out is the church on the top of the hill. As we enter the center of town, the buildings change from white concrete blocks to beautiful old ones with French windows, blue shutters, and ornate balcony rails. He parks in front of a building with a sculptured entrance, each top corner supported on a marble angel’s shoulders.
“Wow,” I say as I look up at the carved wooden door.
Putting a hand on my back, he buzzes us in and leads me up a stone staircase to the third floor. A middle-aged man with mousy hair and glasses opens the door when Maxime rings.
“Max.” He pats Max on the back before extending a hand toward me. “Mademoiselle Hart. I’m Dr. Olivier.”
I accept the handshake automatically. From the fact that he speaks English, Maxime must’ve briefed him about me before we arrived. What did he tell the doctor? That I’m his willing lover? Or does the doctor know the truth?
“Come through,” the doctor says, showing us into an examination room.
The far end next to the fireplace serves as a sitting area. Maxime takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. He pulls me down next to him, not letting go of my hand but arranging it on his thigh instead. It’s an intimate act, a loving one almost, and the doctor’s gaze slips to our intertwined fingers as he takes the chair. It’s acting, all part of the role Maxime plays. That means the doctor doesn’t know the circumstances of why I’m here.
“So.” The doctor adjusts his glasses and gives me a curious look. “You’re here for birth control.”
My cheeks heat at the implication. My fingers involuntarily clench on Maxime’s thigh. He rubs a thumb over my knuckles in a soothing gesture as he replies, “We want what’s least invasive for Zoe.”
“The injection is very efficient with minimal hormonal side effects. It also eliminates the possibility of forgetting to take the pill, which makes it more effective.”
“The shot, then,” Maxime says.
“I’ve prepared everything.” Dr. Oliver clears his throat. “Do you have any questions, Zoe?”
I glance at Maxime.
“Go on,” he says with a smile. It’s a practiced smile, one he puts up for show.
“How long before it’s safe?” I ask.
“Seven days,” the doctor replies, “so use additional protection for the next week or two.” He stands. “You can sit over there in the examination chair.”
While the doctor prepares the shot, Maxime takes me to the chair and rubs a finger over my pulse.
“This won’t hurt,” Dr. Oliver says, approaching with a hypodermic needle.
I’ve never liked needles or blood. I get queasy at the sight of both, so I turn my head away while he works. It doesn’t hurt much, just a small prick, but I jump nevertheless when he inserts the needle.
Maxime brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just not good with sharp things being stabbed into my skin.”
Maxime’s smile is genuine this time—amused—and the usual frost in his eyes a few degrees warmer. “Do you have a low pain threshold?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never,” he says, but his smile doesn’t fade.
A short while later, the doctor has also taken a blood sample. Maxime thanks Dr. Olivier and writes out a check. They shake hands, and we’re on our way.
In the car, Maxime takes my hand as he steers the automatic into the traffic. “You look pale.”
“It’s the blood. It makes me feel like fainting.”
He squeezes my fingers. “You need a hearty lunch. Have you tried bouillabaisse?”
“No.”
“It’s a local specialty. I’ll take you to a place. I just have to take care of some business first.”
We drive through the old town to the hilly part until we’re on the outskirts of town. A property twice the size of Maxime’s comes into view. The mansion is built in the same style with wooden shutters and a balcony that runs around the first floor.
“This is my parents’ place,” he says. “You’ll wait here.”
I sit up straighter. “With your mother?”
He glances at me. “Is that a problem?”
“She doesn’t like me.” It was clear in every part of her body language.
He presses a button on an intercom at the gate. “My mother is old-fashioned. She doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
“Then she won’t want me here,” I say as he pulls up to the house and parks in a circular driveway.
He pats my hand that still rests on his thigh. “She’ll get used to the idea.”
I doubt that very much, but he’s already coming around to get my door. Taking my hand, he pulls me toward the main entrance. The wind is freezing. It penetrates my very bones. A woman in a maid’s uniform opens the door. She’s young and pretty with chestnut hair.
Maxime greets her in French and exchanges a few words while she takes our coats before leading me through the lobby to a sitting room that overlooks the garden.
“We’re lucky,” he says. “Maman is having a friend over for tea.”
I pull back. “I hate to impose.”
He stops to look down at me. “You’re with me, Zoe. That makes you a guest. Guests don’t impose.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, but before I can find my words, we enter the lounge where Cecile Belshaw sits with another woman. The remnants of a tea party are spread out on the coffee table. In the middle of the teacups and saucers stands a pink mousse cake with a couple of slices missing.
“Max?” Cecile’s tone is friendly, but her eyes tighten as she puts down her teacup.
She says something in French. The other woman, who’s around the same age as Cecile, looks between Maxime and me. I don’t know what they’re saying or if it’s about me, but her spine stiffens as she takes me in. Her smile is so fake it looks painted on her face. Cecile addresses her son in a pleasant voice that’s no less fake.
Maxime switches to English. “This is my aunt, Hadrienne. She’s my mother’s sister-in-law.” He bends down and kisses her cheeks. “How are you, Hadrienne? This is Zoe.”
She nods and says with a heavy accent, “How do you do?”