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After Gregoire refused her request, Carol sat in her office fuming. With angry jabs at her keyboard, she typed a letter to him, pretending to herself that she would send it and enlighten him, but cautioning herself at the same time not to indulge herself in doing it, not ever.
“Gregoire, you’re playing an ego-driven power game.” Her fingers stabbed at the keys, which clacked as the words flowed. “Oh yes, you seem to be getting away with it, simply because you’re in a position of authority. Be warned: somewhere along the line, this will cost you. You won’t let me reclaim my well-deserved place in my colleagues’ esteem. Well, do unto others as you’d want them to do to you. You’ve forgotten that, but as my mother used to say, ‘God keeps good books.’”
She wondered where the reference to God came from. She hadn’t thought about him in two decades. She typed a few more lines, then realized that the best ending was her mother’s quote. She deleted all the extra stuff.
When she finished, she re-read it while sipping tea she’d gotten from the kitchenette. Daphné had come to its door but then pretended she wasn’t intending to enter. Instead she had given Carol a weak smile and fled.
Damn Gregoire! What could she do to make him feel some pain himself? Carol fell into a rêverie. She wasn’t going to send this letter, so how was she going to exact some revenge? Trying to get revenge was so risky, but wouldn’t it be lovely if...if she incapacitated his beloved car? So pleasurable to imagine Gregoire’s face when the motor wouldn’t start. She could Google how to spike a BMW Z-3’s engine. Surely somebody knew, and not only knew but posted it on the Internet. Lovely idea.
Or perhaps do some espionage, learn his address, and tell his wife he cheats. She could imagine the scene. His wife crying, confronting Gregoire. And Gregoire moving in a day later with whomever he was shagging at the time. It wouldn’t affect him, except maybe to be bugged at the alimony he had to pay. No, telling the wife would hurt the wife, not Gregoire.
Carol shifted in her chair and crossed her legs the other way.
Or perhaps do some espionage to get the passcodes, break into the movie production company’s files, and re-edit Trapèze’s films, making them incoherent? Lovely idea, really, but assuredly there were back-ups upon back-ups stored in all kinds of places. Amandine would have copies in her desktop, for that matter.
Or perhaps pick up that crystal elephant on his desk, with its trunk raised for good luck, and hurl it through the window. With a bit of luck, it would clonk the windshield of the BMW, crack it, lovely, yes...
Carol heard footsteps approaching in the hallway, so she brought herself out of her rêverie fast, got her hands on her keyboard, and pretended to be screenwriting for all she was worth.
Martine passed on her beautiful long legs. She didn’t glance in Carol’s direction.
The reality of Carol’s situation landed on her full force. After the escape that her little mini-movie of revenge had given her, the pain flooding in again was fierce.
Carol nursed her wounds for a few minutes, then encouraged herself to be professional and get on with the job. She did her best on the storks vs. ogre script. She had the ogre eat some spinach that made his Gregoire-type hair grow. Then she deleted that.
The sound of new footsteps in the hall brought Carol’s eyes up to her window onto the hallway. Amandine sauntered by on knife-like heels, looking down at Carol at her desk. Carol averted her gaze fast, but not before she saw escargot! in Amandine’s eyes.
I refuse that thought, I refuse that assessment, Carol breathed to herself in a mantra. But then the lowness of Amandine’s opinion of her burst all over her, leaving slime trails she couldn’t deal with. She tried to, for a while, saying reassuring things about herself to herself, but she just felt worse and worse. She thought, Amandine is well liked in the office, and I’m not. Amandine has ideas that Gregoire likes all the time, and I don’t. Amandine knows a loser when she sees one, and I obviously am one.
Carol sighed. She needed a little emotional support. She dug out her phone and searched to see if she had saved Philippe’s number. Yes! She called him.
“Hi,” she said.
“Good to hear your voice. What’s up?”
Carol thought Philippe sounded tired, strained. The poor man was dealing with so much—discontented parishioners, no doubt, and sick people. And that daughter. Maybe this was a bad idea, what?
“Well, just having a hard day.” She intended to leave it at that, make a light excuse and say goodbye. But she imagined Philippe’s kind personna, standing somewhere in Paris with a cell phone pressed to his ear, ready to listen, and couldn’t help herself, she poured out the Amandine “incident,” which possibly was all in her head.
“I feel it’s all a bit crazy,” she muttered at the end.
“A bit of craziness spices the soup, don’t you think?” he answered. “Or maybe leavens the loaf, I might say.”
Carol had no idea what significance leaven might have in Philippe’s world. She wasn’t about to ask.
“Carol, you’re a very creative person with lots of talent. Why don’t you write down several affirmations, starting with those? And try to let go of Amandine. People like that pay a price, and I think it’s immediate and constant.”
“I certainly hope so,” Carol said primly.
“We all do fall short,” Philippe said. “Just a gentle reminder about reality.”
“Quite,” Carol said.
They signed off. Carol looked out her doorway into the hall. Nobody walked by. In fact, nobody had stopped by for a long time, ever since Gregoire botched it with Amandine.
She walked to the kitchen, hoping to bump into someone and have a friendly chat. Two colleagues, on two occasions, dashed on instead of coming into the kitchen, as they’d apparently intended.
Carol dumped her freshly made tea down the sink. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get out of the office. She wanted desperately to do some retail therapy. It wasn’t wise, her credit card was groaning.
Carol snuck out of Trapèze and went to a shop in Le Marais that specialized in linen clothing. She bought a long halter dress in raspberry, and a short blouse in melon. Even with the July sales, they cost 125 euros.
The salesgirl said, “Bonne soirée,” as Carol left, but she was in too bad a mood to answer. She dashed out onto the pavement and headed toward her apartment. Damn these tourists, always stopping in the middle of the narrow pavement and gawking at buildings and maps, not knowing where they were. She allowed her shopping bag to bousculer one very fat woman moving entirely too slowly. She deliberately stepped into the path of a tall man with wiry brown hair like Gregoire’s. “Pardon, madame,” he said politely. Carol ignored him and stormed on.
When she got home, she apologized, half-heartedly, to the babysitter for being late. She tried on the jacket and dress she’d bought so Louise could see them.
“Maman, tu es trés belle,” Louise said.
Oh dear, Carol thought, maybe I should get her back to England before she’s too French. If we stay here too long, she won’t fit in with her mates in England, and she’ll never be accepted here as truly French. More to worry about. Great.
Carol asked Louise to set the table with forks and knives. She didn’t trust her heavy, earthenware plates in Louise’s hands, though serviettes were safe. Carol thawed a dal she’d made and frozen on a previous weekend, and some meatballs she’d hurriedly formed. They hunched lumpy and misshapen as they circled in the microwave.
Just so long as my writing isn’t lumpy and misshapen, Carol thought.
Louise had homework and was very brave about doing it without prompting or help. While the tiny girl bent her soft hair over her assignment, Carol read more of Anjali’s screenplay.
She thought it was pretty good. The premise, the character development, the mounting tension, were all there. Just the formatting needed work. That was so minor. Anjali had talent, while Carol’s was being questioned at work. Her heart felt like it had a piece of paper stuck between its chambers, with “You’re not good enough” in letters that blazed with fire.
In her fierce mood, she typed a response to Anjali. She was hurt, angry, and it all went into the email.
“I’ve read your screenplay. It’s not ready for prime time. All the best in your pursuits. Carol.”
She hit send and went to read Louise a story.
