Page 70 of Closer

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

POSITIVELY BEASTLY

BRIELLE

Isit in the livingroom with my mother and Piaf. I hate being back here in this apartment with the empty bed in the room my father used to occupy, its door still firmly closed. I hate that every time I pass it, I feel a pang of guilt because I wasn’t here in his last few weeks. I didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye. I hate living here, but it didn’t make much sense struggling to pay the rent on my apartment and hers.

Monsieur Chat doesn’t love it here either, but he’s adjusting. I sip my coffee and set the cup down. It’s already cold and is virtually untouched. I miss Margaux’s coffee. I miss that house with its big winding staircases and rooms so big you could get lost in them, and as loathe as I am to admit it, I miss the drunk rock star who wandered the halls like a madman and left my body tingling from his touch. I miss the way he felt against me, the heaviness of him in my hands. The way he’d close his eyes and listen to me play, lost in the melodies as if he were under my spell. Tears fill my eyes and I wipe them away before my mother can see.

I dart a quick glance at Piaf—whom I still have not forgiven for tricking me into taking that job in the first place—she gives me a sad smile, and I pick up my coffee cup again just for something to keep my hands busy.

“Brielle, do you remember when you were little, and you used to hold my hand to cross the road?”

“Oui, Maman.”

“And do you remember when you were eight years old and you stopped holding my hand because you could do it on your own?”

“Oui.” I chuckle.

“It’s time to stop holding my hand.” Her fingers squeeze mine as she says this, and I glance down, confused.

“What?”

“You love this man, oui?”

“Not this again,” I say.

At the same time Piaf shouts, “She does, she loves him. I’ve never seen her this pathetic, not even after Bastien—”

“Stop talking, Piaf,” I warn, because my mother doesn’t know that I once fell for my conductor, a married man. She doesn’t need to know. I told her and mon père that I’d been let go because of budget restraints, not because my conductor was a lying, cheating arsehole.

Maman cocks her head, confused, but turns her attention back to me. “Go to him.”

I shake my head and give her a wistful smile. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s not as simple as all that.”

“How could it be any simpler? You love him, he loves you.” She tucks my hair behind my ear, the way she used to when I was a small child. “Go to him, make love to him. Show him why he couldn’t possibly live without you, and that he’s been a fool for trying.”

“I blamed him for father’s death.”

“That’s strange, that a man who never met your father should be responsible for his death, non?” She purses her lips. I hate it when she tries to be cute.

“I didn’t blame him for father’s death. I blamed him for keeping me there with him when Père was dying. I told him I regretted spending that time with him.”

“Then go to him now, you beautiful, stupid girl, and show him why you can’t live without him.”

“Brielle, you have to,” Piaf interjects. She was there at my apartment when a courier delivered the things I’d left behind at the chateau—including my new cello. He should have just thrown them outside and lit a big bonfire in the yard because having my belongings delivered that way, with no note, no phone call, was the equivalent of a slap in the face. And the worse part is, I don’t even blame him. I said some terrible things, words fuelled by anger and grief, words I didn’t mean.

“It’s not that easy.” I set my cup down and rake my hand through my hair, because the two of them are giving me a headache.

“Life and love are never easy,ma jolie fille.” She cups my cheek. “But I gave life to you, so you could live it.”

“I messed things up. I pushed him away. What if he doesn’t want me anymore?”

“Darling, have you turned into a hideous beast since you left?”

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