Wow. It's been ages since I've posted on this story, sorry about the gap! I hope you guys still remember it, and come and read this chapter.
Summary- Row. Books. Reading. Thirty foot lizards taking over the world. Seriously.
Rating- PG
Warning- A little bad language (pardon my French).
Disclaimer- I own everything including France. Just kidding. I don't really own Christian or Satine.
Chapter 6
The prospect of being somebody's wife had had me excited since I was a little girl, but now that it was made flesh, I really couldn't see what the commotion was about. Christian and I had spent one long, idle day in bed together to celebrate our wedding. Afterwards, we had stepped on to the familiar wooden floor of our hotel room, shooed away the anxious landlady who was once again demanding money, and got on with our lives.
The pace of publishing for Christian's manuscript was slow, and that week he received a telegram saying that it was a good four months before we would see it in the bookshops. My wish to read it for the first time as a hard back copy was overridden by my impatience, and I asked my husband to give me his spare print instead. He was too happy to refuse- he had just been sent the first instalment of his forty franc advance, and in his mind he had already spent it.
The first fraction of our new found wealth disappeared on, as I could have predicted, a bottle of whisky. However, he only took one glass of the drink, and left the almost full vessel standing on his desk. The typewriter lay abandoned beside it. Christian hid his cash in a place I could not tell you- he did not even reveal it to me. His excitement over having money was infectious. The pair of us would have grins on our faces whenever we exchanged a glance.
One morning, ten days after our wedding, Christian woke me from an early morning slumber by placing something dense and heavy on my pillow next to my face. I groaned, glaring up at him.
"My story," he whispered, crouching down to stroke my hair. "You wanted to read it… spend the day here, read it all the way through. Tell me what you think."
"Mmmhmm," I agreed, closing my eyes again.
When awoke again, an hour later, I found myself alone in the room. Christian had left a note on top of the script, telling me he had gone into Paris to see a friend. I was slightly offended, until I realized he meant to leave me in peace to read. It seemed important to him. I turned the first page and began to scan, but could not concentrate in that tiny room. Instead, I left the hotel with the story tucked under my arm, and strolled down to the street. It was still early, and the market stall holders were just setting up for business. I purchased a croissant, found a bench in the cool sun to sit at, and began to read. As the crowd grew and villagers hustled around me, chatting, laughing and shouting, the script told me of how Christian had moved to Paris, been swept away by the Bohemian revolution and fallen in love with a woman whom he could never have. It was written in beautiful, transfixing language and full of mesmerizing ideas. The stuff of dreams. When those dreams became nightmares towards the end of the book, I became aware of a dreadful heaviness in my stomach. I couldn't identify the feeling, but it was almost dread.
I picked up the manuscript, clutched it to my chest and walked quickly home. The tale had taken me four hours to read. All that filled my mind throughout the short journey home was her. Satine. He had written about her unpredictable fire and passion. About her beautiful red hair and delicate, alabaster skin. He had written about how much he loved her. If she hadn't been cursed with the consumption, he would be with her now, and they would still be enjoying their once forbidden love affair. Perhaps they would have married. Of course, he wouldn't drink if she was still alive, and they would be living in a haze of passionate, romantic mutual obsession.
He was home. I walked in without a word, but Christian was bubbling with excitement.
"Guess what?" He exclaimed as I sat down on the bed. I made no answer. "I know it may sound premature because we've only just found some money, but I've found us a house!" He waited for me to say something, but I did not open my mouth. "It's right in the centre of Paris. It's in a great neighbourhood, and by my calculations, we could move in within a few months! Think of all the space, Anne, we could have people to dinner, and invite your family to stay! We could even think about a family of our own."
"Well that's wonderful," I told him, with a blank face. "By the way, I finished your book."
"What did you think?" He asked eagerly, his smile widening.
"Good," I mumbled, taking off my shoes.
"Good?" He repeated, dismayed. "That's all?" He face literally fell, and I was stung with guilt.
"I'm not an expert on literature," I said bluntly, trying to numb my remorse. "It's a nice story. Well written. I'm going to bed now."
"Bed? It's midday!"
"I'm tired," I lied, avoiding his eyes.
"Look at me, Anne. What's wrong?"
My heart sank as I realized there must be confrontation. "Nothing, Christian."
"What's the matter, angel?"
"Angel!" I laughed. "You're calling me angel. That's nice, I suppose. Your last love was a diamond, and I'm an angel. A nice tandem."
"What are you talking about?" He asked in confusion.
"Your 'sparkling diamond'," I spat as I sat up. "Satine, the woman you couldn't bear to live without."
"You're jealous of my-" he swallowed "- dead lover? Is that it?"
"No, I'm not jealous!" I snorted, realising that I was. "I just don't see why you had to put all that- all that- raving on paper and then, then make it into some romantic, tragic rubbish that everybody has to read, including me, so that…" I trailed off, realising what nonsense I was talking. When I looked up, I expected Christian to be laughing at me, but his face was turned to the wall and he looked hurt.
"Pull yourself together, Anne," he told me shortly, as he stood up and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" I gulped. He did not answer.
I lay back, regretting all that I had just said. I imagined Christian striding through the streets, his anger at me growing with every step. He would think I was selfish and unfeeling, and that I did not care for him. He would raise his eyes to the sky and confide silently in his one true love, Satine. He would tell her that I was cruel and a heartless witch, and she would come down from heaven to comfort him. She would say to him that he deserved better, and I would never make him happy.
As I lay there, fantasising about my husband and his previous lover discussing me and my faults, it dawned on me how foolish I was being. Christian had chosen me. After years of loneliness, he had told me that he loved me, and asked me to live with him and be his wife. Even though he may still have some love left in his heart for Satine, he had moved forward and invited me into his life. He had met my parents, and he had made an effort to make them like him. He had asked me to read something he had worked hard on for many years, something that was very important to him. What was I thinking of? Was I throwing away my husband for having a history?
He came back an hour later, staggering as he threw himself through the door. He was drunker than I'd ever seen him. I ran over, ignoring his intoxication, which at any other time would have me raging. I anxiously smoothed his hair away from his face as he tried to steady himself.
"Why did you have to do it, Anne?" He shouted, shooing me away from him. I shrank back, scared.
"Do what? I'm sorry, Christian, I'm so sorry! I was so stupid; you know I'm so stupid!"
"You had to bring Satine up! I thought we were happy, I thought you loved me!" I crept towards him, but did not touch him. He was furious. "I thought we were in love! I thought we were fucking in love!"
"I do love you, Christian, I-"
"I love you, Anne," he yelled, pointing at me with a trembling hand, "but all you do is find problems with me!"
"I'm sorry. What can I say? I was being ridiculous. Of course I was. I know it's not your fault you loved Satine. And I know it's not her fault she died.
"It's nobody's fault! Only that… that place… and that man…"
"Calm down, please!" I begged. He was swaying and breathing heavily, and I was terrified.
"I wish I had died! I wish I'd died, not her!"
"No! Please, Christian, listen to me! Forget everything I said earlier, that was me being stupid! I love you, I want to live in that house with you!"
"You make me want to give up, Anne," he told me, slumping down beside me. "I don't want to say it, but it's true. I try to please you, and sometimes it works, but when it doesn't… you make me feel like such a failure! Like I can never make you happy and I shouldn't try. It makes me want to give up."
"You do make me happy," I whispered, starting to cry. "I'm sorry if it doesn't seem like it, but I'm so much happier with you than I was with Robert. You make me feel like me again."
My husband crossed the room silently and picked up the reason for our argument. He threw the thing unceremoniously onto the bed.
"Is that book going to finish us?"
"No!"
"Then I want you to read it again. In four months that story will be what feeds and clothes us, and I can't have you resenting that. Please, just read it."
"Very well," I whispered.
I read the story once more, again from cover to cover. This time I ignored the fact that the lead female was my romantic predecessor, and let the narrative wash over me. Christian had related the tale with passion and emotion, and he had a way with words that captivated my soul.
"It's beautiful," I told him, once I had finished. He looked up at me from his seat.
"Do you mean that?"
"I do… it's wonderful!"
I guess that's as good a place as any. Sorry not much has happened in this chapter, but the action's a-coming, so please review! And look out for the next instalment.
