We supersede a six hour drive to Redfort with a much shorter, single hour flight by plane. I feel so jittery, opening and shutting the windows seventy million times until an air hostess stares at me oddly. What even is the point of this visit? I am going to break up with Rafe, probably next week. Although now that I think about it, it seems inherently wrong to break up with a boy as soon as you have your own place and don't need to crash with him anymore.
God, I keep feeling like such a bad person.
But, in actuality, I am not going to be breaking up with him because of an improvement (is it an improvement though, really? From a five star hotel back to a seemingly haunted apartment) in my living situations. We have drifted too far away. I do adore him, a lot. And I think that he still loves me, also a lot. But I do not think that we like each other anymore. I don't trust him enough to divulge the secrets of my past, which makes him distrust me and thus compels me to further distrust him. It's a vicious circle and the only way I can see to break it is to break up.
And so I think about this for the entirety of the plane ride. So lost in thought, I barely even notice when we land. I realise that we have barely even said a single word to each other for the whole journey and although this iciness is of benefit to my plans to break up, I feel slightly awkward. Surely, we can maintain any pretence of a relationship just for the next few days?
In the car that Rafe's father sends, I try to politely inquire about the man who apparently raised my boyfriend. The chauffeur slides the scene up so that we have a little privacy but I can see that Rafe is still reluctant to talk about him. I'd meant to interrogate Lara further, but her ... visions ... distracted me, scared me. Honestly, I keep questioning the reality of what happened but in my heart, I know that what I witnessed was real and that I am not crazy. Nevertheless, I do try to extract some answers from Archer. He shrugs and offhandedly tells me that his father owns a large conglomerate business. He has offices all over the world. He hates kids, loves golf. Never remarried after Camille Archer née de Mornay's death. Is a total jerk and is also a sommelier.
I still don't really have a clear image of the man I am about to meet, but I suppose that will have to do. Finally the car turns into a large estate. There are silver birches planted at even intervals along the driveway, their white bark trunks lined with deep husky grey lines, and their leaves sweeping beautifully in the light spring breeze. The lawn appears to be laser cut, each blade of grass seemingly measured and clipped perfectly. The long drive towards the manor house allows me to catch a glimpse of rolling hills, resplendent orchard and gorgeous vineyard. We transgress across the driveway, Rafe seemingly bored of his childhood home, while I stare, amazed by the beauty of the place.
Eventually we reach the house, a gorgeously rustic mansion coloured a soft sandstone.
Rafe sees my awed expression and leans over to me, whispering, "It's based on an 18th century provincial French mansion in Provence. It reminded Mother of the place she grew up, St-Rémy-de-Provence."
It's so gorgeous, just bursting with Old World charm. I gaze in wonder at the stucco exterior and terracotta tiles, stare, awed, at the quaint al fresco eating area sheltered by sweeping branches of evergreen trees. There are pale green shutters which line each of the windows of the house and a lovely stone pavement that surrounds it.
We get out of the car, my heels clattering gently against the stone floor of the patio, and I take Rafe's arm as he leads me into the house. He tells me that his father will meet us for dinner, and I relax against him slightly. We traverse up an ornate staircase, where we breeze past Rafe's father's room, to a resplendent powder room. Rafe allows me to peek at his childhood bedroom, the room he occupied before boarding school, and before moving to England to stay with Lara. The place he stayed before his mother died. It's so quaint, with periwinkle stripes that my boyfriend explains his mother resolutely painted herself, despite his father's assurances that they could -should- hire a painter. There are no silk sheets here, but a simpler looking material. I have no doubt that they are probably priceless sheets, but they look like raw cotton or linen and I feel a greater sense of homeliness.
We don't stay in Rafe's old room though, instead, we climb up even more stairs to reach a higher floor, where we enter a guest room. We leave our bags by the bed where I am assured that they will be unpacked and all of our articles of clothing neatly placed within the glossy wooden armoire, never mind that we're only staying for two days. I run my fingers over the light green wallpaper, trailing my hands over the swirling vines and leaves across the walls and Rafe shakes his head in wonder at me, bemused by my fascination with the intricacies of his home. I skim my fingers along the ornate ivory banister as Rafe leads me downstairs where we meet the housekeeper, a stern faced woman who smiles broadly when she sees Rafe. She ruffles his hair and speaks to him in Italian and he replies back, his voice measured, fluent. He introduces me to the lady, Signora Oliveira, and she smiles and draws me towards her for a hug, laughing all the while. I don't understand what's funny and Rafe shrugs and says that she likes me, approves of the way I admire, appreciate, the house, her home.
As we have hours yet before we dine with his father, Rafe takes me on a tour of the grounds. We don't go to the vineyard but instead wander past the topiary in the formal garden. The sun's rays filter in from the leafy canopy above us, warming my hair and Rafe casually loops his hand in my own. I know that our end is near but in this small moment, with the light breeze ruffling our clothes, and hair, bringing with it the exquisite smell of lavender, and the gossamer shards of sunlight dancing about the cobblestone paving, I wish that I could just take a snapshot of this instant and live in it forever.
We sit in the sun by the pool together for a few hours and I marvel at the fountain, the water that streams out of the head of a majestic stone lion. Run my hands over the stone paving and rest my head against Rafe's shoulder and we talk about everything and anything, feeling natural for the first time in what seems to be forever. I take photos of the beautiful grounds, and even manage to coerce my boyfriend to join me in a few selfies. But as the sun descends in the sky, bringing the cold chill of dusk, Rafe's demeanour starts to turn icy also. Tense, curt. He is anxious, I realise. Worried about the dinner with his father.
A bell tolls quietly, from a church I can't see, and he lets out a sigh, counting each of the chimes.
"We should head back now," he murmurs. And so we stand, and walk along the cobblestones on a trail that start to glow with luminescent lamps, switched on by an unseen hand. The dying rays of the sun glisten on the still waters of the pool, and staring into the rapidly darkening sky, I see the slight shadow of the moon as it starts to take the place of the sun.
The wind blows gently, coolly, and I shiver, but Rafe doesn't offer me his jacket. It's not that I expect some kind of submission to old fashioned male and female conventions, for lack of a better word, but I had grown to rely on him for warmth. And love. With my arm laced around his own, he notices that I am cold, and yet ignores. He doesn't pull me closer to him nor wrap his arm around my shoulder. He and I both know that this dinner is pointless. We are ending. So why are we here? Does he need confirmation of our incompatibility from his father?
Nevertheless, we reach the house. I change into the black Halston dress. Lara gave it to me a few days after we met, noting my adoration of it and her clear reluctance to wear anything so frivolous. Black Stuart Weitzman kitten heels with a single gold stripe along the heel and a similar gold triangle at the toes. A pair of simple Tiffany's heart earrings. A Cartier nail bracelet. I take off the bracelet and then slide it back on multiple times. So indecisive. I don't understand why- it doesn't matter how I look; this dinner has no effect on my future, I will still break up with Rafe regardless of whether or not his father approves of me. I leave the bracelet on the dresser. The hearts too.
And yet, I fuss about in the bathroom for a while longer. Rafe is waiting for me, and I hear him a few rooms away, in the gallery, playing the piano. Johann Sebastian Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. I long to abandon all pretence that I am ready for this dinner and join him at the piano. I've enver played Jesu with someone else before. But would I be welcome? I brush on some light brown eyeshadow. My dark hair left out, delicate tendrils framing my face, letting a rosy glow of blush gently illuminate my cheeks. A matching rose coloured balm for my lips. Curled eyelashes, left bare, as always. Somehow, I feel that tonight, I will end up crying. Eyebrows brushed, a spritz of a pastel coloured Chloé perfume and I am as ready as I ever will be.
I walk to the gallery to meet Rafe and hesitate in the doorway for a few minutes. He hasn't heard me, and I watch as his fingers glide across the keys, seemingly effortlessly. He's finished the Bach piece, and he's playing Clair de Lune. I remember learning, well, attempting to learn it last summer. Tragedy struck and I never finished it. Rafe gets to the delicate arpeggios and he plays the keys so beautifully I let out a small sigh... and he stops.
Purportedly, when Bach was on his deathbed, he heard his son play one of his pieces on the piano. The boy stopped before he reached the end, and so the dying man rushed to the piano and finished it. He couldn't cope with an unfinished melody. And neither can I. I long for Rafe to keep playing, to complete the exquisite trills and weave his hands across the piano to ultimately let the final notes ring out in the empty space around us. But he doesn't. And I don't outwardly object. And yet, I feel unfulfilled, somehow.
He stands, and a smile tugs his lips. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, kissing my forehead, and I feel the hint of a smile grace my own face.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "You're looking very handsome, yourself."
"Ready?" No.
"Ready."
As we descend down the stairs I contemplate how odd it is that Rafe's father has not yet greeted his son. How long has it been since they last saw each other? I can't imagine how awful it must be to be so distant from your own parents. And yet, I realise that Kiki and Charlie were never close to their own parents.
They let the distance between them grow, until all parent-child connections died away, like a broken telephone wire. They still communicated on occasion, but all interactions were lifeless, full of static, distant.
Suddenly, I am awash with sadness. For Rafe. Kiki. Charlie. And all the other kids who grew up without their parents. Although the idea is so very far off and almost unfathomable at my age, I resolve to be the kind of parent that my mother and father were to me. To adore and cherish my children. To make them feel special and loved. Because every human being deserves that.
For some reason, my eyes start to prickle with tears. I break away from Rafe's gentle grip on our entwined hands and turn away slightly, hastily brushing at my eyes. He pretends not to notice and doesn't question my sudden rush of emotions. After a few seconds, he raises his eyebrows slightly.
"You alright?" No.
"Yes." Lies, lies, lies.
And I blink rapidly, trying to eradicate any trace of sorrow for my face. As we approach the wooden double doors that lead to the dining room I give Rafe a hesitant smile. He smiles back, ever so faintly, and I arrange his lapels. Then I shut my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath in, letting the oxygen clear my mind. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and gently tilts my chin up so that I am looking at him. I know that I have a desolate expression on my face, but in this moment, standing outside the dining room, I let it remain, if only for a few seconds more.
"It'll be alright, Evangeline. It always is."
He murmurs to me quietly and I know that he is talking about more than this supper. More than us. Although he doesn't know what exactly plagues my dreams every night, consumes my thoughts when I blankly stare off into space, he still reassures me. Even though he knows that I don't trust him. And even though we are falling apart, he still tries to comfort me. I don't know that to say to that, but my heart feels so broken. I don't want to hurt him, but what is the alternative? Let my secrets tear us apart, smash the fragile relationship we have to pieces?
Or simply snip it away. Tie up the loose ends, end it with a crisp, clear point.
Or. Let us continue on. Fix our broken pieces, heal the sorrows I have brought among us, only to let him die? Let him become a victim to the curse. My curse? No. I cannot do that.
I rearrange the thoughts in my head. I have already decided on the second option. Simple. End it. But not right now. I recall Rafe's last comment, his murmured assurance, and stare up at him with wide, tearful eyes.
I nod at him, a few times. Wordlessly. And then we enter the lion's den.
*
The room looks like something out of one of MadeLucky's little detective novels. One wall is made entirely of ferns and palm leaves which hang limply. They are lush green and immaculate and yet they seem lifeless. As if they have tried and failed to escape from the room numerous times. The opposite wall is glass. I imagine it is a majestic sight during the daytime, with gleaming rivulets of sunlight streaming in to reflect off the bejewelled chandelier -which is made of strings of fragile diamond-esque lights- sending rainbow reflections of light all over the room. But during the twilight of evening, when only darkness filters in, it is a threatening sight. Harsh and bright in a kind of surgical way. The warm glow of the chandelier seems wan, appears to stop where the glass ensconces the room from the outside world and the cold night seems to loom right up against the window.
Seated at the head of the table is a man. Instantly, I can see that he is Rafe's father. They have similar features, but his are harsher than his son's.
"Welcome, welcome." I feel an absurd bubble of laughter rise up in me as I recall Effie Trinket's similar sentiment in The Hunger Games. But the man before me is no frivolous Capitol socialite. He looks as cruel, cunning and ruthless as President Snow.
He stands, approaching us. "Welcome back, son." He says. And the two men exchange eye contact for a brief second before Rafe looks away. Then the man turns to me, offering his hand. I shake it. His hands are cold, like his eyes, and his grip is like iron. "Good evening, Miss Leger."
"Good evening... sir." I tack the word on the end. I have never called anybody sir in my life, but in this man's presence, I feel inclined to do so. His body language seems to command it.
"Sit, sit." And so we do, taking chairs opposite each other. "I trust my son has shown you around?"
"Yes, of course. The place is beautiful."
"And so it should be. It will all be Raphael's one day. You remember that, son." He turns to him and Rafe offers him a precise nod. He's sitting up so straight, his posture in military form.
"Of course, Father." He replies. So formal.
As the food is served, there are discussions of fluctuations in share values and realestate. Sly remarks about opposing business investors and cutting jabs about supposed inferiors. I keep quiet, feeling ever so out of place. And I think that Rafe does too. But he plays well. He acquiesces to his father's demands, gives the answers required of him, and generally endeavours to appease the man.
After dessert is served, Archer senior, whose name I am yet to find out, turns to me. His eyes are so cold, lifeless. They remind me of the eyes of the sharks I have seen at the aquarium, and in my dreams. Dead eyes.
"I understand you are interested in the field of science."
"Yes." He doesn't give me time to elaborate.
"And yet you are studying anthropology, history. Pointless subjects. Why?"
"Oh." I mean, I haven't even told Rafe the answer, and I'd hoped that I'd be able to divulge the secret that I am living someone else's dream in peace, in private. It's alright though. Because the man cuts me off once again.
"Such frivolous studies. My son studies similar wasteful topics. What is the point." That isn't a question. It's an assertion. Rafe clenches his jaw slightly but relaxes it almost instantly. I guess he's had a lot of practice dealing with this man.
"But, I hear, you are studying science next year?"
"I hope to. I've applied for a scholarship for biomedical sciences. I should hear back from the University in a few weeks."
"A scholarship." He almost sneers at the word.
"Yes." I say, the curtness in my tone evident.
"And you'll be a scientist."
"Yes."
"No." Um...?
"What?" Rafe lets out a small sigh.
Rafe's father fixes him with a stern stare. "No." He says simply.
"What do you mean no, father? Evangeline is going to be a scientist -or a doctor- regardless of what you do or say."
"That may be so, son. But my answer is still no. You wanted to know my opinion of the girl. And that is it. You are not to remain... together." He waves a hand in the air, as if dismissing such a trivial thought. "You need a figurehead beside you. Somebody who will photograph well. A strong, well-educated woman from a respected family. Miss Leger may be beautiful and all kinds of clever, but her surname is wrong. She is not old money. She does not belong."
God, this man is just voicing all of my fears. Tearing me to shreds. Never mind that I am still planning on breaking up with Rafe, I am not going to let some man disparage me in front of my boyfriend.
"Excuse me? You are not in charge of my life, nor Rafe's. If he wants to remain with me, then so be it, but you... you have no choice in the matter."
"You are wrong." His father's words are clipped and precise. I look to Rafe, who is fuming.
"You know what, Father?" He says the word menacingly. "All of my life, you have dictated every single thing I have done. Forced me to make connections, and partake in business meetings and charity balls. I have had enough. I am not your... puppet anymore. I am a person. And it's time that you realise that. Before you lose me, too."
Oh, he must mean his mother. For a second there is sorrow in Rafe's eyes and then fear as he realises that his outburst will have consequences. I hold my breath for a moment. The air is thick with tension, like an invisible fog that swirls and sweeps around us. I cast a look at Rafe's father. He is motionless.
The silence is broken only by the sudden shrill whistle of his cut crystal glass as it slices through the air and smashes against a wall. Broken diamond-like shards litter the elaborate Persian rug and ruby red droplets of his vintage Chateau Lafite wine rest upon the fronds of an indoor palm tree, which shakes a little in the wake of the motion, each droplet glimmering like tiny expensive pomegranates.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" Rafe stands and I abruptly push my chair back, wincing at the scraping noise and stand too.
And when Rafe's father answers, his voice is deathly quiet.
"Do you want to find out?" Gosh, I am unutterably paralysed and yet shivering almost as much as the leaves on that tree.
"Evie. Leave." But I don't move. Who knows what this man will do to Rafe when I am not around.
"That's right," He says. "Leave, Leger. You don't belong with my son. Evidently, you've corrupted him. Broken him. I don't even recognise him anymore."
"You don't recognise me because you never even knew me. I grew up without you! You shipped me off overseas for the entirety of my childhood, and now you claim that I am not your son? I died when mother died. When you killed off any last love you ever had for me!"
"That is it. I will not be spoken to like that in my house. Raphael. Leave. Right now. And take Miss Leger with you. I shall expect a call when you are sane." He shoots me a glare as if all of this is my fault and I shake my head indignantly, my eyebrow furrowed. I shiver beneath the thin material of my dress and force myself to maintain eye contact.
"C'mon, Angel," Rafe says as he tugs my arm and we flounce out of the room.
We tumble up the stairs, haphazardly throwing our clothes into our bags, and we run into the housekeeper on our way out. She hugs Rafe, awkwardly, as she is so small. "Take care." She murmurs, the corners of her eyes wrinkled with smile lines. We race down the stairs and exit the house, a heavy rain starting to lash at us, and we run to a garage filled with the most beautiful cars I have ever seen.
"This one," says Rafe, standing beside a sleek black Aston Martin V8 Vantage. "Awh, baby, I've missed you," He says to the car as he gets behind the steering wheel turning the key in the ignition and I toss our bags into the back before I sit beside him, and we drive off into the night.