Page 7 of Omega Artist
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Céline pourssome more coffee into my empty cup, oblivious to the argument that takes place at the table of our Parisian dining room. She’s worked for my parents long enough to be cognizant of when to make herself invisible. I thank her and finish off my warmpain au chocolatthat melts in my mouth.
Sunday brunch is a family tradition that goes back as far as I can remember. Mother, who subtly ruled the roost, decided that it was important for us to gather as a family and take a break from our busy lives. When she wasn’t attending to one of her numerous obligations, she enjoyed spending time on mundane things such as reading, and gardening, and teaching us to play chess. She was the glue that held us together, and brunch was as sacred to my parents as a good education.
The tradition took on a whole other meaning when Mother got sick; I believe that Father thought that sticking together and forming an impenetrable front would help my mother’s tough battle against breast cancer. I guess that didn’t suffice since she lost it, and consequently what started as a family gathering where everyone spoke freely evolved into a more controlling exchange. He took his self-appointed job of ensuring our well-being and wouldn’t accept any excuses. That’s why my sisters’ spouses aren’t allowed.
It’s been months since we were all present. My oldest sister, Sybil, recently got back from the States after spending time with our relatives and completing yet another degree. We’re the only two single girls left. At the moment, Father seems more worried about my situation than hers.
When my now married sisters were preteens, I remember Father advising them to date boys that ran in the same circles. He claimed it was easier to be courted by someone with shared values, but that was about it; Mother agreed to some extent.
I’m trying really hard to keep my temper in check, but my foot’s rapid tapping on the leg of the chair is a clear sign of how poorly I’m doing. Father’s irrepressible need to meddle in mylove life—for lack of a better word—puts me on edge every single time.
“You cannot decide to stop seeing Philippe de Turgot’s son without consulting me first, you understand.” Father’s voice is collected, but I don’t miss the spite in it. He slathers a slice of baguette with butter and strawberry jam, takes a bite of histartine, and wipes his mouth with his heavy-cotton napkin.
Despite my escalating anger, the corner of my mouth quirks up when I notice how he clutches his napkin. This mundane gesture shows everything about my father. His ancestry. His heritage. His status. And our embroidered monogram. GdB. Three letters that express so much. To him. To us. To our world. Honor. Courage. Valor.
“That isn’t the way it’s supposed to be and you should know better.”
Oh, right! The way it’s supposed to be.
Inside, I fume and grind my teeth to the point that it hurts. Outwardly, I cast my eyes down after shooting a murderous glare at my autocratic father. “Your friendship with Louis’s father doesn’t mean you can force me to date him.” I take a sip, thankful for the taste of warm coffee and the reprieve it gives me. The weight on my shoulders grows heavier as I recall how Louis treated me. Bile rises into my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it.
Were we dating? I’m struggling to label our time together appropriately. Certainly not a relationship, it didn’t last long enough anyway. A case of trial and error? A hookup? A mistake?
Father would be less than thrilled to hear that, and my sisters would probably judge me as well… It’s not a proper behavior for a girl. From an early age, I’ve heard this repertoire of bullshit and felt the pressure attached to it, over and over. You know the drill, right? Girls should watch their tone and language. Girls should do what’s expected of them. Girls should remain virgins until marriage. Would Charles Godefroy de Briard act the same if he had sons, or would he have allowed them to have minds of their own?
It’s true that boys are pressured, too, only we live in a patriarchal world, and I refuse to submit to outdated rules that have hardened over time, at least as far as my family is concerned. Considering my lifestyle, some would envy me, and I’m far from complaining, but it comes with strings attached. Money and status aren’t everything, and that’s certainly not what I’m looking for in a man. I’m not a sucker for alpha males. I want more, so much more… My best friend, Sophie, claims that I have impossible standards. What does that even mean?
“Of course, I can.” He sounds so convinced that it’s frightening. “Also, Philippe and I are strictly business partners.”
Right, Father views marriages as transactions that mutually benefit the lineage and the business. As it happens, Louis will one day rightfully inherit his father’s international clothing empire. Both his studies and pedigree attest to it. “What could Louis have done that precipitated his disgrace? He seems like a fine young man.”
Right now, the only answer that he deserves is: mind your own fucking business…
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, my father is on a roll. “It’s not about dating anyway. It’s about finding a suitable husband. Is that too much to ask?”
I get it. He’s worried about my reputation because it’s common knowledge that I’m not attached to one guy. Worried that no suitable man would be interested in me because people whisper that I’m scandalous. Worried that no potential husband will come to respect me because of my history. Hearing things through the grapevine must piss him off. Why people feel the need to talk behind my back is beyond me. It doesn’t bother me in the least. It doesn’t deter me from searching for the right man. It doesn’t stop me from living my life. I mean, I could be hit by a bus tomorrow and not live. I’ve learned the hard way that life’s too short.
I have a strong sense of ethics and live by the rules that I’ve been taught. None of them apply when it comes to sex. Freedom. Selfishness. Pleasure. If I desire someone, I don’t waste time, make my interest known, and test the goods. Goods that I enjoy, I keep. Goods that I don’t, I discard. Goods that I’ve experienced so far haven’t struck my fancy. Consequently, I keep testing out the countless suiters brought forth by my father, among other acquaintances. I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’ve never acted on my desires if there isn’t a spark. I’ve never bragged about my sex life that most refer to as mydatingstatus.
I don’t despise men; my personal battle is on a different level.
I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we live in a world that’s mainly ruled by men, and women—who make up half of the population—simply have to accept it. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m called a slut for something that earns a man the moniker of legend. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that sex could be considered dirty or filthy between consenting adults. I don’t do the walk of shame. I embrace my post-coital glow with pride, even if I’m not 100% satisfied with the results. They’ll come and go through a revolving door until I find the right one. I’m promiscuous? There’s no question my scandalous reputation would be completely reversed if I were a man. I’ve heard awestruck comments for men who behave the way that I do, or way worse.
“Trust me, he would never have made a suitable husband. And for the record, I’m twenty years old, I don’t want, let aloneneed, a husband. All I want is to find the right man for me, and in order to accomplish that, I have to discover whether we’re compatible or not, Dad!”
Yeah, compatibility in every department, Father!
Calling him Dad is a rare occurrence. I’m pretty sure that it hasn’t happened in a decade, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Clearly, the implication of my words unsettles him as I notice his shoulders tensing. He doesn’t appreciate exactly how much I take after him. We have our straightforwardness in common, yet he chooses to disregard certain aspects of my life.
My irrepressible need to leave the table must be obvious, and I almost miss Blanche subtly shaking her head to stop me. She’s my senior by three years and much wiser than I am... Sybil’s hand tightens around mine in a short, silent show of support. Meanwhile Margot and Caroline pretend to be otherwise occupied munching on their homemadebrioches. I shouldn’t be surprised by this conversation or my sisters’ behavior.
“Don’t use that tone with me, young lady.”
Frustrated, I mull over Father’s comments.
Damn, I hate that I’m so much like Father!
