Boxed Set: At the Billionaire’s Command – Vol. 1-3 (13 page)

"They'll be happy to see you."

"Yes. And surprised, too. I haven't told them I'm in France yet."

"Ah...I see."

"Anyway, if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you drop me off at the station so that I can catch a taxi to their place. If they see you, there'll be an endless stream of questions and I'll have to explain what you're doing there."

"As you wish, Miss. I understand."

"Thank you, Ray."

Before calling my parents, I make sure I've got my story straight, try to put myself in the right frame of mind (I've just come off the plane, I'm about to catch a train, everything's fine...), and take a deep breath.

"Hello?"

"Hi, mum?"

"Julia?! Is that you, dear?"

"Hi mum, yes, it's me."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, mum, everything's fine. Guess where I'm calling you from."

"I have no idea, my angel...From the Statue of Liberty?"

"No."

"...Broadway?"

"Nope."

"...Macy's?"

"Wrong again."

"Tell me, then!"

"From Paris, mum!"

"What?! You're back? But, we weren't expecting you until next weekend!"

"I know. But had plenty of overtime to recoup, so I was able to come home sooner."

"I'll let your father know right away. We'll come to meet you. Oh! I'm so happy! Why didn't you let us know beforehand, we would have waited for you at the airport?"

"It's fine, mum, you don't need to come. I wanted to surprise you. And besides, you know how much dad hates driving on the ring road."

"Oh! your father!"

"Don't worry, mum. I'm still at the airport, I need to go into the city first and I'll take a train from there."

"What time will you arrive? At least we'll come and meet you at the station."

"I don't know yet, mum, I don't know the train times. Listen, don't worry about it, I'll get home on my own. But I'll be there in time for dinner!"

"If you're sure, dear. How wonderful! My baby's coming home! I'll go to the deli to get us some bits for a good meal. I hope your father still has a bottle or two of champagne in the cellar."

"Great, mum. It'll be good to see you again. See you later!"

"See you soon, dear. Love you lots!"

"Love you, mum."

Hang-up. Literally and figuratively. The call leaves me feeling drained. Until now, I was in a state of emergency, acting on instinct. Aim: survival. Run, then decide where to go. But now that I'm alone, in a car heading safely towards the family home, the memory of the past few hours since Daniel's mother turned up comes rushing back to me all at once.

I remember one evening when Sarah and I were coming back from a club. We were walking and talking without really looking around us. We didn't see the young man a few metres ahead of us, start running at Sarah, snatching her handbag. The young man, very tall and built, grabbed hold of the bag in a flash. Despite being knocked off balance by the force of the impact, Sarah quickly spun round to regain her footing. She clung onto her bag with a fury and a ferocity I'd never before seen in her. Dragged along behind the thief, she held on tightly, not letting go. Yelling at him to stop, she was on the verge of lashing out. Under sudden attack, Sarah had been filled with a rush of adrenalin, which had allowed her to react instantly, to increase her strength tenfold, to transform in order to save something of immense value to her. The guy ended up letting go and kept on running, empty-handed. Once he'd given and left Sarah standing frozen on the pavement, bag in hand and arms dangling, she began to tremble, her legs shaking beneath her. Fear, momentarily chased away by action, took hold of her as she belatedly realised the danger she'd been in.

Whatever our reaction to aggression (whether we fight back, run away, do nothing or talk our way out it), it's a survival instinct. It all happens very quickly, even if the moment seems to last forever. At the time, we only think about saving our skin. Fear, if it doesn't paralyse us, fades away as it spurs us on and enables us to react. And it's only afterwards, when it's all over, when the danger has passed, that we become aware of the violence of the attack, that we take stock of what has just happened.

Right now, that's how I feel. The sudden intrusion of Daniel's mother, at a most intimate moment on top of everything, caught me completely off guard. I was so stunned by her abuse and her son's failure to stand up for me, that in the heat of the moment, I didn't take stock of the situation. I sought to protect myself and for me, that meant fleeing. I had to run, to get away from that malignant woman and a man who wouldn't protect me. And then I had to think of where I would find refuge. So here I am now, I've run away, I know where I'm going...and I break down. My eyes fill with tears as the scene replays itself in my mind.

Everything was going well. Not a cloud on the horizon. In the idyllic setting of Sterenn Park, Daniel wasn't quite the same man I'd been with before. He may have acted a bit mysteriously, but he'd also opened up a bit (regarding the house, on his sister's being there), without prior ado, without squabbling, without high-handedness, without raising his voice. And besides, the reunion of our bodies had been beyond my expectations. He still took the lead, but I no longer felt like the pupil at the behest of her master, I felt that we shared with each other more, that we touched each other more deeply, that we reached ever-greater heights of passion. He still drove my pursuit of pleasure, of my pleasure, but with something more. Something that I couldn't, or didn't dare, name.

Really, my first few hours in Sterenn Park were full of promise. No one knew I was there, and I felt as though we were alone in the world, secluded on this peaceful patch of earth.

But I was obviously wrong...Daniel's mother had arrived without warning and cut me down to size! In an instant, her malice had squashed my budding joy. What else could I do but flee in the face of these monsters?

I watch the road pass by behind the curtain of my tears. Soon, I'll be far away from them. Loathing, outrage, humiliation, abandonment, injury, sorrow. All the feelings that form the lump in my throat.
Why? Why does that woman hate me? Why throw me out so violently? Does she always meddle so much in her son's affairs? Can't she bear him seeing someone? Or can it be only "a woman of his own class"?

"We're nearing Tours, Miss."

"Thanks, Ray."
Yes, you're right, Ray, I need to pull myself together. I can't arrive in tears and puffy-eyed. And besides, what's the use of falling apart, anyway? It won't change the fact that I'm the only one who's suffering.

"Would you like me to turn on the radio a bit?"

"Yes, good idea."

Barely one hour later, we arrive at Tours. Sign post welcoming us to the city, directions to the station. Ray parks the car and takes my luggage out of the trunk.

"Well, here we are, Ray. Thanks for having come with me this far."
It's true, this trip's done me good. It gave me time to unwind and readjust.
Ray comes towards me and takes my hand. Holding it between both of his, he says to me:

"Take good care of yourself, Miss. I hope to see you again very soon."
My gaze drops, I don't want the tears to come back.

"It was good meeting you, Miss. You're a lovely girl." A pause. "And don't you forget it," he adds.

"It was good meeting you too, Ray," I reply, looking up at his reassuring smile.
Ray lets go of my hand and grasps my suitcases.

"Right, off you go, then. Your parents must be waiting for you."

The taxi driver gripes a bit because my parents live really nearby and the route's a bit dull, but he says the extra luggage will make it worth his while. A little after he's moved off, I look back: Ray's following us.

My parents must have been watching out for the taxi, for no sooner has it stopped in front of our little town house, with its white facade near Plumereau Square, than they appear on the doorstep. While my father settles the fare and quietly takes care of my bags, my mother hurries towards me, arms wide open in an imminent bear hug, screaming, "My American baby! My American baby!", just in case the neighbours can't hear.

"Hi, mum," I laugh. I'm used to her theatrics, and as it's been ages since I've watched one of her performances, it doesn't annoy me yet.

"Come on in! You must have so much to tell us! Are you hungry? I organised an excellent dinner," she says in a shrill voice as she pulls me towards the entrance door.

I follow my parents. As I reach the top of the steps, I look back one last time before going inside. I see Ray at the end of the road. He waves to me. I wave back. Then I close the door behind me.

"I'll take your suitcases up to your room."

"It's fine, dad, you can leave it to me. I'll do it."

"Now, now, why don't you go relax in the living room? you must be tired from your journey and the jet-lag."

That's my father for you, Jacques Belmont, always bending over backwards to meet my every need.

"Come, dear!" my mum exclaims, already seated on the sofa, ready for her interrogation.

My mother, Sylvie Belmont, yapping like a frenzied teenager. She pats the cushion next to her, as if urging a cat to jump up.

"So, tell me everything. They didn't work you too hard, did they? Did they treat you well? One phone call per month wasn't much, you know...."

That had been my idea, a necessary but adequate ritual, in my opinion. My parents thought it wasn't nearly enough, of course. It suited me just fine. It allowed me to stay in touch and keep a real distance at the same time. It was a bit hard at first, but I was quick to see the upside. I gained my independence.

In my absence, the living room has had a makeover and I don't recognise most of the furnishings.

"Wow, you've really changed the place around!"

"You like it? Yes, I got tired of our old junk. I wanted something more modern, a more authentic, stylish look. It's turned out really well, don't you think?" my mother asks, proudly.

My mother rearranges and changes the furniture on a regular basis. Too often to get a real feel for the place, to get attached to it. What she calls 'old junk' are some nice pieces of furniture from my father's side of the family, which she's always disliked as a matter of principle, and some pieces that can't be more than four years old, which she's already grown weary of. In her vocabulary, 'modern' simply means 'brand new', and 'authentic' something akin to 'mock-antique', if the number of factory-made objects aged with a fake sheen now adorning the living room is anything to go by. For the time being, 'stylish' would appear to consist of various shades of white and grey. My mother runs a furniture shop in the city centre, with vague ambitions of becoming an interior designer. She enjoys what she does and she's good at her job, but to be honest, I don't think she has the makings of a decorator. Proof being that she swears solely by the trends set by the manufacturers and magazines, without being able to think for herself, to play with different ideas or to come up with something new. She doesn't know her period styles and she hasn't got the personality, creativity or simplicity to succeed anywhere other than in sales.

"It's very nice," I say, having long abandoned voiving any opinions on a subject that my father and I 'know nothing about', in any case.

"So, how was life in the lap of luxury?"

"You know, mum, I was working, I wasn't lounging around."

"Yes, of course, dear, but you must have seen a few wealthy guests here and there? Maybe even some stars...? Did you see any actors?"

That's just like my mother. She cares too much for money, for pomp and splendour. We've always lived comfortably, but that's not good enough for her. She loves all that glitters, she dreams of lavish spending and she tends to measure people according to the size of their wallets. As she questions me with stars in her eyes, I have the impression of looking at a little girl waiting to be told a fairy-tale. It would be rather touching, if only she accepted her life, but I find her pathetically envious. That's mostly why I don't want to tell her about how I met Daniel, she would revel in living it vicariously, I wouldn't be able to handle that.

"The place could have been crawling with celebrities, for all I knew! The guests were all rich, obviously, but what's that got to do with me?"

"Well, I was just asking, that's all..." my mother whines, a little hurt that I don't share her enthusiasm.

"Sorry, mum," I say, aware of having been a bit rude. "You know, I didn't have much time to dawdle and contemplate the designer bags and suits... But I did enjoy working in a lavish environment and meeting fancy people," I add to please her. It seems to work, for she immediately cheerfully carries on:

"They didn't take advantage of you, did they? I thought your pay was a bit low, but then they did put you up. Did you at least have some time to yourself? You told me you had gone to quite a few exhibitions. That's good. Did you meet some nice people? Any of your workmates, maybe?"

"Sylvie, enough with the Q&A... Let her speak..." my father breaks in, as he joins us in the living room.

"Ah, there you are, Jacques, don't sit down, why don't you bring us the champagne?"

While my father obediently goes to organise the champagne and some glasses, my mother takes my chin in her hands and peers closely at my face.

"Is everything all right, dear?"

"Yes, mum, perfect. Why?" I ask, my cheeks colouring. It's hard to hide things from her. She can be unbearable at times, but she's always been a loving and attentive mother to me, with an uncanny sixth sense.

"I don't know... You look lovely. Even prettier than six months ago, if that's possible," she observes with a smile.

"Mum!"

"All right, all right. But, I don't know... there's something different about you... Are you sure everything's fine?"

"Yes, of course, mum," I reply, as I pull my face away. "I'm just tired, that's all."

My father comes back with the champagne and we toast my homecoming. I describe in more detail my work, my room and my colleagues. I share my impressions of New York and talk about Tom.