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“Jobbeing the keyword,” she points out. “You pay them well, so—”
“How do you know if I pay them well?”
“Rudy quit MESS to work for you.”
I grin. “Good thinking there!”
She smiles back. “Like I said, you pay them well, and you treat them well, so you expect them to work well.”
She doesn’t acknowledge my compliment, but her smile tells me she’s pleased.
“See? I don’t really have trust issues,” I say.
She cocks her head to the side. “Sure… it’s a form of trust. I’m not saying it isn’t. But the nature of your relationship with Angie and Rudy doesn’t require that you make yourself vulnerable to them.”
“Does the nature of our marriage require that I make myself vulnerable to you?” I ask.
Her expression suddenly turns grave, and she stares at me. “I have no right to demand your unconditional trust, because I’m withholding mine from you.”
I believe we’re talking about what happened in my bedroom the other night.
“You don’t need to trust me unconditionally to bare yourself with me,” I whisper. “It’s just something people do when they make love.”
She doesn’t reply, just watches me.
I step closer and keep my voice low, “You seemed to like seeing me naked.”
“Very much.” She screws up her face. “Too much!”
“Good.”
She shakes her head. “No, not good! Falling for you is the last thing I need.”
“What? Did you just say you’re falling for me?”
She averts her gaze. “I’m a mess, Louis. Never mind what I said.”
She turns away and waves to a woman in a plaid sweater near the bar. A new colleague of hers, I presume. The woman waves back, and Camille darts over to her.
As is often with my unfathomable wife, I’m left struggling to fathom what just happened.
CHAPTER24
CAMILLE
Marianne and I exit the Louvre on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. This was our second visit. With the museum being immense, my tutor recommended that I do thematic tours instead of trying to cover as much ground as possible in one go. Today’s visit was entirely dedicated to Leonardo da Vinci. We saw all his paintings currently in the museum, bought an album in the gift shop, and exchanged impressions in the café Goguette under the glass pyramid.
Zipping up our coats, we head down the Christmassy rue de Rivoli. I catch a whiff of cinnamon as we pass a packed bistro, but there are no carol singers in sight. Can this be because France is a secular country? Or maybe they just prefer to sing carols in the warmth of their homes.
“Do you enjoy your work at MINDFUCH, Your Grace?” Marianne asks me.
“The staff is friendly, but the tasks they give me are so pointless they drive me nuts.”
“How pointless can they be?”
“You think I exaggerate?”
She says no but the naughty glint in her eyes says yes.
