Read Online Glitter Baby by Susan Elizabeth Phillips - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Elizabeth Phillips
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armor battled giant serpents on the ceiling. Friezes stretched over the heavily draped windows; pilasters flanked them. And all of it was ruled by Alexi’s mother, Solange Savagar.
Solange was tall and thin, with dyed black hair cut close to her head, a large nose, and papery wrinkles. Each morning at ten o’clock she dressed in one of an endless number of white wool suits designed for her by Norell before the war, slipped on her rubies, and took her place on a Louis Quinze chair at the center of the main salon, where she began her daily rule over the house and its inhabitants. The possibility that Belinda, the unforgivably young American who had somehow managed to bewitch her son, would take Solange’s place was unthinkable. The mansion on the Rue de la Bienfaisance was Solange’s domain alone.
Alexi made it clear that his mother was to be respected, but Solange made companionship impossible. She refused to speak English except to criticize, and she took delight in laying out each gaucherie Belinda committed for Alexi’s later inspection. Every evening at seven o’clock they gathered in the main salon, where Solange would sip white vermouth and smoke one lipstick-tipped Gauloise after another while she chattered at her son in staccato French.
Alexi kissed away Belinda’s complaints. “My mother is a bitter old woman who has lost much. This house is all the kingdom she has left.” His kisses strayed to her breasts. “Humor her, chérie. For my sake.”
And then, abruptly, everything changed.
One night in mid April, six weeks after their wedding, she decided to surprise Alexi by modeling a transparent black negligee she’d bought that afternoon. As she pirouetted next to the bed, his face grew pale and he stalked from the room. She waited in the dark, angry with herself for not realizing how much he’d hate seeing her in anything but the simple white gowns he selected. The hours dragged by and he didn’t return. By morning, she’d exhausted herself with her tears.
The next night she went to her mother-in-law. “Alexi has disappeared. I want to know where he is.”
An ancient ruby on Solange’s twisted finger winked like an evil eye. “My son tells me only what he wishes me to know.”
He returned two weeks later. Belinda stood on the marble staircase in a Balmain dress that was too tight at the waist and watched him hand his briefcase to the butler. He seemed to have aged ten years. When he saw her, his mouth curled in the cynical twist she hadn’t witnessed since they’d first met. “My dear wife. You look beautiful as always.”
The next few days confused her. He treated her with deference in public, but in private he tormented her with his lovemaking. He abandoned tenderness for conquest and kept her poised on the brink of fulfillment for so long that her pleasure crossed the boundary into pain. During the last week of April, he announced that they were going on a trip but wouldn’t tell her where.
He drove the 1933 Hispano-Suiza from his antique car collection with utter concentration. She was glad to bespared the effort of making conversation. Out the window, the land near Paris gradually gave way to the bare, chalky hillsides of Champagne. She couldn’t make herself relax. She was nearly four months pregnant, and the effort of deceiving him was sapping her strength. She pretended to have menstrual periods that never came, secretly adjusted the buttons on the waists of her new skirts, and plotted to keep her naked body away from the light. She did everything she could to postpone the time when she’d be forced to tell him about the baby.
As the vineyards turned lavender in the lengthening afternoon shadows, they reached Burgundy. Their inn had a red-tiled roof and charming pots of geraniums in the windows, but she was too tired to enjoy the simple, well-cooked meal that was set before them.
The next day Alexi drove her out into the Burgundian countryside. They ate a silent picnic lunch on
Solange was tall and thin, with dyed black hair cut close to her head, a large nose, and papery wrinkles. Each morning at ten o’clock she dressed in one of an endless number of white wool suits designed for her by Norell before the war, slipped on her rubies, and took her place on a Louis Quinze chair at the center of the main salon, where she began her daily rule over the house and its inhabitants. The possibility that Belinda, the unforgivably young American who had somehow managed to bewitch her son, would take Solange’s place was unthinkable. The mansion on the Rue de la Bienfaisance was Solange’s domain alone.
Alexi made it clear that his mother was to be respected, but Solange made companionship impossible. She refused to speak English except to criticize, and she took delight in laying out each gaucherie Belinda committed for Alexi’s later inspection. Every evening at seven o’clock they gathered in the main salon, where Solange would sip white vermouth and smoke one lipstick-tipped Gauloise after another while she chattered at her son in staccato French.
Alexi kissed away Belinda’s complaints. “My mother is a bitter old woman who has lost much. This house is all the kingdom she has left.” His kisses strayed to her breasts. “Humor her, chérie. For my sake.”
And then, abruptly, everything changed.
One night in mid April, six weeks after their wedding, she decided to surprise Alexi by modeling a transparent black negligee she’d bought that afternoon. As she pirouetted next to the bed, his face grew pale and he stalked from the room. She waited in the dark, angry with herself for not realizing how much he’d hate seeing her in anything but the simple white gowns he selected. The hours dragged by and he didn’t return. By morning, she’d exhausted herself with her tears.
The next night she went to her mother-in-law. “Alexi has disappeared. I want to know where he is.”
An ancient ruby on Solange’s twisted finger winked like an evil eye. “My son tells me only what he wishes me to know.”
He returned two weeks later. Belinda stood on the marble staircase in a Balmain dress that was too tight at the waist and watched him hand his briefcase to the butler. He seemed to have aged ten years. When he saw her, his mouth curled in the cynical twist she hadn’t witnessed since they’d first met. “My dear wife. You look beautiful as always.”
The next few days confused her. He treated her with deference in public, but in private he tormented her with his lovemaking. He abandoned tenderness for conquest and kept her poised on the brink of fulfillment for so long that her pleasure crossed the boundary into pain. During the last week of April, he announced that they were going on a trip but wouldn’t tell her where.
He drove the 1933 Hispano-Suiza from his antique car collection with utter concentration. She was glad to bespared the effort of making conversation. Out the window, the land near Paris gradually gave way to the bare, chalky hillsides of Champagne. She couldn’t make herself relax. She was nearly four months pregnant, and the effort of deceiving him was sapping her strength. She pretended to have menstrual periods that never came, secretly adjusted the buttons on the waists of her new skirts, and plotted to keep her naked body away from the light. She did everything she could to postpone the time when she’d be forced to tell him about the baby.
As the vineyards turned lavender in the lengthening afternoon shadows, they reached Burgundy. Their inn had a red-tiled roof and charming pots of geraniums in the windows, but she was too tired to enjoy the simple, well-cooked meal that was set before them.
The next day Alexi drove her out into the Burgundian countryside. They ate a silent picnic lunch on
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