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“He's so laid-back, and you're a whirlwind. The perfect marriage, right?”
“Yes, I guess we balance each other out.” She answers without looking me in the eyes.
Something is wrong.
“Clémentine?”
“Yes?”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“You’re such a pain in the ass, always guessing what’s going on…”
“Tell me.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Her apologetic look breaks my heart.
“But that’s great! I mean… isn’t it? Why did you keep it to yourself?”
“I know that seeing Raphaël again will have made you think about… the baby.”
“That doesn’t keep me from being happy for you!” I blurt out, throwing my arms around her and hugging her tightly.
The pang in my heart is definitely there. This news has reopened a wound that will never completely close, but I choose to be happy for her. To celebrate life. I want to share this moment of joy with Clémentine, because she means so much to me, and I already love her third child.
We spend over two hours talking about baby names, pelvic floors, the mental load, episiotomies, and chubby, little cheeks before we finally have to part ways.
“Alma?”
I turn around. “Yes?”
“Your turn will come, you know? And I’ll be there for you,” she says, suddenly emotional.
“I know, Clem.”
“The Lancaster-King couple proudly announces the arrival of their triplets! It sounds good, doesn’t it?”
I grin despite myself. “That’s it, go ahead and laugh. By then, you’ll be on your sixth!”
“If I keep having them two at a time, there’s a good chance…” She shoots me an alarmed look, then blows me one last imaginary kiss.
A little balm for my heart, the heart of a bereaved mother.
25
Alma
After arriving at the Grand Rex movie theater around 7 p.m., I quickly join my coworkers. All of them look stunning—and ready for battle. In my favorite Chanel dress, teetering on my heels, I watch the scene unfolding around me. Inside, the masterminds and loyal employees of King Productions are buzzing with anticipation. The atmosphere outside is loud and restless, with the fans’ faces reflecting their obvious excitement. Hundreds of people are lining up along Rue Poissonnière. The premiere of Pretty Little Murders is already a success.
In an hour, the large doors of the Parisian landmark will open, and a little over two thousand people will pour inside. But before they take their seats, the fans are in for a treat.
“Here we go,” I say, as I spot the first limousine approaching.
The stars of the futuristic thriller follow one another onto the red carpet amid applause, a flurry of camera flashes, and calls for autographs. A select few journalists manage to secure interviews amid the exhilarating chaos.
“So far, so good,” Clarence congratulates himself, tugging on the jacket of his YSL suit.
