Rosette - The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

“It's just a matter of respect, sir,” I said, mitigating my formal tone with a smile.

“I did nothing special to deserve it,” he answered. “In fact, I must’ve seemed hateful to you sometimes.”

“No, sir,” I replied, walking on a mined ground. The risk of triggering his anger was always latent every time we spoke, and I couldn’t lower my guard. Although my heart had already done so.

“Don’t lie. I can’t stand it,” he replied without losing his marvellous smile.

I sat in front of him, ready to carry out the job for which I was paid. Of course I wasn’t in love with him. That was out of the question.

He pointed to the pile of mail on the desk. “Split the personal mail from work, please.”

It took a great effort for me to tear my eyes away from his, for they were full of a new sweetness. I could feel them on me, warm and irresistible, and I struggled to concentrate.

A letter drew my attention because there was no sender and the calligraphy on the envelope was familiar to me. As if that wasn’t enough, the recipient was not my beloved writer, but myself.

I froze with the envelope between my fingers, my head full of contrasting thoughts.

“Is something wrong?”

My eyes met his. He stared at me attentively, and I realized that he had never stopped doing it.

“No, I... It's all right... It's just that...” I was lost in a huge dilemma: should I tell him about the letter? If I didn’t do it, Kyle might do it later on. It was he who collected the mail and put it on the desk. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that one letter had another recipient. Could I count on this, and put the letter aside and reclaim it later? No, that was impossible. Mr Mc Laine was too keen-sighted, and he didn’t miss a thing. The weight of my lie came between us.

He stretched out his hand, with his back to the wall. He felt my hesitancy, and he wanted to see with his own eyes.

With a heavy sigh I passed him the envelope.

His eyes left mine for one second, just the time to read the name on the envelope, and then they sought mine again. Once again there was hostility in his gaze, as dense as fog, slimy as blood, and black with mistrust.

“Who’s writing to you, Melisande Bruno? A far-away boyfriend? A relative? Oh, no, how stupid of me. You told me they're all dead. Who, then? Maybe a friend?”

I leapt at the chance and continued to lie. “It must be from my old roommate, Jessica. I knew she would write to me, and I gave her my address,” I said, surprised at how the words flowed from my mouth, natural in their falsehood.

“Then go ahead and read. You’ll be anxious to do so. Don’t worry, Melisande” His tone was sweet, but veiled with a chilling cruelty. At that moment I realized that I still had a heart, in spite of my previous convictions. Although it was swollen, syncopated and disconnected from the rest of my body. As my mind was.

“No... there’s no hurry... maybe later... I mean... Jessica won’t have any big news...” I stammered, avoiding his frosty look.

“I insist, Melisande.”

For the first time in my life, I was aware of how sweet poison could be, of its seductive scent and misleading spell. His voice and his smile didn’t reveal his fury. Only his eyes betrayed him.

I picked up the envelope he was handing me as if it was infested.

He waited. There was a trace of sadistic amusement in those bottomless eyes.

I put the envelope in my pocket. “It's from my sister.” The truth burst out of my mouth, liberating, even though there had been no way of avoiding it. He remained silent, and I bravely went on.

“I know I lied about my relatives, but... I really am alone in the world. I...” I lost my voice. I tried again. “I know I was wrong, but I didn’t want to talk about them.”

“Them?”

“Right. My Dad is still alive. But just because his heart still beats.” My eyes became tearful. “He’s almost a vegetable. He’s an alcoholic at the last stage, and he doesn’t even remember who we are. I mean Monique and me.”

“It was stupid of you to lie to me, Miss Bruno. Didn’t you think that your sister would write to you here? Or did you take off so you wouldn’t have to take care of your father, leaving the burden on someone else’s shoulders?” His voice echoed through the office, as deadly as a shot from a gun.

I swallowed my tears, and I gazed at him defiantly. I lied, it was undeniable, but he was describing me as a despicable being, who didn’t deserve to live and unworthy of respect.

“I won’t allow you to judge me, Mr Mc Laine. You know nothing about my life, or the reasons that made me lie. You’re my employer, not my judge, and even less so my executioner.” The deadly calm with which I spoke surprised me more than him, and I put my hand to my mouth, as if it had been talking in my place, separated from my mind, as independent as my heart and my dreams.

I stood up suddenly and made the chair fall backwards. I picked it up with trembling hands, my mind in a catatonic state.

I had already reached the door when he spoke with a bitter voice. “Take the day off, Miss Bruno. You seem very upset. See you tomorrow.”

I reached my room in a daze, and ran into the adjacent bathroom. Here I washed my face with cold water, and studied my image in the mirror. It was too much. All the black and white that surrounded me was more disturbing than a funeral cloth. I felt as if I was dangerously hovering over the edge of a cliff. I wasn’t afraid of falling. It had already happened many times before, and I got up every time. My skin and my heart were dotted with millions of invisible and painful scars. I was afraid I’d lose my mind along with the lucidity that had kept me alive until that moment. If that were to happen, I would have preferred to crash into the ground.

The tears I didn’t shed twisted my bowels, and I was a basket case. A zombie, like the character of one of Mc Laine's novels.

I put my hand in the pocket of my tweed skirt in which I had stuffed Monique's letter. I had to read what she wanted, I could no longer procrastinate. I pulled it out, and went to my bedroom.

It weighed like a bag of reinforced concrete, and I was tempted not to open it. Its content could only be one: pain. I thought I was very strong before I arrived at Midnight Rose. How wrong I had been. I wasn’t strong at all.

My hands moved against my will, I was reduced to a puppet. They tore the envelope, and spread the sheet it contained. A few words, typical of Monique.

Dear Melisande,

I need more money. Thank you for what you sent me from London, but it’s not enough. Can you ask for an advance on your salary from that writer? Don’t be shy or fearful. They say he’s very rich. After all, he’s alone, paralytic and easily swayed. Hurry up.

Yours always, Monique.

I don’t know how long I stared at the letter, maybe a few minutes, maybe hours. Everything lost importance, as if all I really was just an appendix of Monique and of my father. For a second I wished they would both die, and that terrible thought filled me with horror. Monique had tried to love me, although in her selfish way. And my father... well, the good memories of him were so rare that they blocked my breath in my throat. But he was still my father. The person who had given me life, and was convinced that he had the right to trample it.

I carefully folded the letter, with meticulous and exaggerated attention. Then I closed it in the chest of drawers.

Money.

Monique needed money. More money. I sold everything I owned in London, very little in truth, to help her out, and just a few weeks later, we were back to the starting point. I knew that Dad’s treatment was expensive, but now I was starting to get scared. If Sebastian Mc Laine had fired me - and God only knew if he had good reasons to do it, even if for no other reason than to amuse himself - I would end up in the middle of a street. How could I ask him for an advance after what had happened? Just the thought of doing so was appalling. Monique had never had many scruples; she had an enviable impertinence, but for me it was different. I wasn’t good at communicating and asking for an impossible support. I was too afraid of a refusal. I had done it once, and I could still remember the taste of the “no”, the feeling of rejection and the noise of a door being banged in my face.