Rosette - The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

It was childish to think that this day would be different, that he would behave differently. It had been a dream, nothing else. But inexperienced as I was on the subject, I was under the illusion that it might reflect onto my real life.

When I entered the office he was opening some letters with a silver paper knife. He hardly looked up at my entrance.

“Another letter by my publisher. I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to him! I hate people with no imagination... They have no idea of an artist's needs, of his timing, or his spaces...” His bitter tone brought me back to earth. No greeting, no special recognition, no sweet glance. Welcome to reality, I said to myself. How stupid of me to think the opposite! That's why I had never dreamt before. Because I had no beliefs, no hope; I didn’t dare to hope. I had to go back to being the same Melisande I was before I came to that house, before that meeting, before that illusion.

But maybe I'll dream about him again. That thought warmed me more than Mrs Mc Mililani’s tea, or than the blinding sun beyond the window.

“Well? What are you doing, standing there like a statue? Sit down, for crying out loud.”

I obediently sat down in front of him, his reproach still stinging.

He passed me the letter with a serious expression. “Write to him. Tell him he’ll have his manuscript on the due date.”

“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish it by then? I mean... You’re rewriting everything...”

He reacted angrily to what he thought was a criticism. “My legs are paralyzed, not my brain. I had a moment of crisis. It’s over. Definitely.”

I prudently stayed silent all morning, as I watched him press the computer keys with unusual energy. Sebastian Mc Laine got annoyed easily, he was moody and quick-tempered. It was easy to hate him, I considered, studying him secretly. And he was also gorgeous. Too much so, and he was aware of it. This made him doubly detestable. A non-existent person had appeared in my dream, the projection of my desires, not a real man, in the flesh. The dream had been a lie, a wonderful fairy-tale.

At a certain point he referred to the roses. “Change them, please. I hate to watch them wilt. I want them to be fresh at all times.”

I found my voice. “I’ll do it right away.”

“And be careful not to hurt yourself this time.” The harshness of his voice astonished me. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for his repeated outbursts, loaded with spite.

I picked up the vase and brought it downstairs. Halfway down I met the housekeeper who rushed to help me. “What happened?”

“He wants new roses,” I explained breathlessly. “He says he hates to watch them wilt.”

The woman looked upwards. “He finds a new complaint every day.”

We brought the vase into the kitchen, and then she went to pick fresh roses, strictly red. I dropped to a chair, as if I had been contaminated by the mood of the house. I couldn’t stop thinking of that night’s dream, partly because it was the first of my life, and I could still feel the thrill of that discovery, and partly because it was so vivid, painfully so. The sound of the pendulum made me jump. It was so frightening that I had heard it in my dream too. Perhaps it was this detail that made it seem so real.

Tears flooded my eyes, unstoppable and useless. A sob escaped my throat, stronger than my notorious self-control. The house keeper found me in that state when she returned to the kitchen. “Here are the fresh roses for our lord and master,” she said cheerfully. Then she noticed my tears and brought her hands to her chest. “Miss Bruno! What happened? Are you ill? You’re not crying for Mr Mc Laine's reprimand, are you? He's a tease, as moody as a bear, and adorable when he remembers to be nice... Don’t worry about whatever he told you, he's already forgotten about it.”

“That's the problem,” I said with a tearful voice, but she didn’t hear me, already lost in one of her dialogues.

“Let me make you some tea; it’ll make you feel better. I remember that once, in the house where I worked before...”

I silently put up with her endless chatter, appreciating her failed attempt to distract me. I drank the hot drink, pretending to feel better, and I didn’t accept her offer to help me. I would carry the roses up. The woman insisted on accompanying me at least to the landing, and seeing her gentle determination, I couldn’t refuse. When I returned to the office I was the usual Melisande, my eyes dry, my heart in hibernation and my soul compliant.

The hours passed, as heavy as concrete, in a silence as dark as my mood. Mr Mc Laine ignored me for the whole time, speaking to me only when he couldn’t avoid it. The spasmodic desire for that day to end as soon as possible was the same as the one I had that morning to see him again. Could it have been only a few hours earlier?

“You may go Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, without looking into my eyes.

I wished him a good evening, as polite and cold as he had been.

I was looking for Kyle, at his request, when I heard a sob coming from under the stairs. My eyes opened wide and I was uncertain about what to do. I hesitated, but then I came to the source of that noise, and what I saw was astounding.

Kyle was weeping with his face in the shadows, his shape indefinable. The man had a paper tissue, and was just a pale copy of the seducer I had met previously. I stared at him in amazement.

He noticed my presence, and stepped forward. “Do you feel sorry for me? Or are you having fun?”

I felt that I had been caught in the act of spying on him, like an indiscreet busybody. I resisted the temptation to justify myself.

“Mr Mc Laine is looking for you. He’d like to retire to his room for dinner. But... Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”

His cheeks coloured with dark spots, and I guessed he was blushing from embarrassment.

I stepped back, also metaphorically. “No, sorry, forget what I said. I don’t want to get involved in other people’s problems anymore.”

He shook his head, unusually gallant. “You're too nice to be a busybody, Melisande. No, I... I'm just upset about my divorce.” Only then I noticed that he didn’t have a tissue in his hand, but a crumpled sheet of paper. “She's gone. All my attempts to heal the break have failed.”

I almost laughed. Attempts? And how had he tried to fix things? By coming on to the only young woman in the neighbourhood?

“I'm sorry,” I said uncomfortably.

“Me too.” He took another step forward, coming out of the shadows. His face was full of tears, contradicting the bad opinion I had of him.

I gazed at him uncertainly, in great embarrassment. According to the etiquette, what was one to say to a person who had just divorced? How could you cheer him up? What could you say without hurting him? Of course, when the etiquette was drafted, divorce didn’t exist.

“I'll tell Mr Mc Laine that you're not well,” I said.

He seemed to panic. “No, no. I'm not ready to go back to the civil world and I'm afraid Mc Laine is just looking for an excuse to kick me out of Midnight rose. No, just give me a minute to pull myself back together and I’ll go to him.”

“A minute to pull yourself back together, of course,” I echoed, unconvinced. Kyle looked terrible, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed from his tears, his white uniform wrinkled, as if he had slept in it.

“All right, then. Goodnight,” I said, longing for the shelter of my room. It had been a terribly long day, and I wasn’t in the mood to console anyone, except myself.

He nodded to me as if he didn’t trust his voice.

I went in the kitchen before going upstairs. I didn’t feel like having dinner, and it was only right to inform the kind Mrs Mc Millian. She gave me a radiant smile, and pointed to a pot on the fire. “I'm making soup. I know it's hot, but we can’t just eat salads until September.”