by Mickey Brent
“You mean he’s still a slob.”
“I didn’t say that.” Hélène wrinkled her nose.
“But he is. Anyway, you sound funny. Have you been crying?”
Hélène’s thoughts swept back to her daydream. Have I? She touched the corner of her eye. It was moist. Then she remembered tears running down her cheeks in her dream. “Non,” she lied, wiping her eye. “Just making dinner.”
Mathilde pointed her freshly painted toenail at Silly Milly, her white poodle, dressed impeccably in a matching silk outfit. Crumpled like a tiny ball, the dog sniffed the nail and gave a delicate pooch sneeze.
“Dis-moi, Hélène. You can’t hide things from me. Marc’s been yelling at you again.”
“Non, Mathilde, I swear. It’s the onions. He’s not even here, he’s at the gym.”
“What for? Those puny muscles of his? Anyway, forget him. What are your plans for tonight?”
“Nothing special. Pourquoi?”
“I’ve got a fantastic idea.” Mathilde began applying nail polish to her other set of toes. “This new restaurant just opened in my neighborhood and…guess what?” Her voice rose a notch. “Drum roll…Tonight’s Ladies’ Night! We get two meals for one. Cool, non? Alors—”
“Sorry, Mattie. I already made dinner.”
“Très bien. You’re a great homemaker—and an excellent translator. Now be a good girl and stick it in the freezer. I’ve got the address right here and—”
“If Antwerp were only closer—”
Mathilde whistled. “It’s not like I’m inviting you to the Congo,” she insisted, referring to her mother’s African origins. She began brushing her poodle furiously with a silver brush.
“I was planning on finishing my latest poem and—”
“Listen to me, sister. You’ve got your whole life to churn out those flowery poems of yours.” Mathilde wrapped a silk ribbon around Silly Milly’s poodle head, then kissed her.
“But I—”
“Come on.” Mathilde jumped. Sucking in her stomach, she beamed at her full breasts and ample posterior in the mirror. “I don’t look anywhere near forty. And neither do you!”
“That’s sweet, Mattie. But like I said, I was planning to—”
“It’s Saturday night. We’re young, beautiful, and hot! Let’s go get us some action.” Mathilde reached into a drawer, pulled out a BiFi sausage, spread her generous lips, and inserted half of it into her mouth.
*****
Exiting the bedroom, Sylvie slid her slippered feet over the hardwood floors. “I’ll make us some tea,” she called over her shoulder. She felt aches in her limbs after all that effort. It sure has been a while.
“Whatever you want, mon lapin,” came Lydia’s reply, muffled between the sheets.
Entering the living room, Sylvie felt compelled to tiptoe over to the large bay windows. A breeze was blowing outside; the trees across the street swayed in unison. Ca alors, it’s already dark outside. Two trees, intricately intertwined, seemed to be dancing together. Sylvie squinted at the silhouettes formed by their branches. Images of her family at local neighborhood festivals in Santorini came to mind. Yaya used to…
Her reminiscence was interrupted when a familiar voice erupted from her bedroom. “Come back in here, ma chérie. I’m lonely.”
Mince! I forgot about her. As she pried her eyes away from the dancing limbs outside, something pinched in her heart. As soon as her feet hit the cold kitchen tiles, she had an adverse physical reaction. Goldie, curled on her favorite kitchen chair, shot her mistress a look of concern.
“I’m sorry, mon poussin,” she told her, scratching the kitty’s neck. “She’ll be gone soon.”
“What did you say?” came a shrill voice from the bedroom.
“I promise,” whispered Sylvie, gently caressing her pet’s bristling orange fur.
Lydia repeated, “What did you say, chérie?”
“Let’s have our tea in the living room!” Sylvie winked at Goldie as she began preparing the tea.
*****
Hélène caressed Chaussette, who had crawled onto her lap. “Sounds like a great plan, Mattie, but I’m exhausted tonight.”
Mathilde bit into her sausage slowly, with her sensuous lips rolling over its smooth edges. “Exhausted? You just need to move your big derrière around some more,” she mumbled.
“Hey, I’ve been dieting for over a month now, and biking, and swimming, and—” Hélène pinched the fat around her belly. And it’s working too. She jiggled a leg in the air.
Mathilde yanked the sausage from her mouth and let out a whistle. “I’m in shock. What’s gotten into you?” Admiring herself in the mirror, she added, “Girl, I’ve known you for twenty years. You hate sports. You don’t even own a pair of shorts. Or tennis shoes.”
“People can change, you know.”
“So now you’re a jock? I’ve got to see this.”
Hélène’s fingers clasped her biceps. Firm, all right. She squeezed the tiny wad. “I’m not exactly a jock, but—”
“Where do you swim?”
“At a pool nearby. I’m taking lessons every morning before work. That’s why I’ve been so tired lately,” replied Hélène, fiddling with Chaussette’s tail.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You know I love to swim! I could come before work. C’est à dire…When I’m in the country.” Mathilde aimed the remaining half of her BiFi at her dog. The poodle sniffed at the sausage suspiciously, then licked the tip with her pointy pink tongue.
“But you see…”
Mathilde’s voice swelled with excitement. “Wait…Who’s taking the class? Any good prosp—”
“They’re private lessons,” Hélène interrupted. “And we start at seven in the morning.”
“Quoi?” Mathilde’s eyebrows shot up. She yanked the sausage out of Silly Milly’s mouth and started nibbling on it. “Have you gone mad?”
“Mais non. I decided it was time to learn how to swim.”
“Really? So you rise at dawn, to dip your derrière in some freezing pool? And then you decide to go on a diet, or whatever, and…” Mathilde waved her sausage in the air. “Attends, Hel. I’m not that stupid. So, what’s his name?”
*****
Lydia sat on the sofa, fiddling with her hair. As her fingers teased her blond curls, her eyes skimmed over the black-and-white photos decorating the walls. Just as her eyelids began to droop with boredom, she spotted a colorful book on the coffee table: Marigold Mountains.
She opened the oversized book. Underneath a glossy photo of a field of yellow flowers, a dozen jagged sentences were written in old-fashioned calligraphy.
“Hmmph. Who reads poetry anyway? It’s so pretentious!” she declared, loud enough for Sylvie to hear her in the kitchen. She flung the book onto the table and frowned at the volumes piled high on the bookshelves. The first time she came to Sylvie’s apartment, she had been surprised to see the massive wooden bookcase, especially since nearly all the titles—the ones that weren’t in Greek—were about plants and flowers, even the photography books.
Lydia smirked. Her past girlfriends had all been businesswomen, attorneys, or doctors. One had even been a gynecologist. They were rich, sexy, powerful…and proud of their social status. She had wondered right from the start what she was doing with an artist, or a jock, or whatever Sylvie was. And now, as she heard the Greek swimming instructor clinking around in the kitchen, Lydia’s petite jaw tightened. “She’s cute, but that’s about it. The chick can’t even cook. C’est pathétique.”
*****
“What’s whose name?” asked Hélène, nearly dropping the phone.
“You tell me.”
“What are you talking about?” Hélène’s voice rose.
“People just don’t change overnight, chérie, unless they’ve got a really good reason.” Mathilde licked her half-eaten sausage. “And I bet I know yours: the big MLC.”
“MLC? What’s that?”
“Midlife crisis. M’enfin, Hel, don’t you read C
osmo?”
“Well…”
“We all go through it.” Mathilde smiled knowingly. “So tell me, what’s he like?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mattie. My doctor’s the one who told me—”
“Sure. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ Good excuse.”
Hélène’s shoulders stiffened. “If you’re insinuating that I’m with someone else, you’re wrong. Marc is—”
Mathilde’s full lips twitched. “Nice try, Hélène, but I don’t buy it. You’ve been telling me for years that you’re only interested in your husband. And that’s your choice. Mais franchement, ma chérie, I’m finding this hard to believe.”
Hélène sighed loudly. “But it’s true.”
“Okay. Don’t get all upset, hon. Just for fun, then, what’s your instructor like?”
“What instructor?”
“Your swimming instructor, silly. I can see him already. Tall, dark, and muscular?” Mathilde waved her sausage, then popped it into her mouth.
Hélène laughed. “Well…You got the tall, dark, and muscular part right.”
“I knew it!” Mathilde thrust her hand into her cleavage. She caressed her boob as she chewed. “And he’s got on a tight little swimsuit, n’est-ce pas? Tight, white. Right?”
“Tight, white, right, white…Quoi?” Hélène cocked her head. “What’s white, and what’s tight?”
“That’s it, ma chérie. Tight and white.”
“Ah, Mathilde, you’re confusing me.”
“I’m talking about his swimsuit. It’s white, non? It’s so white it’s completely transparent. Which means that when he goes into the water…” She rubbed her chest harder. “Ah oui, bébé!” She stopped to catch her breath.
“Mattie…”
“It’s so tight that it sticks to his skin, perfectly emphasizing his—”
Hélène’s temples started pounding. “Stop it, Mattie!”
Mathilde plopped back on the bed. “Just because you want him all to yourself doesn’t mean—”
“I hate to disappoint you, Mattie, but you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Ah, bon? So he’s fat and ugly, with carpet hair all over his back?”
Hélène squirmed at the idea. “Of course not!”
“Très bien, because I don’t believe you for a second, girl.” Mathilde resumed painting her dog’s claws with cherry fingernail polish.
“Actually, my instructor’s—”
A door slammed. Hélène stopped mid-sentence as soon as Marc’s gym bag landed on the hall floor with a thump. When she jumped up, Chaussette slid off her belly, scrambling for cover. Hélène whispered, “Désolée, Mattie, I’ve gotta go.”
*****
Sylvie emerged from the kitchen in a rainbow-colored apron. Setting her tea tray next to Marigold Mountains, she whispered, “I see you’re enjoying my poetry books.”
Lydia wrapped her arms around Sylvie’s neck. “This one’s so thrilling, I can’t keep my hands off it. Just like I can’t keep my hands—”
Sylvie untangled herself. “You’re such a bad actress.”
“You’re wrong about that, mon lapin.” Lydia shook her finger at Sylvie, who cringed at the long, bright pink nail glued to its tip.
“Actually, I’ve been told I’m rather talented,” whispered Lydia in a sexy tone.
Sylvie’s eyes opened wide as the fingernail carved pink spirals in the air.
“En fait, I can lie through my teeth, and you’d never know what hit you.”
Sylvie’s face went white. A flashback of Lydia—sitting in the very same spot just months before, explaining what had happened on her latest business trip—hit Sylvie like a slap in the face. The trip was only supposed to be for business, but…
“What do you expect? I’m only human,” Lydia had declared flatly.
Some confession, Sylvie had thought at the time. That damaging moment had marked the end of their relationship. Until now.
What am I doing? The Greek athlete pondered Lydia’s pretty face. It was always pouting, like a poodle begging for a snack. Either I stay angry and single, or I give in and see what happens…
“Tu m’écoutes? Are you even listening to me?” Lydia tapped Sylvie’s muscular knee. “I can lie through my teeth, and you’d never—”
“Wanna bet?” said Sylvie, switching gears. She flashed Lydia a mischievous smirk.
“Ouais, let’s bet.” Lydia grinned.
“I’ll go get Goldie. She’s a great judge of character.”
Lydia’s lips trembled for a split second until she pinched them into a strained smile. “Quelle bonne idée. Where is that darling pussy of yours?”
*****
Hélène pointed a frying pan at her cat. “Let’s do something romantic, bébé.”
Chaussette wagged her tail.
Why didn’t I think of this before? Hélène wondered as she placed the dinner candles on the picnic table. It was an unusually warm evening for Belgium, even in summer, where rain was always lurking in the clouds, threatening to drizzle over the Belgians and their picnic plans.
Hélène aimed her eyes at the rare, cloudless sky. In minutes, the table was decked with her favorite checkered tablecloth, fancy fresh flowers, and tall, romantic, red candles. She ran her fingers through her shorter, bouncier hair.
Can’t wait to see his reaction, she told herself, sprinting into the kitchen and emerging with plates of steaming food. At last, she removed her apron and lit the candles.
“Chéri, it’s time for dinner,” she called into the house. No response.
Hélène’s eyes caught a slice of evening sun. She hollered again, a bit louder.
I could wait all evening. After all these years, I’m used to it. But the sun can’t. She watched the yellow slice disappear as the sun exited the garden.
As if on cue, Marc made his appearance. Through the dimness, Hélène noticed her husband’s sports clothes. His white sweatshirt took on a yellowish hue from the flickering candles. C’est bizarre. What’s he been doing all this time? she wondered, only too aware of his penchant to shower and change before dinner. She frowned. So much for romance.
The couple stood in the backyard staring at each other.
Finally, Marc broke the silence. “Why are we eating out here?”
“Thought I’d surprise you, chéri. Look how beautiful our garden—”
“It’s pitch dark. I can’t see for beans.”
Hélène replied cheerily, “But your nose still picks up fragrances, n’est-ce pas? Aren’t the roses, the hyacinths, the lilies—”
“Whatever. I’m starving.” Grabbing the nearest dish, Marc heaped piles of food onto his plate.
Hélène’s face fell. Forcing a smile, she announced, “I made these dishes with the food you picked out at the market today, chéri.”
“So what?” came the gruff reply.
Hélène squinted at her husband as he shoveled her creations into his mouth. Trying to shut out his chomping noises, she shifted her eyes to the luxurious bouquet in its new crystal vase. In the dark, the flowers seemed different—deformed, almost ugly. Her hand went to her scalp. What if my hair looks like that? she wondered, caressing its smooth contours. She bit her lip. What have I done?
*****
While Sylvie searched for Goldie, Lydia knocked back her tea like a shot of whisky. As she was pouring her second cup, Sylvie returned, cradling her disoriented pet in her arms.
“Sorry to wake you from your nap, ma puce. But it’s time to bond with Auntie Lydia.” Sylvie promptly dropped the cat onto her guest’s lap. Lydia was nervous, but Goldie was worse. She had a complete fit. Forked over the Belgian woman’s white silk pants, her claws dug deeply into their owner’s thighs.
Stifling a scream, Lydia brought her fingernails around Goldie’s neck. But instead of wringing it, her hand trembled as she tried to pet the cat, whispering in a faltering voice, “Gentil petit chat…Nice little kitty…”
Sylvie watched with amusement. “Say you
love cats.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath. “I love…” She stopped mid-sentence. “Something smells god-awful all of a sudden.” She flashed Sylvie a sarcastic smile. “Mon lapin, have you been cooking again?”
Sylvie’s thick eyebrows shot up.
“Did you stick something in the oven?” Lydia snorted as she poked Sylvie in the ribs. But she stopped poking when something wet and warm landed on her thigh. “Beurk!” she wailed as a brown, watery blob slid down her leg. “My silk pants! They’re ruined!”
Before Lydia could fling Goldie across the room, Sylvie swooped up her pet. Holding Goldie at arm’s length to protect her apron, she smiled broadly at her ex. “I’d say she’s a pretty good lie detector, and,” she winked at her cat, “you just failed the test.”
Chapter Thirteen
The swimming pool area was empty except for a lone figure on the bench. Outside, the darkness was as thick as oil. Hints of streetlights flickered beyond the windows, like dying fireflies. All was quiet.
Sylvie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She still wasn’t used to getting up so early, especially on Monday mornings. She tried not to consider the other, more appetizing options: staying in bed, jogging in the park, or eating scrumptious breakfasts with Goldie on her balcony. These options seemed all the more tempting as she sat in her bathing suit, shivering on the bench.
Where is she? She glanced at the clock. It was already 7:07. She pulled her robe tightly against her chest, trying to trap warm air. The terry cloth felt soft against her bare skin, as comforting as a baby blanket. At last, she heard a noise. Swiveling around, she caught Hélène racing toward her.
Sylvie held up her hand. “Attention. No running, remember?”
Stopping abruptly, Hélène nearly stumbled. “Désolée, I forgot. I’m late and—”
“It’s really dangerous,” declared Sylvie, pointing to the sign. “Poolside rules.”
*****
Hélène scrutinized the stern look on her instructor’s face. Something seemed different. Sure, I’m late. And yes, I broke the rules. But there’s something else. I wonder what? The more she looked at Sylvie, the more her features appeared hardened. Maybe it’s the lights. She glanced at the fluorescent tubes hanging from the beams. Go away, she told her negative thoughts, stuck on her mind like a blouse clinging to a clammy back. Hope it’s not me.