by Alix Nichols
So much for getting him to relate.
“You disappeared in the second year,” I say. “I thought you’d dropped out or transferred. I forgot all about you.”
“Of course you did.” He purses his lips. “But I didn’t go anywhere. I just made myself more discreet after you ratted me out to the administration.”
I survey him for a long moment.
He holds my gaze, his eyes filled with lechery so revolting it makes me gag. Just like it used to eight years ago, every time I caught him leering at me from behind a tree or a pillar.
“So, Mia,” he says at length. “Do we have a deal?”
“No, we don’t.”
“You’re being stupid.”
“Why come forward now?” I ask. “You sat on this video for six years. What pushed you to take action?”
He smirks. “I went to Sydney for my third year, graduated, landed a job, and a girlfriend—Sandy. A genuinely good girl, unlike some.”
I ignore his meaningful glance, keeping my expression as impenetrable as I can.
“But you ruined my relationship,” he says.
“Me? How?”
“That video… I couldn’t stay away from it, couldn’t stop watching you getting banged.” He shakes his head, his expression bemused. “I had the wildest fantasies about you, Mia. The things we did in them!”
Panic fills my chest, but I do my damnedest not to show it.
Gaspard leans forward. “It became a bit of an obsession.”
“You don’t say.”
He glares. “I tried to get Sandy to be more like you… I asked her to dye her hair auburn. Then I bought her green-tinted contact lenses. And then I began to push her sexually where she didn’t want to go.”
“Let me guess—she ditched you.”
I shouldn’t have said that! But I couldn’t help myself.
He nods. “I could’ve made her stay if I had leverage. But I didn’t—unlike with you.”
The gleam in his eyes is borderline deranged.
Oh God.
Gaspard sits back. “After Sandy left, I wasted some time hooking up with prostitutes and all kinds of trash. They did everything I asked them to do, no problem, but… I felt shortchanged. You know?”
He bares his teeth in a sickening smile.
I turn away.
“That’s when I realized I didn’t have to use cheap substitutes. I could have you. Mia Stoll, my fantasy, the haughty slut of my dreams, was within my reach if I played my cards right. All I had to do was to find you and—”
“Blackmail me,” I cut in.
“Exactly,” he says without a hint of discomfort. “It took me a while to locate you, though, seeing as you’re not on social media or in the phone directory.”
“But you managed.”
“Yeah, I did.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. “I won’t be your plaything.”
“Listen,” he says, his tone conciliatory. “It won’t be as bad as you think. I won’t humiliate you in public. I’m a reasonable man.”
“Reasonable?” I choke back a bitter laugh. “You’re a raving lunatic.”
He glares. “Why don’t you drop the innocent act? I was at that party. I filmed it, remember?”
“People change,” I say.
“Oh please.” He makes a face. “Do yourself a favor and accept my terms.”
“No.”
“Mia, darling,” His tone becomes softer again, and even creepier than before. “All I’m asking is that you put your sweet little body at my disposal, just like you did for three other men at that party, once or twice a year when I’m in France. The rest of the time, you’re free to fuck whomever you want.”
“No,” I say again.
He frowns. “You’ll risk your academic career? Your job? Your pastor mom cutting you off?”
Those prospects are terrifying, indeed. Especially, the last one.
“Tell you what,” he says with a saccharine smile. “Why don’t you sleep on it? Actually, take the entire weekend. I’ll be visiting with some family in the countryside, and then I’ll be back on Monday.”
It’s tempting to tell him he can go to hell, but I bite my tongue.
“I can totally see how my offer may seem daunting at first.” His smile grows increasingly sickening. “Especially since you expected to just pay your way out of this.”
I refuse to look at him.
“But you’re a big girl. You’ll survive.” He stands up. “Until Monday, chérie.”
And then he marches out.
Chapter 20
I return to the office and format the news bulletin with my brain functioning on autopilot. When I’m done, I email Pauline that I’m unwell and won’t be able to compile the international politics section today.
Then I shut down my computer and leave.
As I walk home, barely aware of my surroundings, I collide with a woman who stopped suddenly in front of the médiathèque. I apologize. She smiles, pats my arm, and tells me it was her fault.
She’s very pregnant.
A chill runs down my spine as I take in her rounded belly and realize I missed my period in June.
That means I haven’t had it for almost two months.
It could be nothing.
It has to be nothing.
I repeat those words in my head as I purchase two pregnancy tests at the pharmacy on the corner. I keep repeating them until I pee on the white stick and it gives me a smiley face.
I do the second test, and the stick smiles at me once more.
So, it isn’t nothing.
I wash my hands and pick up the tweezers on the little shelf under my bathroom mirror.
How is this possible?
Raphael and I never had sex without protection. Not once.
Absently, I study my face in the mirror and tell myself my eyebrows could do with some trimming.
I pull out a hair.
Ouch.
This is almost as painful as Brazilian wax. How can women do this daily?
It’s common knowledge that condoms only work ninety percent of the time. Given how much sex we’ve had since January, I should’ve asked my OB-GYN to put me on the pill.
I pluck more hairs on each side.
If I’m really pregnant, I could just go to a hospital and get an abortion. Thankfully, you can do that in France without a problem.
I study my thinned eyebrows in the mirror. They’re uneven.
Man, I’m crap at this.
I have another go at the left eyebrow.
Raphael never wanted this to happen. He doesn’t want a baby or a family. He doesn’t even want a regular girlfriend. What’s happening to me isn’t his fault, and it won’t be fair to make it his problem.
My left eyebrow is a thin line now, the way women wore their brows in the seventies. I’d better fix the right one so they match.
I’ll have an abortion.
And then I’ll become creepy Gaspard’s long-distance sex slave to make sure my dirty secret stays under wraps and Màma and Pàpa never see that video.
Or, I’ll take a chance on Raphael and tell him the truth. All of it—the gang bang, the blackmail, the pregnancy. The whole enchilada. He’ll probably think I’m just like that auditor, Adele. A gold digger out to trap and use him.
I’d rather die than have him think that of me.
Alternatively, I could just carry on and do nothing.
My brows now have holes in them and look like dotted lines. I pluck some more until I’m staring at a woman with no eyebrows.
I bare my teeth at her and wave.
Hello, everyone. I’m Mia Stoll, the slutty freak.
Here’s what will happen if I do nothing. The fetus inside me will grow and become a baby. Raphael will despise me. Gaspard will email the video to my parents. They’ll be devastated. They won’t want to see me again.
I put the tweezers back on the shelf and walk out of the bathroom.
Actually, there’s
one more thing I could do.
Disappear.
Part II
Chapter 21
From: Eva Stoll
To: Mia Stoll
Subject: What’s up?
Hey Little Sis,
So how’s life in sunny Martinique? Are my friends taking good care of you? Did you get the job? Did your thesis supervisor agree to the long-distance thing?
I went over to Alsace last weekend. Màma and Pàpa had received your postcard. They must have read it so many times they’d learned it by heart before putting it in the center of the family-room mantelpiece. They’re a bit puzzled by your “quarter-life crisis,” as you described it, but they say they’re happy if you’re happy.
Most importantly, they haven’t received any emails from Gaspard. I’d wager he hasn’t posted the video on the Internet, either. He was bluffing, Mia. He’s a cheap, sad, pathetic loser who tried to play smart and failed. Now he knows you’re gone, and he doesn’t have your postal or email address. No more leverage. In a week or so, he’ll return to Australia with his tail between his legs. I hope he understands that the Stolls don’t negotiate with blackmailers!
Hugs,
Eva
From: Mia Stoll
To: Eva Stoll
Subject: Martinique
Hi Evie,
Life is good here, as good as it gets under the circumstances. It rains a lot, but the showers are warm, and they don’t last long. I love the sun, the sea, the beaches—all the stuff that makes me feel like I’m on an extended vacation somewhere in the Caribbean. Oh wait, I am in the Caribbean! And yet I’m still in France. Everyone speaks French, all the signs are in French, the TV is in French, not to mention all the familiar restaurant chains and shops. I love it.
Sandrine and Henrik have been so very kind to me. I don’t know how I’ll ever pay them back. You’re lucky to have friends like that, and I’m lucky to have a sister like you.
And now, drumroll please… I got the job! I can’t believe how easy the whole thing was. Starting next Monday, your fugitive sister will be a substitute history teacher at one of the Fort-de-France junior highs. The other great news is that Professor Guyot agreed to the “distance thing,” even if it wasn’t quite kosher. We’ll do our tutorials over Skype. This means I’m still enrolled in my PhD program and still on track to defend my thesis in a year.
You have no idea how happy I am to hear that Gaspard hasn’t carried out his threats—at least, not yet. It’s a load off my shoulders.
xoxo,
Mia
From: Eva Stoll
To: Mia Stoll
Subject: News
Congrats on your new job and on Professor Guyot’s leniency! Well done, baby sis.
You won’t believe who called me the other day. Sebastian d’Arcy. He introduced himself, apologized for bothering me, and then inquired after you. I had no idea he knew about your existence. Or mine, for that matter. Anyway, as per our script, I gave him the yada yada about your impossible-to-refuse job offer in Quebec. Then I went off script and asked if he was calling because his brother was “heartbroken.”
I’m sorry but I couldn’t help myself.
Sebastian said he doesn’t seem to be and added that, in fact, Raphael is in such high spirits one might think he was consuming if one didn’t know him better.
I asked him why he called. He was silent for such a long time I almost hung up, but then he said never mind and something about his wife being right about him worrying too much. After that, he said good-bye and hung up.
Wasn’t that weird?
That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. What I really want to know is if being far away is helping you forget Raphael. I hope it does. Maybe I should do the same to get over Adam…
And now for the most important question. Are you still pregnant or did you go through with the abortion plan?
Love,
Eva
From: Mia Stoll
To: Eva Stoll
Subject: RE: news
Hi Eva,
I’ll answer your rhetorical question first. :-) Sebastian d’Arcy’s call is weird. But it’s good to know Raphael is doing great. When I texted him that I was moving to Canada, he replied, “Good for you! Appreciate the heads-up.” I thought he was being sarcastic.
But now it looks like he meant it.
As for my getting over him, it’s a work in progress. To speed it up, I read self-help books. It’s called bibliotherapy, and you should definitely try it to help you get over Adam.
Another trick I’ve found is buying tabloids, where I almost always find photos of him in the company of dazzling creatures. I put a finger on his face and focus on the women, trying to guess which ones he has or will sleep with. And if I catch my finger caressing the paper, I bite it really hard.
It’s brutal, but it’s necessary.
To answer your most important question—yes, I’m still pregnant. I don’t think I can go through with the abortion. Not because I suddenly feel Raphael should have a say or anything like that.
I’m not too eager to be a mom, either.
If I miscarry, it would be a relief. A huge relief. But I’m almost three months along now, and the amalgamation of cells in my womb already has a heart. A tiny little beating heart, Evie. Blame it on our family background and education or my stupidity, but that means something to me. The critter is a product of lovemaking, not of mindless drunken sex or rape. I just can’t go to the hospital, have doctors silence its heartbeat, and then carry on with my life as if everything was fine.
It’s one of those “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” situations, and it looks like I’m going to go with a “don’t.”
xoxo,
Mia
Chapter 22
Fourteen Months Later
If I’d known how much being back in Paris would mess with my supposedly healed heart, I would’ve prepared better. I would’ve obtained a homeopathic prescription in Martinique and made sure I was on the highest permissible dose throughout my stay. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t be seeing Raphael on every corner, and I wouldn’t be thinking about him as a fellow scholar tells me about his work.
I force myself to tune in.
“It took as long as six months for the uprising to blow over,” Xavier says.
“Really?” I do my damnedest to figure out what uprising he’s talking about and why.
Xavier nods. “I couldn’t return to Mali and finish my fieldwork until last October.”
“Bummer.”
He spreads his arms. “That’s what happens when your study subjects live in an unstable country.”
I smile. “My subjects have been dead for centuries. Which is great for keeping my work on schedule.”
Xavier chuckles.
He has a shrill, almost girlie laugh you wouldn’t expect from a tall man wearing chunky boots and a lumberjack shirt.
“So what class are you teaching, maître?” I emphasize the last word, hinting at his official title, maître de conférences—associate professor.
My teasing is a little hypocritical, though. I’d be thrilled to land a maître de conférences contract once I have my PhD.
“I hope to teach my own class soon,” he says. “But for now, I conduct seminars for Professor Bosc’s Introduction to Sociology.”
“It’s a great course. I took it in my third year.”
I steal a glance at my chest to check for wet stains around my nipples.
So far so good.
“So you did your undergrad studies here in Paris?” Xavier asks.
I nod. “First two years in Strasbourg, then I transferred to Paris.”
“How long did you stay in Martinique?”
“A year. The plan is to return there after the defense.” I glance at my chest again.
Still dry, but not for much longer, I’m afraid.
“Listen, I need to dash to the bathroom.” I give Xavier an apologetic smile. “Will you stall Professor Guyot if he comes o
ut during my absence?”
“You bet.”
“Thanks! I’ll be right back.”
I bolt, scolding myself all the way to the bathroom for my absent-mindedness. In my rush to get to the école this morning, I forgot to slip nursing pads inside my bra. That means the milk oozing from my boobs might seep through my underwear and stain my blouse any moment now.
I hate this part of breastfeeding.
What I don’t hate is the act itself. Watching my herzele latch onto my breast, close her eyes in bliss, and derive nourishment from me is pure joy. We started solids recently—Lily is six months old now, and the doc said it was time—but I plan to breastfeed her twice a day for a few more months. It’s good for her well-being.
And for mine, too.
I wipe my nipples and line the cups of my bra with toilet paper. This should tide me over. Professor Guyot should finish his class anytime now, and when he does, we’ll talk. Then I can go pick up Lily from the day nursery.
Fingers crossed he has good news for me.
I’ve been in Paris three weeks now, and I still don’t have a date for my defense. It was supposed to take place last Wednesday. But then one of my two rapporteurs lost her father, and the whole thing had to be postponed.
“He’s still inside,” Xavier says when I return, almost running, and sit down next to him on the bench.
“Phew. Good.”
“You must be bummed about your defense last week,” he says.