Page 7 of The Good Girl Effect
In her friends list, he’s not listed.
Even when I search his name, results pop up, but none of them are the man in the photo.
It’s like he’s a ghost.
For the rest of the journey, I busy myself with checking my appearance in the selfie camera of my phone, taming my stray curls and wiping the ink smudge from my cheek. Digging into the bottom of my purse, I find an old lipstick and swipe it acrossmy lips. I’m not usually one for makeup, but I want to look nice today. One should always look beautiful in Paris.
By the time the train arrives, I’m feeling far too flustered and tightly wound. From the train, I have to take the Métro to the 18th arrondissement, where the address listed is located.
As I climb up the stairs from the underground, it suddenly hits me that I’m really here. I’m really doing this.
It’s a short walk to the apartment building, and as I walk, I enjoy the stroll through one of my favorite areas of the city. The art and culture come alive here. Walking alongside tourists and locals on a narrow sidewalk, I pass by a market bustling with energy and a small children’s park where the kids laugh and play while their parents watch from the sides. The hills in Montmartre make for a beautiful view of Paris.
Then, before I know it, I’m standing in front of his building. The leaves of a large cherry tree fall around me as I stare up at the apartment building. Emmaline’s letter is still safely stowed away in my pocket. Nervously, I climb the stairs and find the main door unlocked. I realize at this moment that it’s possible he doesn’t even live here anymore. He could have moved, especially if this letter is from before they were married and had their child.
And even though I came all this way to give him this letter, there’s a subtle sense of relief at the idea that he might not be on the other side of that door. Then at least I could keep the letter guilt-free. I’d have a funny story and a day in Paris to look back on.
Still, I climb the stairs to the second floor and gently rap my knuckles against the surface. My limbs are shaking, and it’s as if I forgot how to breathe entirely. Behind the door, I hear a little girl shouting something I can’t make out, and a woman replies in an assertive tone.
The door flies open, and to my surprise, a beautiful woman with long red hair stands before me. She has a businesslikeappearance to her with black trousers, black flats, and a thin white blouse tucked into her pants.
“Bonjour,” she says in a polite greeting.
Struck by the sight of her, I hesitate before reaching my hand in my pocket. “Uh…I?—”
“You must be here for the nanny position,” the woman says in hurried English, cutting me off. “Please, come in.”
The hand in my pocket freezes.Nanny position?
Just then, a small child pops up to the right of the redheaded woman. She has piercing blue eyes and perfectly combed brown hair that reaches her shoulders.
“Bonjour,” she greets me sweetly.
I return the sentiment softly. Then the woman steps backward, allowing me space to walk into the house. Still frozen with uncertainty, I stammer some more. “I, uh…”
“Please, come in,” she urges.
It’s her authoritative tone that shakes me from my stupor. I don’t understand why, but I take the steps forward into the stranger’s apartment.
Think, Camille. What are you doing?Why are you here?
“My name is Phoenix Scott,” the woman says with an American accent. “I’m Mr. St. Claire’s business partner. I’ll be conducting the interviews for the position. What is your name?”
I blink rapidly as if I’ve forgotten my own name.
Interviews.
Positions.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” she asks as I stand here like a fish with my mouth hanging open. I’ve never been more confused in my life.
“Oui,” I stammer. “I mean…yes.”
“Good.” She gives me an uncomfortable smile and a nod. “And your name?”
This isn’t what I’m here for at all. I’m here to return a letter. I’m here to meet the mystery man in the photograph and return something from his late wife. I’m not here to apply for any job.
But for some reason, I find myself holding out a hand toward the woman. “Camille Aubert,” I reply.
