Uncertain, I extract it to read the words scribbled on it:
Well done, pretty Lily?
If you can swallow solids, I have asked the kitchen to conform to your tastes.
Eggplant and any other vegetable of similar shape that you want to eat…
You won’t say anything to this Louane, of course. We will have a discussion when I return.
TS
My eyes widen. TS like Tiger Sexton? Vegetables? Eggplant? Did he take me for a vegetarian or something? Why does he call me pretty Lily in the first place? And what does he want to discuss with me? Why Louane? What would I want to confide in her?
Oh my, I’m losing my footing!
My mind is not working; I can’t find any answers to my questions. Let’s pick up the phone… No call. I didn’t send anything to anyone or ruin my social life on any social networks, and obviously didn’t call anyone. Confused, I stuff the TS-signed card into my bathrobe pocket and stare at the white petals. I’m trying to see it more clearly.
Sophia! Yes, she, she might help me remember. I venture out of the room, a ball of apprehension in my stomach. I don’t know how to interpret all of this. What if, being drunk, I’ve screwed up? Why did my boss’s husband leave me this fucking message? I haven’t even met him yet. At least, I think so…
Great, did I meet him? Did I talk to him?
I walk along the hallway, trying to probe my exhausted neurons. Doors follow one another. My stomach growls, and my head hurts. I advance to the staircase that serves two different wings of the house. Is the side I come from reserved for servants, for guests? And the other opposite probably houses the private quarters of Mrs. and Mr. Sex… Lightning flash.
Damn, that name! Manly abs, Australian Aboriginal tattoos… It was on him. He was there, and I called him Mr. Sex!
In shock, I squeeze my eyelids and grip the railing at the top of the stairs. I’m not sure I want to come down anymore. He was angry, I think… It’s blurry, but my mind brings up this image: him glaring at me.
Oh no, what the hell did you do, Océane?
10
Tiger
“Are you ready, Mr. Sexton? The pilot informs you that we can take off.”
I take one last look at the runway, buckle my seatbelt and confirm, “Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir,” the flight attendant obeys with a polite smile.
I put on my sunglasses and dive back into my thoughts. Not the ones including the girl’s bra on the blondie’s curves; I must repress that. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that I’m less successful at locking up old habits. Especially with this as a bonus: the slides Peter retrieved. “The au pair” dropped them by the pool. My butler saw fit to confiscate them. Good old Peter was certainly annoyed at having to give them to me—he has his reasons…—but they better not fall into the wrong hands either. Only, I don’t know what to do with them now that I have them. Destroy them? I should probably. And certainly not to look at them like this. This pile of photos is like a detonator between my fingers. Yet, I can’t stop staring at them.
On one, Sophia and Océane are playing pin-ups in what looks like a showroom. A saleswoman probably captured the moment at their request. Then little by little, the photos become more enticing… Maybe unintentionally… Because my wife and her new girlfriend look progressively tipsier. In some poses, there is only Sophia. I guess it was Océane who must have taken the photos. She changes outfits, has fun, and plays with the lens.
On others, there is the Frenchie. Alone. In dresses to make you crazy. A woman child metamorphosing into a femme fatale, image after image. Sophia’s work. And this gleam in Océane’s eyes reveals itself… The resemblance is subtle, but sometimes she looks a little like…
Fuck no! Don’t compare! Holy shit, what have you started, Sophia? How do I handle this?
A voice evaporates the tumult in my head, bringing me back to the present, “This your pilot. We’re ready for takeoff, Mr. Sexton. I wish you a pleasant flight.”
I put everything in the kraft envelope and put it in the bag. Then I look at the time and open my computer. At least the old fart’s damn reception will be less of a headache with this intrusion into my home. But the Frenchie is not a sex worker that I could possibly pay for… And then, I turned the page on the Dominas. But there’s a big problem: I’ve also watched too many indecent videos in the last few years, and I’ve stayed clean a little too long.
Much too long.
So how can I try to tame these things that trouble me in spite of myself with a brand-new temptation under my nose?
***
Océane
I hope I run into Sophia first before I confront her husband. I reach the first floor. An elderly gentleman in uniform and with a strict appearance greets me with deference. His face vaguely reminds me of something. Another person I must have seen without remembering clearly.
“Good evening, Miss Rousseau,” he says to me.
“Good evening, sir…”
He knows my last name. Did he introduce himself beforehand? I think he took care of our shopping bags when we arrived. But that’s all I can think of. Empty space. Defeat!
“I’m Peter, Miss. Just Peter. Mr. and Mrs. Sexton’s butler.”
“Oh, right. Nice to meet you, Peter…”
“Likewise. Are you hungry, Miss? Mr. Sexton gave directions to the kitchen.”
Let me guess: eggplant moussaka? Zucchini casserole? Cucumbers with vinaigrette?
“Uh… no,” I answer, feeling the embarrassment and nausea rising together in my depths. “Not right now, thank you.”
I still don’t know how the master of this house came to this deduction about my taste in food… He doesn’t know anything about me.
“Very well,” says Peter, always very respectful. “Otherwise, what can I do for you, Miss?”
“Actually… I’m not sure where to go. Could you help me locate Sophia?”
“Mrs. Sexton is in the library. Shall I take you there, Miss Rousseau?”
“I’d like that. But please stop giving me “Miss” in every sentence.”
“I’m sorry, Miss, Mr. Sexton insists on it. Everyone has their place.”
What a psychorigid this “Mr. Sexton” is! After deciding what I eat and what I say or not to my friend, he also decided what to call me?
I waddle over and pull the sides of my robe tighter. Being naked underneath doesn’t help me regain a minimum amount of confidence, and the fog in my head still isn’t clearing.