Once settled in his apartment, he armed himself with a list of what he needed and went shopping.
For the past three years, Alex had studied Rita's fashion magazines. The time had not been wasted. He considered himself an expert at distinguishing people with money from those without, solely from the way they dressed. He had learned that the upper classes dressed quietly, in well-cut clothes that lasted years. On the other hand, flashy clothes immediately marked a person as being from a less affluent background.
Carefully, he examined and studied every garment he bought. Was the fabric of good quality? Was the cut classic enough to last a long time? He badgered the sales clerks with questions until he felt sure of his selections.
Loaded with parcels, he walked back to his new home and gingerly put away his clothes. Then he went out again. A few blocks down the street, he found what he was looking for. He walked into the barbershop and described the cut he wanted—just enough length to smooth back. Later that night, when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was a different person. Now he was ready to start his new life.
Alex woke up the next morning, his body stiff and sore from the lumpy mattress, but his heart was filled with joy. Today was his first day of class. My first step toward success. His stomach growled voraciously and he went in search of food. Visions of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and ham filled his mind. The small, but newly cleaned refrigerator in his apartment was bare, so he grabbed his new wool jacket and headed for the University cafeteria.
As he walked along the street, he became aware that among the students on campus he was anonymous, just another face in the crowd. Nobody knew about his background. Nobody knew about his mother. He would be judged for his talent and achievements alone.
The cafeteria was crowded with students. Alex found himself a table and concentrated on the food before him. As he ate, bits of conversations drifted over to him.
“…Calculus 101 with professor Morrow, then Principles of Design with Anderson, a cinch...”
“…not looking forward to Analytic Geometry. That'll be a real bitch...”
He turned his attention to the boys at the next table. They were tall, medium build, classic Ivy League haircuts, intelligent eyes and dazzling white teeth in well-tanned faces. They were the very picture of young men living the American dream. And that is exactly how I look now. Who would ever have believed I would be here someday? I got this far. I'll make it the rest of the way.
* * * *
NYU's Architectural Program was everything that Alex had expected it to be. For the first time in his life, he threw himself into his studies with enthusiasm and energy. Until now, school had been a necessary evil; one he had endured giving it the bare minimum of effort. Now, his mind was like a sponge, soaking in as much knowledge as it could. The courses included Drafting, Building and Construction, Design, Algebra and Professional Practice. At the end of each day, he could hardly wait until the next morning's classes. He worked harder than he ever had. His dreams were finally within reach. Nothing will stand in my way now.
The campus was full of pretty girls. The first time Alex noticed one that appealed to him, he quickly reminded himself of his goals. I don't have time for such things. A girlfriend will only slow me down. That night, as he settled down to a few hours of study, his mind kept wandering back to her. Much as he tried to concentrate on his books, all he could think about was the girl's blonde hair falling loosely on her shoulders, her trim figure in the crisp white blouse and pleated skirt. Her legs tapering down to slim ankles in rolled white socks and her smile when she looked back at him interfered with his efforts. Try as he might he could not stop imagining the delights hidden under those prim clothes. It had been months since he had last seen Rita and Alex's sexual appetite was screaming to be fed.
The next morning, he hurried over to the library where he had spotted her. He hunted through the rows of bookshelves until he spotted the familiar blonde head. She was standing on her toes in the Psychology section, her back to him, inspecting the titles of the books on the upper shelf. He casually walked over, searching for an excuse to talk to her.
The girl reached for a book, tugged at it, and just as she managed to grasp the edge, it slipped out of her hands and crashed heavily down on one of her feet.
“Ouch!” The cry was heartfelt. She stood on one foot, holding on to the shelf as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Let me help you,” offered Alex, solicitously. He picked up the book and put one arm around her narrow waist. “Lean on me.” He walked her slowly over to the study section and helped her into one of the chairs. Alex slipped off her shoe and massaged her foot gingerly.
“Ohhh! That feels better,” she exclaimed.
“That book weighs a ton.” He stopped massaging for a moment and looked down at the lump that was quickly forming. “That's a nasty welt. Maybe you should go to the infirmary.”
“No, no. I'm feeling much better already. It was nice of you to stop and help.”
“Nice!” exclaimed Alex in mock horror. “I'm not nice. I expect to be paid for this.”
She looked up at him, surprised, and noticed the deep blue eyes and the easy smile. “What are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.
Alex looked back at her innocently. “I never do anything for nothing. I did something for you, now you have to do something for me.” He paused before adding. “Have lunch with me.”
With his easy charm and deep blue eyes, he really was irresistible but still the girl hesitated. “I don't know. It's too early for lunch. Besides, I have work to do.”
“I'll settle for coffee,” he said, beaming.
“Are you always so pushy?” she asked playfully.
“Always.” Alex chuckled. “And if you're about to accuse me of purposely making that book fall on your foot, you're right. I took one look at you and said to myself, 'How am I going to get that girl to notice me?' Then I made the book fall and it worked, of course.”
She laughed. “Okay. Coffee. But only a quick one. In the cafeteria in an hour?”
Alex nodded. “It's a date.”
* * *
Over coffee, Alex learned a lot about Linda. She was nineteen, in her first year of college, and was studying to be a child psychologist. What Linda wanted most in life, however, was to get married and have children. Alex was smitten. He could not take his eyes off her. Linda Hyde was beautiful and sexy. The thought of her beautiful body under his drove him wild. He could not wait.
On their first date, he took her out for a burger. At the end of the meal they shared an ice-cream soda, and he told her about his dreams. He talked about the buildings he wanted to build and the money he wanted to make. “I guess I want what every guy wants.” He paused for a moment and put his hand on hers. “I want to be successful, get married, and have a family.” It wasn’t really a lie, he told himself. He did want to get married—someday.
Linda listened with rapt attention. “You know, you're the first boy I've ever met who doesn't mind talking about his plans.”
“Should I stop?”
“Please don't. I like talking. Most boys just try to get me into bed. If I mention that I want to get to know them, they get impatient. I can't be attracted to someone I don't know.”
Alex nodded. He leaned forward and kissed her. Linda blushed but did not pull away. For the rest of the evening Alex told her all about himself, changing the details of his childhood until it sounded nothing like his life and altering his ambitions until she believed that settling down was foremost on his mind.
On the second date, Alex took her to The Starlight Club. This is sure to break my budget, but what the heck. She's worth it. Alex pressed his hard body against hers during the slow dances. With every dance, her body melted closer into his. With every kiss, her breathing became shallower. He could feel her resolve weaken. At the end of the evening, when Alex invited her back to his apartment, she accepted. And when Alex slowly undressed her and covered her body with
his kisses, she believed she and Alex would spend the rest of their lives together.
Long after Alex had fallen asleep, Linda stayed awake remembering every delicious detail of their lovemaking. Their naked bodies, moving together as in slow motion, Alex's hardness tearing into her until her passion equaled his and she cried out for more. Then she had exploded into waves of sheer ecstasy. At last she knew what love was. She turned and gazed at the face of the man who had awakened such deep emotions. In his sleep Alex looked like a little boy. “I love you,” she whispered, then curled up close to him and fell asleep.
* * *
Linda sat across from him in the coffee shop. “I was speaking to my parents last night, and they mentioned they would like to meet you.”
Alex looked up from his espresso. “Why would they want to do that?”
Linda giggled. “Don't be silly. You know why. You're my boyfriend. They know that we're in love with each other and they want to meet the man I want to marry.”
“What do you mean 'marry'?” Alex was shocked.
“Alex, I’m not talking about getting married now. I'm talking about eventually—next spring, next summer. Maybe we’ll even wait until you graduate. But we will get married some day, won’t we?”
Alex swallowed hard. Suddenly he wasn't so sure what he felt. “Love? Whoever said anything about love?” How could anybody be sure of being able to love only one person for the rest of their life? He wasn't ready for this. Linda was nice, but he didn't want to be saddled with marriage and babies. Visions of being stuck in a small apartment with a family to feed flashed through his mind. He saw his dreams of a brilliant future, vanishing. He was near panic. “Sorry sweetheart, I think we got our wires crossed. You’re a great girl, but I'm just not ready for that.” With that, he turned and walked out of the shop, leaving a tearful Linda behind.
* * *
Chapter 4
Richoux's cosmetics department occupied the entire first floor of the store. Displayed along light pink counters were the world's most expensive beauty products and perfumes. Here, any woman felt beautiful and feminine. It was brilliant marketing.
At Richoux's a customer could re-powder a shiny nose, try new rouge or lipstick, apply a touch of mascara or eye shadow, and study the results in the rose-tinted mirrors that invariably made one look younger and more beautiful, all in the privacy of a curtained booth bien entendu,
Brigitte followed Jeanne to the Mariane Marceau counter. “Yvonne, I would like you to meet Brigitte. She is going to be working with you. I want you to teach her everything—consultations, professional makeup, everything,” she repeated. She turned back to Brigitte. “Good luck. I'll be back at the end of the day to see how you did.”
Yvonne was a self-assured young woman, given to wearing bright colors and heavy, yet expertly applied makeup. Where Jeanne left off in Brigitte's training, Yvonne took over with energy. In no time Brigitte's life was completely transformed. She loved her job as a sales girl in Richoux's cosmetics department, and to her surprise she excelled at it.
“You really have a knack with cosmetics,” Yvonne told her one day. “I can't believe it. You've been here only a few weeks and you're already much better at makeup applications than many of the other sales girls.” Indeed it was true. Brigitte's ability with the makeup brushes was astounding. She could, in minutes, transform a pale or sallow complexion into a young and healthy glow. With a few strokes of color, she turned a plain woman into a vision of beauty.
Brigitte was ecstatic. My life could not be better, she thought. She had a regular income. She had a home, a small rented room a few blocks away from the store, and she had friends, one of whom was monsieur Latreille. She had begun to think of him as a father. In fact, the man bore a slight resemblance to the real father Brigitte had loved and lost.
Every morning on his way to work, Marcel stopped at the rooming house and had a cup of coffee with Brigitte. His behavior was friendly and always correct. He listened patiently to the young girl's chatter about her work in the cosmetics department and was full of helpful advice. The few minutes with Marcel every morning became precious to Brigitte. For the first time since her father, a man cared for her without seeming to have any ulterior motives. “If you need anything let me know,” he told her repeatedly. “I want to make sure you have everything you need.”
I can't believe how happy I am, she thought, and pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Nighttime no longer terrified her. She slept easily, without fear of Lucien's advances. Food once again had taste, and she ate with a hearty appetite. She began to put on weight and only looked more womanly and beautiful.
One morning as she hurried down to the dining room to meet Marcel, the smells from the kitchen sent her stomach heaving. She ran back upstairs and made it to the toilet just in time. Afterward, she sat down and calculated quickly. In horror, she realized it had been months since her last period. She could be as much as four months pregnant. She splashed water on her face and went down to face Marcel.
Marcel looked up eagerly as she walked in. “Are you all right?” he asked as he pulled her chair for her. “You don't look well.”
“I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I think I might have a touch of the flu.”
There was concern in his voice. “Take the day off. You look like you need it. I'll stop by tomorrow morning and see how you're doing.”
“No, I don't feel that badly. I'd rather go to work.”
“Well, if you're sure you feel up to it.”
At Richoux's, Brigitte quickly put on the white lab coat that was the cosmetic girls' uniform and hurried over to the Mariane Marceau department.
“Bonjour Brigitte. How are you today?” Yvonne greeted her. She picked up a bottle of spray window cleaner, squirted some on the pink counter and began to wipe. “Hey, what's wrong? You look terrible. Did you spend the night with your lover?” she asked teasingly.
Brigitte thought fast. “I didn't sleep all night. A girlfriend of mine came over.” She paused for a moment, wondering whether she should continue. “She's pregnant and not married.”
“That's a drag. Won’t her boyfriend marry her?”
“He left her and she has no money.”
“Listen.” Yvonne lowered her voice. “I have a friend who had an abortion. I'll try to find out where she went. It's not dangerous if it's done by a proper doctor. How far along is she?”
“I'm not sure—I mean, she doesn't know for sure. She hasn't had her period in over three months.” Brigitte's eyes revealed nothing of the turmoil she was feeling.
Yvonne groaned. “Why did she wait so long? I wouldn't want to be in her position.”
A woman approached the counter and Brigitte immediately flashed her Richoux sales-girl smile. “Bonjour Madame. May I help you?”
* * *
The recent euphoria turned into despair. Life had suddenly become a nightmare. It took all of Brigitte's energy to get through each day. During the nights, she lay sleepless. No matter how she looked at it, her situation was impossible. Yvonne had come back with the news that the abortionist who had taken care of her friend's problem had since been arrested. The information only made Brigitte feel more worried. What she wanted was not only illegal, but dangerous.
A year ago, a girl from her school underwent an abortion. The operation, it turned out, had been performed in a dirty apartment by some quack that had no idea what he was doing. It had cost the girl her life. The whole lycée had buzzed about the tragedy for weeks. Even if I could find a decent doctor to perform it, I don't have enough money.
On the other hand, having the baby would mean giving up any chance of a happy life. She would be that child's prisoner just as surely as she had been Lucien's prisoner. I can't have this child. I would rather die than have that man's baby. The more she thought about it the more hopeless her situation seemed. There has to be a way out of this, she thought, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling above her bed. Marcel Latreille must never know ab
out this. He's a decent man. I'd lose the only real friend I have.
Gradually, she realized she would have to do it herself. It was the only solution. Brigitte looked at the clock next to her bed. Five-thirty in the morning. It was time. Whatever happened, she was ready.
There was something almost ceremonial about the preparations. From the closet, she pulled out a wire hanger. She walked back to her bedside table, untwisted the hook end of the hanger and lit a match. The flame licked the end of the wire over and over until it burned her fingers. She repeated the procedure until there were no more matches.
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