Author's note: Thank you, so very much, for the support and reviews.
I know it is a little miserable at times but hey, where's the fun in an easy ride?
The next morning they crept out of the apartment and he hailed a cab, nothing having been said between them from the moment they woke. Sobbing, she had lay in his arms as dawn welcomed them as a traitor, then as her tears dried she had moved away from him. He thought then his heart couldn't hurt anymore.
The world had gone on without them, twirling still without their input. The holdall – hastily packed – slung over his shoulder, they left the cab a block away from the hotel. There was no mention of Andre and no mention of what they had done. There were no words at all.
Genovia One was already on Spanish tarmac.
And would touch Genovian land by 3 p.m.
He'd been focussing on this time like a talisman – somehow it signalled the end of this life and the beginning of a bleak, desperate one. Apart from the fact he hadn't known why it was his focus, until he seen how quickly she had set their world aside, it seemed dreadful to acknowledge it.
He tried to guess what she was thinking but she had shut herself off to him. She had gone into the bathroom at the hotel and showered him off of her. She had shed him and he had slithered down the drain into nothingness.
On the plane home she didn't speak to him and he receded into the staff quarter to try and reassemble the shattered pieces of himself.
It was unfair that it ended like this so swiftly, so finally for him. It was the closing of a gate, the sliding of a hot knife wickedly across skin.
Formality, her special cruelty, was the shield she chose. Following her dinner and reunion with her husband and Prince Phillippe, she bid him goodnight. Her farewell was stiff and formal. A short "Goodnight Joseph".
As he watched her go, he wondered if he'd ever known her at all. He wondered if he'd ever been inside her.
He wondered if he had dreamed it.
He wondered if he had lost his mind.
-0-
The cruelty of her formality, her return to what they had been before, was diminished by the passing of the week. But it was crueller to her that it was even to him.
She knew he didn't see it, she knew he was so angry at her, but she was so raw on their return that she had no idea how to handle it.
Her decision to forget it – as if it could be forgotten – was her very own. It was the only defence she had.
They fell back into their routine over the first week, because they had to, and back into their conversations to stall the growing silences. The silence were black and huge, like monsters or clouds. So she forced herself to fill them with gusto.
Every time she spoke to him, her voice sounded weak. Or contrite. Or false.
Both their mounts were clopping along slowly, taking the shorter trail which skirted the palace. She had chosen a shorter route because she had a meeting this morning and she wanted it over with. She felt queasy, her stomach churning with jolts and spasms that weren't helped by her decision to go riding. The sun was strong against her brow and it made her feel sore and disconcerted.
"Clarisse?"
She heard the trepidation in his voice. She stalled herself, twisting the leather reigns between her fingers.
"Yes?"
"Clarisse I'm…"
She was a coward who didn't fill the silence and instead let it linger because it suited her this time. He obviously decided to switch tact.
"Will it ever be the same?"
She was, as always, amazed by the bluntness of his questioning. She turned to him.
"It can't be."
For the first time they were alone and this was the conversation she knew he would choose. It didn't surprise her but it hurt nonetheless that he'd already backed away from his promise.
He shook his head, pulled the horse to a stop, "I didn't mean like in Madr-"
"Please don't say it," she was angry when her voice cracked.
"I meant before…before then. Before us, before what happened." he said quietly.
She felt so much shame, so much pity then, that she couldn't answer him immediately.
"I am trying."
"No you're not," he accused, "No you're not. Don't lie to me."
"I do not know how to be what you want," she answered, feeling frustrated.
"I just want you to talk to me like you used to," he shook his head, "But I know it's n-"
"Rupert apologised," she said quietly, "And he meant it."
She knew his silence, as it always did, signalled that he was processing this news.
"Well that's good," he said, tone bland and non-committal.
"You know if you want it to be the same, you can't hate me every time I mention his name."
She was clutching at straws that weren't there.
He nodded, "I miss you Clarisse."
"I know," she said softly, "I miss you too."
"Can we at least try?"
She nodded, though she knew it couldn't possibly be a success. She wondered what it would do to them eventually; perhaps he would leave, go and work elsewhere. He would have to because this couldn't go on. It couldn't remain.
"Is there a chance...?"
"No," she said it almost fiercely.
"We're alone here, there is no one watching us," he said softly, "You don't have to be afraid of me."
"No, Joseph."
"I don't mean for sex," his voice was suddenly angry, "God what do you think I am? I mean to talk to me, to be honest. You think I'd do that out here with you in the open?"
"I-"
"Clarisse I agreed with you. I promised you it ended there. But I didn't realise…I didn't think…"
She looked at him, and in her urgency, shot out her hand across the gap to graze his. Then she held his fingers in place, rubbing them.
"That it would be this difficult?"
He stole a sideways glance at her, where she was intent on his face. All of the trappings set aside, she had forgotten who she was and what she was supposed to do. His hand in hers had transported her back and she allowed it to.
He nodded, "Yes."
"I know," she held his fingers still, "Joseph, don't leave me."
He didn't answer but she didn't pull away either.
-0-
"You're distracted," Rupert murmured, forking a final mouthful of dinner, "Are you alright?"
"Hmmm," she realised he was talking to her, "Yes."
Another crippling jolt of nausea, still plaguing her since that morning, made her feel as if she would heave.
"You don't seem it," he continued, "Listen if this is still about Pierre-"
"It's not Rupert," she said slowly, forcing bile back from her throat.
The chicken on her plate was whole and vile. She slid it away.
"Good," he shook his head, "You know we can fix this."
"Yes, I know."
She knew she sounded utterly uncommitted.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"Yes Rupert," she sighed, "Please stop asking."
"Please stop asking what?"
She looked up to see her youngest son standing at the far end of the dining table. He was smiling lightly, a basketball jammed between his hip and forearm.
"Have you seen Joe?"
"Hello mother, hello father," Rupert said airily, "Apparently you don't have manners."
"Hello mother, hello father," Phillippe mimicked, throwing a sly smile their way.
She shook her head and resisted a laugh at Rupert's indignation.
"He has a night off," Clarisse answered.
"Mmmm," Phillippe looked momentarily disappointed, "Thank you. See you later."
"Okay, darling."
"Phillippe?"
Rupert called him back. The boy pivoted on his sneakers and turned to face them again.
"Father?"
Her husband folded his napkin neatly atop his empty plate, "We need to talk about schools."
"Papa I still have another year of boarding left," he sighed.
"But it's important you consider-"
"Nothing to consider," Phillippe interrupted, not unkindly, "I am going to America."
"Phil-"
"Not tonight," Clarisse cut across the discussion quietly, "Not tonight."
Her son stopped immediately and, to his credit, so did Rupert. Then her son turned his attention to her.
"Mama, are you alright? You've looked terrible since you got back from Madrid."
She looked at her son, "I am fine. Simply tired. Honestly."
"Alright," he turned to go, "Get to bed."
There was silence then, only broken by the scratch of a match and the little whoosh of Rupert's cigar catching light.
"He's right. Did something happen in Madrid?"
It wasn't an accusation but she felt it like that anyway. She looked at him, stared him in the eye with unnecessary defiance.
"No, what on earth can you mean?"
He shook his head, "Hey, it was a busy schedule. You never stopped apart from those few days. I am simply checking." He laughed, "You need to relax."
She smiled tightly, "Sorry. I'm just tired."
"I can see that," he touched her hand and it took all of her effort not to flinch, "I love you."
She looked at him and she knew he really meant it.
"I know. I love you too."
But she didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it.
-0-
He watched her from afar, noting how tired she looked. Since their return it had seemed like time was flying past them. He could still feel her hand in his on their ride the day before but the feeling tingled in the final stages of ending, of disappearing. As she came towards him he stood and tried vainly to smile.
"How was Parliament your majesty?"
She stalled, evidently shocked by his feigned normality. Then she smiled. Her smile was relieved and gentle, as if she could finally smile without being afraid.
"It was…." She shook her head, "So boring."
He laughed dryly at her response.
"Always boring," she laughed with him, "I mean it was truly atrocious."
He was amused by her complaining, following as she began to walk.
"Was Lord Henry sleeping?"
She turned to him, "No, leering. He was in a leering mood today."
He shook his head and laughed as she did an impression of the old man; eyes bulging, mouth slack, neck dipped forward. He laughed at the uncanny similarity and at how her beautiful face could contort into an old man's.
Straightening up, she giggled too, "I forgot to drool."
"Thank God," he smiled, following her as she led them to the private family chambers.
"It would have put you right off me."
With the wrong footing of her words there was an awkward silence between them. She hadn't meant it like that, of course, but it sounded flirty and scandalous all at once.
"That was stupid to say," she said quietly, slowing as the footmen at her chamber came into view.
"No," he stopped her, reaching out a hand to still her, "It was alright. I just…"
She shook her head.
"What have you got the rest of the day?"
"I'm feeling poorly," she sighed, "So I'm going to sleep."
"Right," he nodded, stopping at her door, "Right."
With a curt little bow he turned and walked away. She couldn't resist watching him as he went and feeling as if he would never come back.
A few hours later she got up, sweat dampening her hair line, from a fitful sleep. She hadn't bothered to change but her suit was weighing her down as she stumbled to the bathroom and threw up unceremoniously in the sink. Cupping some water in her hands she rinsed her mouth and then splashed her face. The cool water was a blessed relief though it offered only a small respite from the sickness she felt. She was confronted again by her own reflection as she began to strip, dumping the expensive Valentino suit in a pile and running the bath.
"Clarisse?"
The voice startled her and though it was her husband's, she wasn't used to hearing it here.
"Rupert, I'm in the bathroom," she grasped for her robe, "Don't come in."
She tied it around her waist, pulling the belt tight, and went out into the sitting room. He was standing at the couch.
"You're not well," he said, "I want you to see a doctor."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," he shook his head, "Clarisse, the doctor will be here at nine a.m."
"I'm tired," she said softly, "And old. That is what it is."
"Where has this maudlin attitude come from?"
"Am I not allowed to be down?"
He looked at her and frowned, "Clarisse, I didn't mean it like that."
"Rupert, just leave me alone."
He drummed his fingers on the soft arm of the couch, "You are being ridiculous."
"I am not," she sat down, "I am just tired."
"See the doctor?"
"Okay."
She gave in because she couldn't bear to argue it out with him.
"Thank you."
She'd stopped asking where he was going, it occurred to her, as she watched him go. She couldn't remember the last time she'd asked Rupert what he was doing or how his schedule was. See, in the first few years she'd come to realise a lot of his answers were lies; stretched half-truths and fables. Tonight was perhaps mistress night, or perhaps the night where he preferred brandy over her.
It wasn't that she was offended by his lies or that they hurt anymore but she'd just stopped asking because watching him make the effort of constructing a lie was hard.
She was surprised by his insistence, his fervour that she see the doctor though. It reminded her that he cared, in his own way.
Making her way to the bathroom again she stopped the faucets. She fished in the medicine cabinet, swallowed two of the pills, and slipped into the bath.