My tone is as flat as his eyes. “How did you do it?”
He lifts his head. “Zoe, please—”
“I want to know, Maxime.”
He tips back his head and leans it on the headrest. “I figured out what you wanted.”
The hurt slices deeper, twisting into the little that’s left of my heart. What kills me, though, is that it was nothing but a psychological game to him.
“Give me an example,” I say, needing to hurt myself more with the truth. I need to weed him out of my system for once and for all, and he’s just given me the weapon.
He closes his eyes. Suddenly sounding tired, he says, “Don’t do this.”
I slam a fist on the dashboard. “Tell me!”
He lifts his eyelids and turns his face to look at me with the dead gray of his eyes. “You wanted a fairytale. I gave it to you.”
When he took me to Venice, he stole my fantasy. Now I know why. It wasn’t only to give me a twisted version of my dream when he fucked me, but ultimately to make sure I stayed by also slowly but surely stealing my love. My eyes are dry, but I’m shriveling up inside. Everything, even this, was a lie. I open the door. “All this time, I blamed myself for being so stupid to fall in love with you.”
“Close the door,” he says through tight lips.
“It was the only thing I still believed was real. My bad.” Getting out, I slam the door.
He jumps out when I start walking down the road.
“Zoe, come back.”
I lift the strap of my handbag higher on my shoulder and walk faster. He grabs my arm when he catches up with me, but I jerk free.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Get back in the car.” His jaw bunches. “Please.”
“Go to hell.”
I storm up the road, ashamed of my childish tantrum and unable to stop. He made a fool of me. He made me love him as a part of his sick plan, and I played the role of the needy, naïve girl perfectly. I guess I deserve this pain.
He doesn’t come after me again, and I don’t hear the engine of his car start up either. I cross the street, turn left, and walk three blocks to a bus stop where I catch one to the boutique. The boutique is closed due to the funeral, but I can’t go home.
At the boutique, I leave the closed sign and lock the door behind me, thankful for the quiet solitude. I go upstairs and lie down on the couch. The hours tick by as I try to think, but my thoughts are turning in circles. I recall our history from the day Maxime turned up in Johannesburg to the moment I ran. The design school, Sylvie who I thought was my friend, the fact that Maxime’s family planned to marry me to Alexis, everything Maxime has ever lied about turns in my head, all the people who have died, until I have a headache and I can’t think anymore. The cushion underneath my head is wet with tears.
I get up and make a cup of tea in the kitchen. I can’t stomach food. I drink the tea downstairs, staring at the busy street from a dark shop window. When it gets late, I take my bag, lock up, and set the alarm. I take the tram to a nearby hotel and get a room for the night before buying some essentials from the pharmacy across the street. I send a text to Maxime to let him know I won’t be home so he doesn’t go looking for me, but receive no reply. My phone lies on the nightstand of the strange room, the screen remaining black.
By morning, there’s still no answer. I take off the underwear I slept in and have a shower. Donning the same outfit, I use the new toothbrush and hairbrush to make myself presentable. Still not having an appetite, I grab a coffee on my way to the boutique. I arrive early enough to change into one of my own creations before anyone else gets there. My shop assistant, Camille, arrives just before nine to put up a new window display before we open at ten.
For the rest of the day, I throw myself into work. It helps me forget I’m unhappy. It’s helps me forget what happened yesterday. I’ve walked out on my husband, and he didn’t come after me. In relationship terms, it means our marriage is in trouble. In our terms, it means nothing. I’m a prisoner in Maxime’s golden cage. My feelings aren’t going to change that.
We get a lot of traffic from the street. With the peak summer wedding season around the corner, many women come in asking for a wedding outfit. I’ve expanded to a selected range of wedding and bridesmaid dresses. Camille arranges the new collection in the showroom while I brew a fresh pot of coffee and catch up with my emails at the front desk. I’ll drop by the workshop tomorrow to check how the girls are progressing with the orders. I simply don’t have enough energy today.
A girl with dark hair and slanted eyes walks into the shop. I notice her because she reminds me so much of Christine from the design school.
“Can I help you?” Camille asks.
“I’m looking for a wedding dress,” she says, “but I’m very fussy.”
“I’m sure we’ll find you something you love.” Camille walks to the mannequins modeling some of the dresses. “If not, we can always design one for you.”
I cut their conversation out, focusing on an order of fabric as they go through the showroom. Camille is a great saleslady. She’s much better at selling than me.
The young lady browses through
