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- 100%
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I picked up the envelope he was handing me as if it was infested.
He waited. There was a trace of sadistic amusement in those bottomless eyes.
I put the envelope in my pocket. “It's from my sister.” The truth burst out of my mouth, liberating, even though there had been no way of avoiding it. He remained silent, and I bravely went on.
“I know I lied about my relatives, but... I really am alone in the world. I...” I lost my voice. I tried again. “I know I was wrong, but I didn’t want to talk about them.”
“Them?”
“Right. My Dad is still alive. But just because his heart still beats.” My eyes became tearful. “He’s almost a vegetable. He’s an alcoholic at the last stage, and he doesn’t even remember who we are. I mean Monique and me.”
“It was stupid of you to lie to me, Miss Bruno. Didn’t you think that your sister would write to you here? Or did you take off so you wouldn’t have to take care of your father, leaving the burden on someone else’s shoulders?” His voice echoed through the office, as deadly as a shot from a gun.
I swallowed my tears, and I gazed at him defiantly. I lied, it was undeniable, but he was describing me as a despicable being, who didn’t deserve to live and unworthy of respect.
“I won’t allow you to judge me, Mr Mc Laine. You know nothing about my life, or the reasons that made me lie. You’re my employer, not my judge, and even less so my executioner.” The deadly calm with which I spoke surprised me more than him, and I put my hand to my mouth, as if it had been talking in my place, separated from my mind, as independent as my heart and my dreams.
I stood up suddenly and made the chair fall backwards. I picked it up with trembling hands, my mind in a catatonic state.
I had already reached the door when he spoke with a bitter voice. “Take the day off, Miss Bruno. You seem very upset. See you tomorrow.”
I reached my room in a daze, and ran into the adjacent bathroom. Here I washed my face with cold water, and studied my image in the mirror. It was too much. All the black and white that surrounded me was more disturbing than a funeral cloth. I felt as if I was dangerously hovering over the edge of a cliff. I wasn’t afraid of falling. It had already happened many times before, and I got up every time. My skin and my heart were dotted with millions of invisible and painful scars. I was afraid I’d lose my mind along with the lucidity that had kept me alive until that moment. If that were to happen, I would have preferred to crash into the ground.
The tears I didn’t shed twisted my bowels, and I was a basket case. A zombie, like the character of one of Mc Laine's novels.
I put my hand in the pocket of my tweed skirt in which I had stuffed Monique's letter. I had to read what she wanted, I could no longer procrastinate. I pulled it out, and went to my bedroom.
It weighed like a bag of reinforced concrete, and I was tempted not to open it. Its content could only be one: pain. I thought I was very strong before I arrived at Midnight Rose. How wrong I had been. I wasn’t strong at all.
My hands moved against my will, I was reduced to a puppet. They tore the envelope, and spread the sheet it contained. A few words, typical of Monique.
Dear Melisande,
I need more money. Thank you for what you sent me from London, but it’s not enough. Can you ask for an advance on your salary from that writer? Don’t be shy or fearful. They say he’s very rich. After all, he’s alone, paralytic and easily swayed. Hurry up.
Yours always, Monique.
I don’t know how long I stared at the letter, maybe a few minutes, maybe hours. Everything lost importance, as if all I really was just an appendix of Monique and of my father. For a second I wished they would both die, and that terrible thought filled me with horror. Monique had tried to love me, although in her selfish way. And my father... well, the good memories of him were so rare that they blocked my breath in my throat. But he was still my father. The person who had given me life, and was convinced that he had the right to trample it.
I carefully folded the letter, with meticulous and exaggerated attention. Then I closed it in the chest of drawers.
Money.
Monique needed money. More money. I sold everything I owned in London, very little in truth, to help her out, and just a few weeks later, we were back to the starting point. I knew that Dad’s treatment was expensive, but now I was starting to get scared. If Sebastian Mc Laine had fired me - and God only knew if he had good reasons to do it, even if for no other reason than to amuse himself - I would end up in the middle of a street. How could I ask him for an advance after what had happened? Just the thought of doing so was appalling. Monique had never had many scruples; she had an enviable impertinence, but for me it was different. I wasn’t good at communicating and asking for an impossible support. I was too afraid of a refusal. I had done it once, and I could still remember the taste of the “no”, the feeling of rejection and the noise of a door being banged in my face.
“Kyle is a real bum. He disappeared with the car in the afternoon, and he returned just a half hour ago. Mr Mc Laine is furious. That guy deserves a kicked in the teeth, I tell you. Leaving the Master without assistance!” Mrs Mc Millian's voice was full of outrage, as if Kyle had done her a personal wrong.
I kept moving the food in the dish without the slightest trace of appetite.
The woman continued to speak, as talkative as ever, and didn’t notice. I forced myself to smile at her, and I dived again into the darkness of my thoughts. Where could I find the money? No, I had no choice. I would receive my salary in two more weeks. Monique would have to wait. I would send it all to her, hoping it wasn’t a reckless move. The risk of being fired without warning was frighteningly real. Mr Mc Laine was an unpredictable man with a lousy and obviously unreliable personality.
I was so frantic when I returned to my room that I couldn’t cry, nor stand still. I lay on my bed, invoking sleep but it was late to arrive. I had no control over anything; I was an outcast in my own body.
Needless to say I didn’t dream that night.
Chapter seven
My ears buzzed and I felt as though I was surrounded by hot black mud, from which I couldn’t escape. Mr Mc Laine’s welcome wasn’t as cold as I had expected, perhaps because he simply ignored me, and didn’t answer my greeting. Throughout the morning he pretended that I wasn’t there, and I was overcome by unhappiness.
“Shit! This damn computer!” He punched the table, one inch away from the computer.
I tried to talk naturally. “Is something wrong?”
He sneered, without looking at me. “Something? Everything’s wrong. Everything.”
I waited in silence for him to explain.
“It stopped working, damn it!” He pointed to the computer, his tone full of bitterness.
I clumsily walked to his side, in an attempt to help him, even though my technological knowledge was very limited.
He didn’t object when I bent to look at the screen. I felt his eyes on me, and his breath was so close that I could feel its warmth on my cheek.
I got up as quick as a cheetah, and I went back to my side of the desk, stumbling over my own feet.
“Do you want me to call a technician?” I suggested weakly.
“First try turning the light on, please.”
My fingers pressed the light switch several times, with no results. “There’s a black out.”
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