Read Online The Virgin Blue by Tracy Chevalier - Free Book Online

same time, a radio on in the background or a conversation in the street. He didn't ask any questions the way Jean-Paul had.
‘Rick, are you listening to me?’ I asked finally, reaching over and pulling his ponytail.
‘Of course I am. You've been having nightmares. About the colour blue.’
‘I just wanted you to know. That's why I've been so tired recently.’
‘You should wake me up when you have them.’
‘I know.’ But I knew I wouldn't. In California I would have woken him immediately the first time I had the dream. Something had changed; since Rick seemed to be himself, it must be me.
‘How's the studying going?’
I shrugged, irritated that he'd changed the subject. ‘OK. No. Terrible. No. I don't know. Sometimes I wonder how I'm ever going to deliver babies in French. I couldn't say the right thing when that baby was choking. If I can't even do that, how can I possibly coach a woman through labour?’
‘But you delivered babies from Hispanic women back home and managed.’
‘That's different. Maybe they didn't speak English, but they didn't expect me to speak Spanish either. And here all the hospital equipment, all the medicine and the dosages, all that will be in French .’
Rick leaned forward, elbows anchored on the table, plate pushed to one side. ‘Hey, Ella, what's happened to your optimism? You're not going to start acting French, are you? I get enough of that at work.’
Even knowing I'd just been critical of Jean-Paul's pessimism, I found myself repeating his words. ‘I'm just trying to be realistic.’
‘Yeah, I've heard that at the office too.’
I opened my mouth for a sharp retort, but stopped myself. It was true that my optimism had diminished in France; maybe I was taking on the cynical nature of the people around me. Rick put a positive spin on everything; it was his positive attitude that had made him successful. That was why the French firm approached him; that was why we were here. I shut my mouth, swallowing my pessimistic words.
That night we made love, Rick carefully avoiding my psoriasis. Afterwards I lay patiently waiting for sleep and the dream. When it came it was less impressionistic, more tangible than ever. The blue hung over me like a bright sheet, billowing in and out, taking on texture and shape. I woke with tears running down my face and my voice in my ears. I lay still.
‘A dress,’ I whispered. ‘It was a dress.’
In the morning I hurried to the library. The woman was at the desk and I had to turn away to hide my disappointment and irritation that Jean-Paul wasn't there. I wandered aimlessly around the two rooms, the librarian's gaze following me. At last I asked her if Jean-Paul would be in any time that day. ‘Oh no,’ she replied with a small frown. ‘He won't be here for a few days. He has gone to Paris.’
‘Paris? But why?’
She looked surprised that I should ask. ‘Well, his sister is getting married. He will return after the weekend.’
‘Oh. Merci ,’ I said and left. It was strange to think of him having a sister, a family. Dammit, I thought, pounding down the stairs and out into the square. Madame from the boulangerie was standing next to the fountain talking to the woman who had first led me to the library. Both stopped talking and stared at me for a long moment before turning back to each other. Damn you, I thought. I'd never felt so isolated and conspicuous.
That Sunday we were invited to lunch at the home of one of Rick's colleagues, the first real socializing we'd done since moving to France, not counting the occasional quick drink with people Rick had met through work. I was nervous about going and focused my worries on what to wear. I had no idea what Sunday lunch meant in French terms, whether it was formal or casual.
‘Should I wear a dress?’ I kept pestering Rick.
‘Wear what you want,’ he replied usefully. ‘They won't mind.’
But I will, I thought, if I wear the wrong thing.
There was the added problem of my arms – it was a hot