Invitation to Provence(5)
“Did Marcus really send you to tell me this?” Franny asked.
“He sure did. The prick never could do his own dirty work, but from now on he’ll have to. You, Franny Marten, are my last assignment. I’ve quit.”
Franny took a big gulp of the wine. “Well, f*ck Marcus Marks,” she said too loudly, and the young marrieds with kids at the next table turned to glare at her.
Clare was forking up her fettucini like a starving pro-footballer straight off the field after a hard game. “Tuck in,” she said. “Love—or the lack of it—can make a woman hungry.”
Franny took a bite of the gnocci. It tasted great. “Maybe you’re right, Mrs. Marks,” she said, choking on the name.
“Have a drink of water,” Clare said helpfully, “and of course I’m right.”
Clare had not been exactly truthful with Franny about her past. In fact, it was a past she didn’t care to remember. But Franny was no dummy the way she had been. Franny was a veterinarian, educated, successful, dedicated, while she had had to learn on the job, so to speak.
She leaned forward, looking into Franny’s eyes. “You and I hardly know each other,” she said, “but somehow I feel as though I’ve known you for years.”
“Oh my god.” Franny gasped, shocked. “That’s exactly what Marcus said when we first met.”
“I’ll bet he also said, ‘We must have met in some other life,’ ” Clare said, and Franny stared at her. “Oh yes,” Clare added. “He said that to me too. It’s his usual come-on line. Marcus is nothing if not predictable.”
She delicately pulled a crayfish apart, devoured it in a single bite, then licked her fingers. “So, what are you going to do now? You want to confront him? Marcus hates that you know. That’s why he sends me to do the dirty work. He’ll hide from you at every turn.”
Tears clung to Franny’s lashes. “Why did you stay with him when you knew what was going on?”
“For the same reason millions of other women do, honey. Sometimes we call it love, sometimes infatuation. Either way, a man can be like a disease—one you never recover from.” Clare’s smile was rueful as she met Franny’s eyes. “All I can say is, I’m sorry.”
“I hate him.” Franny took another gulp of wine. “I hate him for deceiving me, for stringing me along, for being a liar and a cheat.” That steely inner core surfaced now and she was facing the truth head-on. “Anyhow, I knew,” she admitted. “In my heart I knew it was over.”
Clare stared at her, surprised. “Well, bravo for you, Franny Marten. I took you for the doormat type. Obviously I was wrong.”
Franny shoved the tears away with her finger, feeling suddenly better. “I think I need some tiramisu,” she said firmly.
“Of course, something sweet, just the thing for a cracked heart,” Clare agreed. “Trust me, it’s not broken,” she added. “Marcus does not have the capacity to break a woman’s heart, only to cause a little damage. You need what’s known as ‘a soul’ to break someone’s heart, and Marcus definitely does not have ‘a soul.’ ” She sighed. “And nor, I suppose, do I since I’ve yet to break anybody’s heart.”
Franny dug her spoon viciously into the creamy tiramisu, wishing it were Marcus’s eyes. “Well, I certainly do have a soul, and I intend to keep it.”
“Hmm. You do that,” Clare said. “Keep your soul intact. In the end, it’s all you’ve got.”
They finished the tiramisu in silence as the waiter poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Clinging to the shreds of her dignity, Franny said, “I want to thank you for what you just did. I certainly never expected to be sitting here with Marcus’s wife.” She stared thoughtfully into the depths of her wineglass. “The odd thing is that … Well, you’re honest and straightforward, and you were kind to me. To tell you the truth, Clare, I like you. In different circumstances, I think we might have liked each other.”
Clare knew exactly what she meant. “Honey, it’s just the contrast with the hard time Marcus has been giving you lately, always putting you on your mettle, always getting at you for being late or not looking right.” She held up a hand as Franny gasped in recognition. “It’s what he does with all his women. It’s part of his control-freak sickness, his let’s-play-get-the-girl. Let’s tell her she’s great, beautiful, sexy, fun … then let’s bring her down to size. All the way down until she’s somewhere way beneath him, leaving Marcus on top and in a very superior position. Which is exactly where he likes to be.” She shrugged. “Of course then the game is over and it’s time to find a new prey.”
Clare’s eyes softened as they met Franny’s hurt look. She gripped her hand across the table, “Don’t blame yourself, honey. I’ve been there too. He’s just a bad guy and what you need, lovely Franny Marten, is a salt-of-the-earth kind of man, a man who will look after you, a man who cares about your happiness, a man you need never worry about cheating on you. Actually, I need a man like that, too.” She sighed. “But where do you suppose women find them?”
“God knows.” Franny glanced at the happy couple at the next table, collecting their kids and their belongings, ready to leave. “But they’re obviously out there somewhere,” she added wistfully.