Page 21 of The Good Girl Effect
Rule #6: Beware of those who lurk in hallways in the middle of the night.
Camille
After the incident in the club, Jack continues ghosting us. No surprise.
He continues to haunt the house. His existence consists of nothing but noisy footsteps upstairs and occasional appearances as he passes us for the door.
I’m just glad I still have my job. The morning after the club, I woke up humiliated. What was I thinking, following him into that place? Why on earth did I stay after I realized what it was? Maybe I was digging deeper into Jack’s life for more than just curiosity. Maybe I was trying to find pieces of Emmaline there. Or maybe…a place for myself.
This new piece of information about Jack, that he owns a sex club, settled in with shocking ease. Why did I never see it before? Seeing him standing over that girl, shirt off and control etched into his features, suited Jack so well I can’t get the image out of my mind.
Part of me wonders if he’s embarrassed for being caught at the club, but I think it’s more than that. I can’t stop replaying themoments when he dragged me from that basement out the door. There was so much anger in his eyes.
He clearly did not want me to be there. And I can’t stop wondering why.
Was it about keeping his work life private?
Or was he trying to protect me from something?
I hold no judgment against Jack or anyone else for the life he leads in his personal time. His kinky business is his kinky business, and I would probably be mortified to find him watching me in that sort of situation.
Granted, I’m not exactly doing those things in public, but still. This is one time where I need to keep my fervent curiosity in check.
On the following sunny Saturday, I decide to take Bea to the small craft fair in town not far from the apartment. She’s wearing a green-and-white-plaid dress with a white buttoned cardigan and her usual shiny black Mary Janes. I tried to talk her into a more practical outfit for a day in the city, but she was adamant about her choice. At only five years old, she has better style than me, and she’s quite passionate about it.
As we walk through the crowds, Bea’s hand is clutched tightly in mine. There are artists with easels set up, painting as they sell, and some even do commissioned portraits right there in the plaza.
“I’d like to hang a painting in my room. Will you help me pick one?” I ask, browsing the selections.
“Oui,” Bea replies excitedly. She wastes no time pointing to a small watercolor painting of the Moulin Rouge in a red matte frame. “I like this one,” she says.
“I like that one too,” I reply.
The artist steps out from behind his easel and greets us with a smile. “Two for fifty,” he says, and Bea beams up at me.
“Does that mean I can get one too?”
“Go ahead. Pick one out for your room,” I say.
She steps into the artist’s stall and starts browsing his selection of paintings.
“These are really lovely,” I say to him.
“Merci,” he replies. “Are you an artist?” he asks.
“Me? No,” I say. “But I love art.”
Which is true. I’ve never really wanted to be an artist. As much as I like doodling and sketching, I’ve always had an appreciation for art but never really wanted to make it something I do professionally.
I don’t think everything needs to be perfected as a skill. There’s nothing wrong with just enjoying something for the sake of enjoying it. We don't need to become better at it and certainly not perfect.
That was a lesson my father ingrained in me.
As I watch the old man paint another beautiful landscape of Paris, I remember my father. He used to say that he wasn’t a perfect cook and his restaurant wasn’t a perfect place to eat, but he fed people, and he made them happy, and that was enough.
And yet there is always a voice inside me that strives for perfection. It’s as if he was trying to convince me to embrace my flaws, but I couldn’t. When I look in the mirror, all I see is a girl who is too messy, too loud, too wild, too silly, or too ignorant.
And deep, deep down, I know my mind is trying to say that if I were better, then my mother wouldn’t have left.
