Beautiful(37)
“That’s true. I’m glad I saw you. I get it now.” Véronique noticed that she didn’t suggest that they get together, or have lunch sometime. They weren’t friends. Véronique had been a commodity she was selling. She was no longer saleable merchandise, so Stephanie was moving on. She could just imagine her telling people how Véronique looked, and about the scars on her face. She probably couldn’t wait to tell them. She was a terrible gossip, and loved spreading bad news. Véronique was surprised to realize she didn’t care. She couldn’t worry anymore about what she would say.
“Stay in touch,” Stephanie said unconvincingly. Véronique knew she wouldn’t hear from her again, and there would be no calls before Fashion Week in March to ask if she’d walk in one of the shows. They both knew now that she wouldn’t. “Well, take care,” she said, as Véronique shook her head.
“Merry Christmas,” Véronique said with a smile.
“You too. Call me after the next surgery and let me know if anything has changed.” Véronique nodded, with no intention of doing it, and then walked away with a wave.
She felt oddly free after she’d seen her. She didn’t need to hide anymore, or hope she didn’t run into her. The worst had happened. Stephanie had seen her face, and would tell everyone what she looked like. And then she realized as she walked home that the worst had happened on March 22, when her mother and Cyril and thirty other people had died, and so many others had been injured. The rest, and what Stephanie said about her face, didn’t matter at all.
Chapter 11
Véronique finished putting away her mother’s things in December. Her desk had been cleared. Véronique was using her study now. Her mother’s clothes were gone. Her books were still in the bookcase and would stay there. There were still photographs of Bill in the apartment, and she framed a number of the additional ones her mother had left her, and added them in the living room and her bedroom. They had new meaning for her now that she had met him. She loved the ones of her parents together and one of him holding her as a baby and beaming with pride.
Véronique noticed now how different the photographs were from the ones in his apartment, of him and his late wife standing side by side, looking awkward, with grim, ice-cold expressions. The joy and love Bill and Marie-Helene had shared was evident in every picture. Véronique couldn’t help thinking whenever she saw them what a fool he had been to make the choice he had. He would have been happy with them. But he was well aware of it too, and had admitted it readily when she saw him.
She decided to get healthy and strong again after months of being inactive while she recovered. She swam almost every day, went for long walks, and rode her mother’s bicycle in the Bois de Boulogne. She read all the books she’d wanted to read for the past few years, and hadn’t had time to, and some old favorites.
She still didn’t feel ready to contact people from her past. She’d lost contact with her school friends while she was modeling and working and traveling all the time. And her life had become too different from theirs. Some were jealous, and others had moved away, working or pursuing longer studies in other cities. At their ages, four years was a long time, and they had little in common now. She had landed in a very different world once she was modeling, and had led a more sophisticated life. She was back to basics now, but both fame and the trauma of the accident, and months in the hospital, had isolated her. Solitude was a habit now. And the biggest shock of all was losing her mother. She realized more than ever now how close they had been, and how empty her life was without her. Not having her support and the face she met people with now were obstacles she was still struggling to overcome.
She exchanged emails with a few of her mother’s friends, but seeing them without her mother would only make Marie-Helene’s absence more painful, and seemed too hard. Not wanting to intrude on her, they kept a discreet distance and they had their own problems, responsibilities, families, and busy lives. It made her regular contact with Doug even more precious to her.
She often went to movies in the afternoon. She got lost in the fantasy of the moment, and only went to funny movies that made her laugh, nothing too emotional or sad. She missed having someone to laugh with. And sometimes she turned on the TV in the apartment, just to hear voices and people in the house. Since the attack, she had led a solitary life. It was what she needed for now. She felt fragile after the trauma of what had happened in Brussels. Her computer was her main source of news and contact with the outside world, and she wrote to her father often. His responses were brief but warm and affectionate. He said he loved hearing from her, and he was leading an isolated life too, shut in at home, while his health continued to fail.
Now and then, she felt a wave of panic in a movie theater, or on the street, terrified that a bomb could explode near her. She read a lot about people who had survived trauma, and bought psychology books about PTSD. She realized that she was in transition between her old life, which had been shattered forever, and a new one, which hadn’t taken shape yet. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do about a job, but she wanted to get through her next two surgeries first before making any decisions. Her mind and her face and body were still engaged in the healing process, which for now was a full-time job.
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