I sat and waited for Christian to come back. I had found his 'story' about him and some prostitute named Satine, as far as I could make out. Having been married for two years, meeting in England and enjoying a brief courtship, I was deeply in love with him even though our marriage had been arranged by our parents. Christian's father was a very devoutly religious man, and seeing as my father was a vicar it seemed only reasonable that I would be suitable to marry his son (as well as the fact that I was an only child and would inherit all that my parents left behind when they died, which was actually quite a lot when it came down to it).
But these details seem somewhat irrelevant now that I had found this story. It didn't matter that I was in love with him. I had always felt that, even though I loved him, even though he had told me he loved me, it wasn't real, he didn't mean it.
I sat and waited. Our house was small, in the same parish that my father and mother lived in. There were two bedrooms, a kitchen and dining room and a sitting room. I had done my best to create a little nest for us, for our children that were yet to arrive. That was another thing; I had been waiting until I knew to tell him that I was pregnant, maybe two months, I wasn't sure. I knew now, was sure that I had a mixture of us both brewing inside me. I had been so excited. I thought that the news I was to have our child would bring him out of his quiet, troubled self.
I had agreed to marry him because I was swept away by Christian. He was so interesting, somewhat charismatic and very shy. He intrigued me, and was always very kind to me. I knew that he would treat me well as a wife and I also knew that I would come to love him as our marriage progressed. I had, I really had.
Three days ago I had found some papers in a box under our bed, whilst looking for old clothes to give to the church for the poor in our village. Not remembering having put the box there, I opened it and was confronted by a bundle of papers with the words 'The Moulin Rouge' typed as a sort of front cover. 'The Moulin Rouge?' I thought, 'Isn't that a brothel in France?'. Christian had always been a keen writer, in our courtship he had taken to writing me a story, every time I met him he had another chapter which I wasn't allowed to read until we had parted. In the final chapter, the last line had read 'And Christian asked Catherine to marry him, and she agreed, and they lived happily ever after.' And I did agree. What a wonderful man he was then!
So I sat and read this 'Moulin Rouge'. It took me three days to complete it, it was quite hefty considering he had spent hardly any time at all in France, maybe only two years. Well, that is what he had told me. I didn't know what to believe anymore since I had started looking at this novel. I read and I read and I read...it seemed just like a story, like a great work of fiction, yet here was my husband, the man I loved, here he was in this novel professing his love for Satine, a French whore he had become infatuated with. I cried throughout his love for her, I felt a smug sense of satisfaction as I read of how she had died, I was angry at his hurt over her death.
Christian had only been out to the village shop whilst I had been cleaning the house. I had hidden myself away, pretending to busy myself, instead reading this terrible document. On the third day, I had completed it. And I sat and waited for him to return.
I heard his keys turn the lock, heard him place his hat upon the stand, his coat upon the hook, his foot softly tread on the carpet towards the sitting room. He came in, smiling at me, beginning to tell me what a lovely day it was outside. He saw my face, and his fell. I held up the manuscript; I had planned my rage at him, to demand who she was, what this was, is this why he had never loved me? Yet when I saw his beautiful face looking at mine with despair, tears welled in my eyes and slowly fell down my face.
"Where...where did you find that?" he asked me.
"It was under the bed. Our bed." I said, looking down at the pages, ruffling through them with my other hand. Christian sat down in the armchair opposite me and looked at me, his eyes flicking from my eyes, down to the floor, and back again. He leaned towards me.
"It's not what you think, Catherine," he began, but I cut him off as I raised my hand.
"You loved her, didn't you? I can tell from the way you write about her, the way you describe her. You must have loved her so much. I can only tell you how sorry I am that she died and that you had to marry me," I said, tears streaming from me, straining to keep my voice calm. Christian looked bewildered, stunned. I realised he must have been expecting me to shout and scream at him. I should have, he deserved it. To keep this secret from me, to tell me I was the only one he had ever loved, to keep this under our bed, a perverse reminder that there was someone else he loved, someone better than me, the one he should have married had she not died.
"But Catherine, I wanted to marry you. I love you," he said, reaching out towards me and taking my hands in his. "I loved her once, a long time ago, but now you are the only thing in my life that matters. You've got to believe me Catherine, I would never do anything to hurt you. I wouldn't be so selfish as to marry someone I didn't love." He looked me in the eye, and sat back in his chair, waiting for me to reply.
There was a long silence. I didn't know what to say, didn't understand what it was that I felt. I was angry. No, I was jealous. She had been beautiful, she had made him the happiest man alive, she had filled his days with love and laughter. She had given him everything he could have ever dreamed of, and when she died his heart was broken and he had sworn never to fall in love again. Christian told me he loved me, like he had loved no-one else, told me that I was special and that what we had was very wonderful to him. But where was my story? Where was our tale of love and life? Why had she been worthy of a story, yet our marriage, our tangible, continuing marriage was ignored?
"But where is our story, Christian? Why is she worth your remembrance when I am here? Why do you keep this under our bed where we sleep together? Why do you want to remember her when you love me?" I cried, throwing the manuscript at him and walking towards the front windows. I sobbed uncontrollably, placing one hand on the wall to steady myself and brushing tears from my eyes with the other. My stomach hurt, my chest felt tight, my heart was aching.
Christian came up behind me and placed his arms around me.
"My love," he whispered, "My dear, sweet Catherine. Please don't cry. This book, this story was my promise to Satine when she was dying. As she died in my arms she made me promise to tell her story. So I wrote it. This isn't for me, it's for her. I wrote this a long time ago, and have only read it once, when I wrote it. Please, Catherine, believe me when I say I love you, and that I love only you." I turned to face him, looked into his eyes, his handsome face.
"And I love you Christian. But please, put this somewhere else. I suppose I understand why you wrote it, it was a kind and honourable thing to do. But I won't have it under our bed any longer. All that matters now is you and me. Not the past, not even really the future. Just here and now," I said. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, even though I still wasn't especially happy about what I had found.
"That's right my love, just you and me. That's all, just you and me." he said, holding me close and cuddling me. I pushed him back slightly and smiled at him.
"Well, there is someone else that matters..."I said, grinning at him. Christian looked puzzled, and was about to ask who when I gentle patted my stomach, letting my hand fall there. Christian looked at my hand, then back at my face with a mixture of amusement and excitement.
"I'm...I'm to be a father?" he asked. I nodded. He held me tightly, and I smiled into his shoulder, realising that our little family would be happy and perfect, it really would be. Christian breathed in deeply.
"Come what may," he whispered. I froze in his arms. "I will love you..."
"Until my dying day," I finished, my voice choked once again by tears.