The Last Dress from Paris(91)
She waits, then knocks again, rewarded only by a tense silence. She bends down and pushes the small letter box open, peering inside, straining to see any sign of the letter she had delivered to him yesterday. It’s not there on the floor, which must mean he has seen it and read it. Could he be on his way to the residence to see her? How can it possibly be just twenty-four hours ago that she placed her hands on the small swell of her belly and wondered if their baby will have Antoine’s shot of glossy dark hair or his full lips? Now all she feels is the tension knotting up every ridge of her spine.
She steps back from the door, returns to the courtyard, and rests against the large central tree anchored there. Think. What should she do? She lets her gaze travel up to his bedroom window, their bedroom window, hoping to see him waving down at her. Then something catches her eye, forcing her to focus more keenly on the glass. She sees the faintest change in the light behind his windowpane, a subtle shift in the shadows, like something or someone disturbed the air there.
Is it him? Maybe it’s the reflection of the tree branches making her think she saw more than she did. She wonders how long she can stand and wait before someone will come and question her. With every second she watches the door, she feels hope slowly ebb away from her. When it does eventually move, she doesn’t dare to believe it—she’s surely wishing it open when it’s not. Then the pointed face of Madame du Parcq appears, flushed with anger, determined to have her say. She’s marching toward Alice with not a shred of compassion or understanding to soften her.
“Go home, Madame Ainsley. You will achieve nothing by standing here, humiliating yourself further. Antoine does not want to speak to you.” Her eyes flame with anger.
“I don’t believe you.” It’s more of a croak than a statement, but Alice will not allow herself to be brushed off so easily.
“I don’t think that matters at this point, do you?”
“For goodness’ sake, Madame du Parcq, I’m carrying his baby. He can’t just ignore me.” She’s not sure how she manages the laugh, standing here begging to be seen when a couple of days ago they were decorating a Christmas tree and planning their future together.
Madame du Parcq’s voice slows and cools. “I did try to warn you. He’s not capable of handling something like this. He completely underestimated the severity of what you were both doing—and the repercussions of it—just as I knew he would. After everything Antoine has put us through, he will never go against my wishes, not in the end. Surely if you know him at all, you know that. But I am surprised at you, Madame Ainsley. You know your own husband and what he is capable of. What on earth were you thinking?”
“I love Antoine.” Alice can feel the fire light behind her eyelids at the mention of his name.
“You are a married woman. However exciting my son may be to you, you should have walked away. He’s still a boy, and a highly privileged one at that. One with personal issues that he isn’t even close to resolving. Don’t you think my family has suffered enough without you adding to it? I hope this time you understand my meaning?”
Alice pictures Antoine’s body, his strength, the way he lifted her into his arms at Dior like she weighed nothing at all. His determination to make this work. She refuses to believe that their separation is Antoine’s choice, that the version of him created by Albert and his mother is the accurate one. She knows him, and this is not him.
“Please, may I just have five minutes with him? It’s all I need.”
“I’m not his jailer. Don’t you think I gave him that option before I came down here? What more evidence do you need? You have made the most awful error in judgment, Madame Ainsley. Now take the only option that remains open to you. Go home, get on your knees, and beg for your husband’s forgiveness. Take whatever olive branch he is prepared to offer you. My son is no longer yours to ruin.” She sighs, shakes her head, and for a fleeting moment Alice registers a glimmer of sympathy—and it stings, more than her anger.
“Please . . . please just tell him: It will never be too late. I’m ready to listen and understand whenever he wants to talk to me.”
What little compassion Madame du Parcq may have felt is snatched away with one swift snap of her head as she glides back into the apartment, no longer happy to have her day dirtied by such an undignified conversation.
Alice’s mind loops. He can’t possibly be in the apartment, she reasons. He has no idea his mother has just rejected her so brutally, claiming to speak on his behalf. She and Albert must have kept the news of the baby from him.
Why else would any of this be happening?
Should she stay?
Shout his name?
Cause an almighty scene until she can be heard?
Then she sees him, set back from the window, sipping coffee from a small white espresso cup, staring into the glass like his eyes don’t move beyond the study of his own reflection projected back at him. He’s naked from the waist up, casual, comfortable. He looks like a man whose life is uncluttered by problems, a man with nothing to distract him from the inconveniences of the day.
Alice stumbles back against the tree, and the movement catches his eye. For the briefest moment, they see each other, before his head dips, his expression hardens, and he reaches up to pull the curtain across the windowpane, shutting her out.
Alice places a hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs. All the blood rushes from her head until she feels outside herself, weightless, like a balloon that’s carelessly slipped through the fingers of a child, floating upward.