If I were a cat then my hackles would be rising about now. “Me? Why should I text him? He’s the one who didn’t take my call that night. He’s the one who fobbed me off with a stupid email and hasn’t contacted me since.”
“Evie, his world had just fallen apart! He’s lost everything. Don’t you think you could offer just a little friendship? Why is this all about you?”
I reel back like she’s struck me. “What the hell, Mona? Why are you on his side all of a sudden? You were practically casting curses over his name by moonlight a week ago.”
Her face is pink with anger. “No, Therese was. I’ve been reading a lot about Frederic the last couple of days, all the terrible things people have been saying about him, and it’s got to me. I’m a singer, too. This could happen to me one day.”
I march past her into the kitchen and yank open the fridge, gazing at the contents with unseeing, furious eyes. Mona’s supposed to be on my side.
She follows me, not letting up. “He’s alone, Evie. He didn’t tell you about his voice, but he didn’t tell anyone, remember? I don’t think it was about keeping things from you. It wasn’t personal.”
“Not personal?” The weight of all the things she doesn’t know press down on me. Suck your finger, baby. “Believe me, it was personal. Very personal. You don’t understand.”
“No, actually, I think I do. That’s the point. You know my friend Jacqui? The one I took singing lessons with?”
I vaguely remember someone called Jacqui, but give a non-committal grunt.
“She was diagnosed with voice polyps eighteen months ago. She’s fine now, they’re gone, but can she get work? No, she’s stigmatized, even though her voice is perfect. She’s twenty-three and washed up. The singing world is goddamn brutal. We had a long talk about it yesterday and she apologized over and over for keeping secrets from me. I had to tell her to shut up in the end, I couldn’t bear it.”
“You weren’t in love with Jacqui and seeing her every day. She never lied to your face.”
Mona sucks in a breath. “Maybe not, but I see why she felt like she had to. People do funny things when they’re afraid of losing who they are. If you lost your hands and couldn’t write anymore, and you knew it would happen and kept it secret, I’d forgive you. Frederic was a singer, Evie. Don’t you get it?”
I slam the fridge shut. She’s the one who doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know what it felt like to have been made vulnerable by him, stripped back to my very core, and then betrayed. What difference would it make if I texted him? He’s known Sabine for twenty years and he won’t talk to her.
“Did you tell Frederic you loved him?”
The invisible hackles go up again. “That’s completely different. That was my secret to keep.”
“Oh? Your secret? Doesn’t that sound familiar. Now, who could I possibly be thinking about, someone who had a secret they felt was theirs to keep.” She taps her finger on her chin and pretends to think.
“Shut up, Mona. It’s different and you know it. You’re my sister and of course if I lost my hands or something you’d be there for me.”
“Yeah? Well, Frederic’s your friend and he’s lost everything. But fine, sit around and feel sorry for yourself instead. Have fun with that.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I push past Mona and run upstairs. How dare she? She’s supposed to think of him only as Frederic the betrayer, not Frederic the singer deserving of sympathy. The sick feeling in my belly doubles, then triples. He is a betrayer and I don’t forgive him for what he did to me.
My body moves but it’s divorced from my thoughts. Pulling my holdall from the top of the wardrobe I throw jeans and
jumpers and underwear into it.
What the hell am I doing?
I spy a row of Gothic novels on my bookshelf and sweep them all in: Northanger Abby, The Tennant of Wildfell Hall, The Castle of Otranto, The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Woman in White, and a half-dozen more besides.
I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I open an app on my phone, request a cab, hit confirm and then stare at it, my mind finally catching up with my body. I packed. I booked a cab.
Realization dawns. I’m going to Paris.
* * *
It’s half-past four when the car drops me outside Frederic’s flat in Le Marais. I spent the whole journey on the train—sensible, no-frills standard class, not the cushy business class seats that Frederic used to book for us—with a book open on my lap, staring unseeing out the window. What am I even doing? He hurt me. You don’t dash across to another country for someone who betrayed you. Where is your pride?
But standing outside his building and looking at the front door, I realize this isn’t about being weak. It’s about being strong. I’m not going to lie down and take it like I did with Adam. I’m not going to be afraid of Frederic, or my feelings, or who I am. I’m going to face what happened between us.
I’m going to face Frederic.
Pressing the buzzer on his flat, I wait. Nothing happens. I press it again, and then twice more over the space of several minutes. Then I dig out my phone and text him.