Boxed Set: A Possessive Billionaire - Vol. 1-3: His, Body and Soul (2 page)

My appointment is at ten o’clock am in room 322. Mrs. Granchamps is waiting for me. She is exactly how I imagined she would be. She emanates wisdom and intelligence. She's calm, poised, you get the impression that each of her words is full of meaning, that every sentence is deliberate and deserves your utmost attention. I intuitively understand at the very beginning of our conversation that she’s already agreed to accept my thesis. I’ve been preparing for her questions for two months, but I’m afraid that my responses aren’t enough for her. The best thing I can do is be completely honest, completely thorough…

Why feminism? No doubt because I realized that people in the outside treated me differently than my father did, which is originally why I never thought of myself as a girl…or a boy, for that matter. My mother died during childbirth. It’s odd for that to happen these days, dramatic and romantic, but it’s not unheard of. Anyway, it was just my dad and I. No new wife, no girlfriend…My father is something of a nerd. His passion: dinosaurs. He devotes most of his waking hours to dinosaurs and I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreamed about them at night. He probably met the only adult human being in the world who shared his passion. They got married, she got pregnant…After the accident, my father was the only paleontologist in the university of Lansing, Michigan. I had a happy childhood. I spent a lot of time at the university, in the laboratory with dad or in my grandparent’s backyard. My father managed alright. Of course, when I see photos of myself in a flowered dress and rubber boots, I realize that he didn’t teach me much about beauty or fashion, but I never lacked for anything and I was always happily satisfied with my life.

When I was twelve years old, he solemnly summoned me to the kitchen, and announced that the time had come for us to divide up the household chores. From then on, I would have to make dinner every other evening. Same thing for the laundry. As for the housework, a chore that bored us both equally, we decided to keep the house as clean as possible and go on a cleaning rampage every other Saturday. There was just one basic rule to follow when it came to these chores. Whoever did it, did it the right way. Basically, what that meant was you couldn’t complain if the meat was too tough or a shirt badly ironed. This seemed naturally right to me and I naively thought that this was how it worked in every family. But reality soon caught up with me. When I went to dinner at my friends’ houses, I noticed that the division of chores between generations and even between adults was a myth. Actually, that’s not exactly true: the chores were divided between the generations, as long as the younger generation was female. I would come back home all wound up from these experiences. My father was perplexed. I could spend hours cursing society, the patriarchy, the bra and everything that I considered to hinder the freedom of women. When I came home like this, my father would tell me to calm down the ‘suffragette’ inside of me. But I know that he agreed with me, in his own way. When I told him that I wanted to study feminism, he supported me. He was the one who suggested I go see how things worked in other places. Which led me to Paris.

I had dreaded this meeting, and now I can’t stop talking. Mrs. Granchamps looks at me kindly. Alright, I think. She takes notes. After a certain amount of time, she interrupts me:

“I have to go teach a class, Ms. Maugham. I clearly understand what your motivations are, but I’m afraid we still need a little more time to pin down your subject. If you like, I noted a few classes you should attend – as long as you agree with me, of course. This will help you meet other students and better identify your research topic.”

“Does that mean you'll direct my work?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, before leaving.

I’m relieved. Of course, I don’t have a specific topic, but I have a professor who’s rather well-known, and there’s no way I’m going to disappoint her. I read her prescription and decide to go to every class. A few are literature courses, a little bit of philosophy, sociology….it’s perfect and it’s…now! My first class in French literature is going to start immediately! Luckily, the classroom isn’t too far away and I avoid the embarrassment of being late for my first class. I sneak in right when the door is about to close. I take a seat in the first available chair and listen dutifully to the teacher. He introduces himself quickly. This is a class in medieval literature, a field completely unknown to me. We’re going to study a novel from the 12th century. I rejoice. I’m in Paris and I’m going to study medieval texts! I turn towards the girl sitting next to me, who’s taking out her book. Lucky me! I sat down next to a bimbo, a gigantic blonde with blood red nails and lips. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress…She’s probably not going to be someone who can help me…or make me look good, I imagine. By chance the professor, who’s probably attracted to her, asks her to read and translate the introductory section.

I want to crawl under my seat. But Manon, which is her name, is able to do this with a disconcerting ease…and a real passion. The professor is obviously impressed. Me too. I swallow my hasty judgment. I’ll try to talk to her next week, I think while gathering my things together. But Manon is not just gifted, she’s also extremely nice. She waits for me in front of the classroom.

“Emma? Is that your name?

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go for lunch?”

I accept eagerly. She does everything she can to make me feel comfortable. I find out that she’s also spent quite a bit of time abroad and knows it’s a responsibility to guide and help students in similar situations. She’s working on a master’s degree in classical literature, she tells me. Her great passion is dead languages. That and fashion! And also a certain Mathieu, her boyfriend, who meet us at the university cafeteria. A curious couple, these two. She’s as tall and beautiful as a supermodel, he’s small, poorly decked out, maybe a little chubby…They kiss passionately, with open mouths. I’m almost embarrassed. Luckily, they stop soon enough and devote themselves to their meals and their new classmate, soon to become a new friend.

It’s been a week already since I started living the high life! I’m joking. I live like a hermit. I leave my room at dawn and go to school, spend all morning in the library. Then I head to the cafeteria where I choke down some bland meat drowning in brown sauce. I try not to look at it too closely. In the afternoon, I go back to my spot in the library or attend a few classes in obscure literature or history. In the evening, I make my butter coquillettes, using a traditional French student recipe Manon gave me. I’m not bored, I don’t have the time to be bored. But I have to admit that, perhaps unconsciously, I excepted more from my Parisian life. A little craziness, maybe.

I’m always alone in my large mansion. Sometimes I feel afraid when I come home at night. The building caretaker has generally left by then, no one makes a peep and all of the lights are turned off. I feel incredibly miniscule in this giant corridor, not even my footsteps make any sound. I sometimes feel like a ghost or a burglar. In any case, someone who doesn’t belong in this cold and solemn place.

I have to say that I’m spared from the hustle and bustle of the capital in Monceau. Sometimes to the point that I forget to wake up…which is what happened this morning and, as I do ever morning, I lazily stretch and tell myself I have plenty of time to get to the library…Except today I have an appointment with Mrs. Granchamps in thirty minutes! Forget about taking a shower, I throw on my jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt and a jacket. I pull my hair back into something that resembles a ponytail, which to me seems very French. I grab my bag and zip down the stairs, no time to wait for the antediluvian elevator this morning. I jump down the last three steps and, after a quick look to my right – no governess in sight – glide across the marvelous marble floor of the entry hall. Right until my slide comes to a sudden stop.

My head bumps right up against a man’s torso, I put my hand against it to steady myself. Two weeks without seeing a living soul around here and this morning, a torso suddenly appears in front of me! Nothing seems to make sense around here. I look up. A man, a very manly man, looks at me with a curious expression, as if I was a little lost cat. Tiny dimples frame his dark black eyes. He’s got the kind of look I would gladly linger over if only I wasn’t in a hurry! I quickly disentangle myself from the stranger and race away like a thief.

“Mrs. Granchamps is ill today,” they tell me when I get to school. Looks like I’m in for a full day at the library! I can’t wrap my mind around it. First, my teacher stands me up, then this mysterious encounter. I can’t stop talking about it to Manon over our daily feast of brown meat.

“Maybe it was the landlord. What’s his name again?”

“Delmonte? That’d be a surprise. The guy I saw this morning was around thirty years old, he didn’t seem like a retiree…maybe it was his son?”

“Did he look rich?”

“I don’t know…he was wearing a suit.”

“There are suits and then there are suits! How was it tailored? What kind of material? How many buttons did he have on his jacket? The shirt?”

“He was wearing a…black suit with a grey shirt.”

“You’re killing me here. And his shoes?”

“Yeah, he was wearing shoes.”

“Thanks. I think I have all the information I need to determine where this person comes from.”

“Really?”

“Emma! No, I was joking. Anyway, was he cute?”

“Sure, I think so. Tall, brown haired, seemed interesting…”

“Are you going to go for him?”

“Given that I don’t know who he is, that I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, that he’s probably the son of my landlord and that, moreover, I came here to Paris to study and that I don’t have the time nor the desire to become infatuated with someone, I’d say no.”

“What does that matter, we’ve been talking about him for an hour…”

“You’re the one talking about him! Anyway, what do you expect, it’s close to the only thing that’s happened to me since I got to Paris.”

That’s no lie. It’s true that the stranger made more of an impression upon me than I’d like to admit. But who knows, really. It all happened in less than a minute, which makes the experience seem even more interesting.

It’s as if my body retained the memory of the instant when our two bodies collided. I barely remember what he looks like, and thinking about our bodies touching brings back the sudden sensation of heat that rushed through me.

But I’m completely devoted to my studies. I didn’t come here for that kind of stuff. That’s all there is to say.

My wish has been granted, I resume my routine even more enthusiastically. The weather is starting to turn cold in Paris and it gets darker earlier every evening. I read in my room at night. I thought I heard voices come out of Delmonte’s apartment that night. In the morning everything is calm, I must have been dreaming.

My analysis is too short. I’m full of preconceived notions. I’m gluing old concepts onto ready-made ideas.

I’ve never received such harsh criticism before. Mrs. Granchamps pulled no punches. I leave her office defeated. I’m good for nothing. In any case, not for research. I don’t want to be the kind of person to act this way, but I run to the bathroom to cry. It’s too much. Two months of intense studying and meat in brown sauce far away from home and the people I love, for what? To be treated like a superficial idiot? I want to disappear.

Instead of disappearing, I decide to pick up something at McDonald’s and go eat in my little room while watching a movie on my computer. I deserve a little comfort this evening.

I come home with puffy eyes, carrying an enormous paper bag reeking of fast food and enter the building…and again I come face to face with the stranger who, this time, seems to be leaving. I want to crawl under the floor. He looks at me, not at all like the first time. I feel like I’m an old incontinent cat. At least that’s what I get from his disgusted and slightly scornful grimace. I manage to croak out a 'bonsoir'. He sizes me up for a little while and then grants me a polite 'Mademoiselle' before disappearing into a sedan whose back door opens like magic.

Well, who does this guy think he is? I fume while eating my fries on my bed. What does he think? That everyone eats caviar for dinner? I’d like to see this punk at the university cafeteria! He's probably never set foot on a college campus, he probably never even studied. He must be the kind of rich kid who goes from golf games to cocktail parties without asking any questions. The gentleman was born rich and handsome and despises all those who aren’t like him! What a despicable guy…

But still handsome. That can’t be denied. A natural kind of handsome, almost wild. I’d like to say he seemed artificial, wore too much cologne or too much hair gel, but he didn’t. He emanates something animal and deeply masculine. A force, an energy…something indefinable. His eyes are a dark black, bewitching, and his fleshy mouth seems ready to bite or kiss something. His body is enormous. Athletic. He’s handsome, yes. Which makes him even more revolting.

It’s not worth thinking about anymore. Actually I should go and pay my respects to his father if I don’t want to come across as a freeloader.

I spend the evening with Marceline Desbordes Valmore, Mrs. Granchamps’ prescription to, as she put it, relax my judgment. It’s poetry. In French, moreover. I have to admit that it’s not my favorite. But it is fascinating. Her way of painting passion, forgetting one’s self…it’s deeply moving…and very exotic.

My dreams are tormented and disturbing. I’m running naked down the staircase, which never end. At the bottom I can see the stranger, who keeps moving towards the door of the waiting sedan. I wake up sweating, incredibly anxious. I decide to stop with all this romantic poetry and chance encouters in the foyer.

This evening I’m going to meet the famous Delmonte. I decide to keep my schoolbooks with me to show him what a serious student I am. I started looking into housing options in this city and it seems pretty much impossible to find a place at a reasonable price. It would really be ideal if I could stay here for a few more months. I put on the outfit I use for my professors. Perfect ponytail, which makes me look like a dynamic and healthy young woman, jeans, white blouse and navy blue ballerina shoes. It’d be impossible not to take me seriously.

I ring the doorbell, wearing my most sincere smile. The door opens and I direct my smile towards the other person. He looks at me curiously.

“I’m here to see Mr. Delmonte…”

“Evidently,” he says, opening the door. “Come on in.”

He leads me through the solemn front hall. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. I’m not in my element here. I feel like I’m one of those girls from the makeover shows who are scrutinized by passers-by. He looks right at me. He enjoys my discomfort. He, however, could fit right in anywhere he went.

“Is your father here?”

“You can find him at Père Lachaise.”

“Maybe tomorrow would be a better day?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The conversation isn’t off to a great start. Yet I feel I have to go on.

“When can I come see him?”

“I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

For crying out loud! Why do I have to deal with this guy? Is he dumb or does he just want to make me feel uncomfortable?

“Maybe he’ll…”

“He’s dead, Mademoiselle. He’s been buried in the Père Lachaise cemetery for over ten years.”

I’m embarrassed. And full of hatred for him. I don’t know which feeling is stronger. He’s obviously enjoying this. He keeps looking at me, as if he finds my embarassement even more delightful. I’m completely red, no doubt about it. I want to explode. How can he be so cruel? I want to leave, it’s too much. I turn, furious, when he places his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You are so amusing when you play the role of the model student….I didn’t introduce myself. Charles Delmonte.”

He holds out his hand, confident, and I stare at it stupidly as it takes my own. I look at him, surprised. So he’s my landlord. The multimillionaire that everyone speaks of so reverently. He asks me to sit down on a red velvet chaise lounge. I stammer:

“I’m Emma, Lexie’s cousin, I’m a student…”

“I know, Mademoiselle Maugham. I was wondering when you were going to come visit me. Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes…”

I don’t know what to say. I’m still very embarssed and strangely troubled. It’s all this red…and this man. His quaint manners and his way of acting like he was twenty years older than me. He hands me a glass that looks like white wine and sits down next to me. I’ve almost calmed down. At least, I no longer have to deal with him looking at me.

But he looms near me, our bodies don’t touch but we’re close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can’t concentrate, it’s too hot. And I’m thirsty. I swallow down the entire glass. It’s too sweet to be truly refreshing, but not bad.

Oh no, I think he’s choking. I whack him on the back with all of my might. He’s coughing, unable to breathe…how terrible, I’m killing my multimillionaire landlord!

“Stop, Emma, please! Stop hitting me, I’m not that kind of guy!”

I misunderstood. He was choking alright, but with laughter. I watch as he catches his breath.

“Excuse me. I didn’t know that I was dealing with someone who loves Château d'Yquem so much.”

Note for later: Google this famous Château. In the meantime, I decide to laugh politely. Let’s get back to our objective: make a good impression on the landlord, however old and seductive he seems.

“So you’re a student? What are you studying?”

“Sociology. I’m working on a thesis on feminism. Actually on feminisms. I’d like to study the differences between feminist perspectives in the US and France.”

“That’s fascinating,” he says, without a drop of irony.

I’m dreaming: he really finds this interesting! Or he’s so used to high society that he acts like he’s interested in everything? I opt for the first explanation, which helps me unclench my jaw a little. I enjoy the fact that I’m next to such an incredibly handsome and rich man who thinks my research is interesting. Really, it’s not that crazy after all.

“But what about you, Emma, do you consider yourself a feminist?”

He has something else to say about it! If he didn’t care at all, he would have stopped at 'fascinating', but he clearly wants to talk about it more. Perhaps he’s not the uneducated rich kid I had assumed he was. I decide to turn towards him a little. Our knees brush. It’s slightly awkward, but I really have no choice if I want to look at him while I speak. It just seems like the right thing to do.

“Maybe it seems a little outdated to you, but yes, I’m a feminist. I’d consider myself to be devoutely feminist.”

I put all of the confidence I can muster into this little sentence. Our knees are touching now. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the pleasure of discussing a subject that I’m so dedicated to, but I am on fire. His eyes hypnotize me. I press my knee against his. I look at his lips. I think, at that very moment, that I could kiss him. But he goes on:

“Would you say that it’s because of your feminist leanings that you dress yourself in potato sacks?”