Another similar evening rose in the back of her mind—the night she had scratched her wrist raw every time her mother had asked if something was wrong, and Celine had replied with a shake of her head, until she couldn’t take it anymore and had asked to be enrolled at the fashion school.
The slap that had accompanied the refusal rose from her memories, too. Celine’s cheek heated up. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the imprint of her mother’s fingers manifest on her skin as well.
She dared a glimpse at Madame LeBeau now and bit down on her tongue.
Just this once, she would keep lying.
The guilt was worth it. The disappointed look she would receive when the truth was finally out would be worth it too.
Feeling a sudden weight of drowsiness fall on her, Celine dragged herself over to the divan opposite her mother’s lounge chair, and flung herself over the soft, white paddings.
Anotherswooshof paper.
The rest of the living room dwelt in silence, save for the chirping of the cicadas outside that had somehow found themselves within the city’s buzzing life. Celine was half inclined to stay like that for the rest of the night: seep into the couch and become one with the silent furniture. Sometimes it was the only way she and her mother could coexist in the same room.
But the silence had to end sometime.
Madame LeBeau finally lifted her eyes. A disappointed sigh left her lips like smoke. “Can't you wear something less…” Celine waited for her mother to stop distorting her face at the dress. “Less....revealing?”
“It's April, maman. The exposed back keeps me cool.”
“That exposed back is going to earn you another headline. Do you want degrading nicknames to start pouring in?” she demanded. Celine bit down on her tongue harder, refraining from telling her mother she was, unfortunately, still known asThe Vampire. That the nickname seemed determined to cling to her side. “We'll see if you can return it after Francine finds the receipts.”
“What if I don’t want to return it? Fashion is how I express myself, maman.”
Madame LeBeau lifted a stern brow. “Find a medium of art to do that.”
“Fashionisart,” Celine bellowed. “More than, in fact. It combines all the other mediums into one.” There were times when she knew how far to push her mother on this. It was like a blinker going off somewhere in the distance, alerting Celine that if she pressed a little longer something or someone would burst. And there were other times when Celine herself threatened to burst if she didn’t speak her mind. “I am not returning the dress,” she said, point-blank. “It shows who I am.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd, Celine. You can’t possibly wear that thing again. It’s vulgar.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I have yet to witness a man drop to his knees because he’s seen my bare back, maman.” Leaning back, feigning disinterest, Celine began examining her nails.“Then again, the day still has four hours left. Who knows what will happen.”
“Do not tire me with your liberal spirit tonight. We will not discuss this again.” Returning her focus to her magazine, she flipped a page, the subject of outrageous dresses forgotten. “Do you have your costume ready?”
“What costume?” Celine shot back.
“Honestly, Celine.” She folded the magazine in half with an irritatedflapand set it aside. “For Ménard’s philanthropic party. Jacques sent one over for you. There was something about Rome on the note…I can’t be too sure.”
Celine cursed silently. Just when she thought she could finally relax. Frankly, she had forgotten all about the soirée. Her everyday agenda was lost somewhere in the recesses of her brain, and had it not been for Anaïs’s subtle reminders on the telephone, she would have surely missed half of the things Jacques had arranged for her lately. She remembered him talking about tonight’s costume party, though. But he’d said he wanted them to go as Paris and Helen.
“Rome?” Celine repeated slowly. “I thought—”
“Oh, what am I saying.” Madame LeBeau slipped off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You have been out all day to have seen it when he dropped it off. Francine!” she screeched. “Do take out Celine’s costume from the box and iron it. We leave in an hour, she must have it ready.” Then she turned towards her daughter once more, scrutinising her like she could read the lines of Celine’s brain if she looked long enough. “Tell me, what do you do out all day? It’s like you try to avoid me intentionally, Celine.”
“Of course not, maman,” Celine stammered, working her brain to find a lie that wouldn’t come apart as easily as a house of cards. “I was helping Anaïs find a mask for tonight.”
Her mother only hummed. “Go on and get ready. You shouldn’t make Jacques wait.”
Only too glad to leave, Celine pushed herself off the divan and scuttled up the stairs and into her bedroom.
She found Francine all giddy and smiling, lifting a single rose up to her nose to take in the scent of its petals. “What has gotten into you?” she asked, closing the door behind her.
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just been so long since someone gave me flowers.”
Celine considered her with some amusement. “Look at you, courting a secret admirer.”
Francine placed the rose on Celine’s bedside table and hinted at the flat box resting on the bed. “The secret admirer is yours, Mademoiselle. He was kind enough to gift me a rose for my secrecy.”
