The Last Dress from Paris(93)
“Anne? Is that your little nickname for her?” he scoffs. “I warned you not to get close to the staff. If you have and she has acted on your behalf, believing you to be friends, then that is your fault.”
It is Alice’s fault. She never should have placed Anne in the path of Albert’s anger, knowing he has no capacity for forgiveness. Her poor Anne. She does not deserve this. It’s simply another way for Albert to punish Alice, to hammer home just how far he will go to keep her in line.
“Albert, please . . .” Fear turns to panic as she realizes he’s not listening, his ears are deaf to anything other than a resounding acceptance from her about what their future must now hold, the facts as he lays them out.
“There will be lots of requests for references, so perhaps I can leave you to handle that side of things.” Albert returns his plate on the table and swiftly brushes his hands down both legs, readying himself to stand and leave. “That’s everything you need to know.”
“I need more time.” Alice’s eyes stay in her lap, watching her tears dot the fabric of her skirt, her words barely audible.
“Alice . . .” Albert’s hands are gripped tightly around a white napkin as if he is squeezing the life out of it. “It’s over. The sooner you accept that, the better.”
“I can’t live a lie, it won’t work.” She pictures herself then, unpacking her life on the other side of the Atlantic. Not just her possessions but every crack and unspoken truth in her marriage, all neatly unwrapped under a big new sky, as perfectly damaged as the day they left Paris. The baby she has yearned for, waking every morning in a bright white nursery to a mother aching with sadness.
Nothing will have changed, beyond their location. Albert will still be Albert. If she believed there might be one shred of forgiveness or culpability within him, maybe she could sit with the idea for a few hours, allow herself to be talked into believing it might just work. But she knows it won’t.
Not when her heart will always belong to someone else.
Not when the baby growing inside of her will be a beautifully painful reminder of what was so nearly hers. If only she could speak to Antoine.
“It’s a clean break, Alice. A chance to start again. To forget the past and look forward to a successful future with none of the nonsense that you have allowed to distract you here. You owe me that much.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t . . .”
“And who knows, perhaps this won’t be the only baby.” His eyes flicker toward her, trying to gauge if the lie he told her once will work again now, only this time the suggestion is repulsive and unthinkable, a mark of his desperation to convince her. Does he really believe her to be that malleable?
Alice simply shakes her head and watches as Albert’s expression shifts to pity and confusion.
“He’s not coming, Alice, if that’s what you’re waiting for. You must know that. Are you really prepared to throw everything away for someone who was so easily dissuaded? And did you really think I would be beaten?” His raises his eyebrows, mocking her; then his eyes brighten, as if another idea has landed.
“You know, there is something else I want to share with you.” He sits back slowly in his chair, attempting to create a sense of anticipation. “I think you have probably worked out by now that my father never died of tuberculosis, as I had you all believe. My sister all but confirmed it for you on our wedding day.”
She studies his face, looking for any clue of what is to come.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because it’s your last chance to understand what you are up against. He committed suicide when I was fourteen.”
“What? But why did you . . . ?” She shakes her head, at a loss to understand what could have prompted such a rewriting of history.
“A string of bad investments, mounting debts that he knew he’d never clear.” Albert’s voice is purely factual; he could be reading the day’s weather report in the newspaper. “We were left with practically nothing. It was the day I determined I would never be defined by my father’s incompetence. My only lifeline was an uncle who, with no sons of his own to promote, financed my education and, when the time came, made some introductions in London. But that was it. The rest was up to me. I had to take control of my own success.”
“What happened to your mother? How did she cope without any help?” Alice recalls the many tears Albert’s mother shed on their wedding day, the obvious relief that her only son had achieved happiness, despite everything.
“I looked after her. I still do. Without my support, I dread to think where she or my sister might be.”
Alice absorbs the facts. She can’t help but be warmed by Albert’s sustained generosity, but why the deceit? Why invent another persona when the real one was so much more human?
“I think I would have understood. You didn’t need to reinvent yourself for my benefit. Why bother?”
“I suppose it’s easy to pretend that now, but of course, I did have to. For you, your parents, for every job interview, dinner party, and card game I ever sat through. I didn’t want the associated failure to permanently attach itself to me. The point is, Alice, I wasn’t about to be beaten by something that was in no way my fault.”
The scale of his calculation is chilling. How many versions of this one man might exist in the world? Alice wonders. Does his own mother believe him to be happily married? Does his lover believe him to be rooted in Paris for the long term?