Ma Meilleure Ennemie

“Un jour, tu trouveras un homme gentil et tu te poseras.”

Your mother’s voice echoes within the confines of your skull every chance it gets; especially on nights like these. The kind of nights where you are the loveliest lady at the party, and men can not help but stare. You have never had anything against the eyes. Truly, you prefer that they stare to take in your pale complexion, and the dark purple of your lipstick that borders black, as opposed to starting a conversation that drags on endlessly and without purpose.

You have a sort of look but do not touch mentality when it comes to these events.

All heads turn to you in the foyer, and you let a gloved hand fall from the purple feather boa hanging around your bare shoulders. It is only so you can take a glass of wine from the proudly displayed tray held by a server walking past.

You are here tonight because you know the host personally. That, and because more often than not, you can get a free cigarette or cigar off of the men with the gall to approach you. They are transfixed as you hold the filter between those purple lips.

The outdoor balcony of the Château de Peixes is your favorite place of refuge, and where you immediately head to. You can openly smoke there, and the time of night leaves the moon hanging perfectly to frame you as a delicate sight for any onlookers.

Your lipstick leaves a smudge on the edge of your wine glass as you sip between puffs.

“Encore du vin, Mademoiselle?” The appearance of a sommelier, and his words, catch your attention. With a glance, you hold your glass out to let him refill what you have already drank. Upon bringing it to your lips, the flavor is different. Whatever it was he just poured is not the same as what you originally had.

The swirl of flavors is quite nice, though. “Merci, Ampora.”

He leaves to find others with their glasses less than half empty, and bring them to that invisible line he has mentally marked, and you are alone.

Your peace does not last long. It is always once your first cigarette is spent and discarded, that someone besides the servers decides to test their luck.

“Madame.” He rests his hands on the balcony railing, face turned three-quarters away from you, and you know his game.

You have always liked to play, and correct him nonetheless. “Mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle.” He repeats your words with a different tone, like he is thinking them over; as if it was not his plan to fish for if you were married or not. “Veuillez m'excuser.”

You dismiss his apology with a short nod, and wait for him to properly cast his line. The longer your drink sits, the better it tastes.

“Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de remarquer que tu étais seul…” There is an American accent under his words. The more he speaks, the clearer it is. Most likely, he is from somewhere west.

“I like to be alone.” You smirk, sipping at your wine again as you answer him.

He turns towards you, and blinks in surprise. “Well. Can’t knock somebody’s preference, now can I?” His hand extends into the air between the two of you. “David.”

“Lalonde.” You give him your last name, and shake his hand.

“Don’t be like that.” David chides as he steps closer. He makes a motion like he wants a cigarette from you. With a small scoff, you set your wine glass down, pluck one from your carton, and slide it between two of his outstretched fingers.

“Rosalind.” You light his cigarette, and speak around the filter of your own.

“Thought so.” He exhales and straightens the lapels on his suit jacket. “Peixes told me about you. Said that I should come seek you out. That you'd be the lonely lady standing all by herself, and most likely on the balcony.”

One of your eyebrows tick upwards. You turn, pressing your back against the balcony railing with your arms crossed. “Now, why would she do that?”

Peixes knows your preference. She knows you detest company of a certain kind, present company especially. There should be no reason for her to send a man to you. Choice words will be exchanged with her before you take off for the night.

“She-” David keeps his voice low as he looks over his shoulder. Whatever he has to say, he is making sure there are no eavesdroppers. “-mentioned your aversion to suitors.”

This does nothing to quell your growing spite towards the hostess. “Yes?”

“And the reasoning behind it.”

Your eye twitches. “That’s a personal and private matter.” The lit end of your cigarette is shoved in his face, pointed near a garnet-red eye. “She should not have said anything to you. Pas un mot.”

“Hey-” David uses a finger to move the burning tobacco and paper away. “It’s- it’s not like that. She only told me because, well… me too. So…”

He is nervous. You can tell. The way he grips the railing and hunches over it, face turned away from you. David is back to that three-quarters angle he had at the start of your conversation.

“You too?” You scoot closer, watching him awkwardly shy away. He is afraid of your wrath and he has yet to see it.

“That’s why I thought I should meet you.” He is tense, and has retreated to the point of pressing himself against the nearby wall that frames the edge of the balcony.

You make a noise of curiosity, stepping closer. David had seemed so confident in his initial approach. Even a hint of the venom you are capable of has reduced him to almost fleeing.

“Is that true?” You finish off your cigarette and squish the burning end against the wall next to him. The trash is flicked off the side, down into the grass below the two of you.

“Yes. Look, she told me a bit, but she didn’t tell me everything. Just that you don’t like men, and well, I do. So, I came to the conclusion that maybe we could pair up..? And pretend..? Peixes mentioned your mother, and...”

You blink. It is not like the concept is new to you, but you had never thought the opportunity would present itself. Your arms cross again at the mention of your mother, eyes narrowing.

“...Just one dance and a chat?” David faces you again, his hand held back out after discarding his own, spent Gauloises. You can see his fingers shake as if he is scared.

Gingerly, and after a small amount of consideration, you take his hand, and let him lead you back inside towards the rest of the party. It is not often that you dance seeing as dancing alone is not fun, and you never have a partner to do so with.

David is hesitant about setting a hand on your waist, and it becomes your job to guide him. “I don’t bite, David.” You lie.

“Could have fooled me, Rosalind.” He is funny. You can appreciate that.

“If I was going to bite, I would have done so already.”

People on the main floor, dancing and stood off to the side, stare at the two of you. There are two reasons you can think of. One, the fact you are both speaking a language they do not understand, and two, they recognize and have never seen you so close to a man.

David spins you around his finger and the bottom edge of your dress fans with the motion. You smile, purple lips pressed together.

“Il vous fera sentir comme si vous étiez au sommet du monde.”

It has come to your realization that David is not so bad. Of all the men to allow in your life, in the context he raised, he is not the worst choice.

Your mother would certainly get off your back the second she would find out you are a Madame. You would be free from her pestering about settling down.

A lull in the live music has David’s arms looping around your waist from behind. You lean back into him, having to do so at an angle thanks to your height. You are already tall, but your shoes do not help.

“Is this okay?”

You nod, shutting your eyes and swaying slightly with him. “Tu n'es pas si mauvais.”

He laughs at your declaration. “Non?”

“Non.”

The night continues, and David talks of this man overseas in America; once realizing no one can understand the two of you. He says the man of his dreams has bright blue eyes, and a laugh that makes the angels sing. His genuinity makes you smile again.

You can relate, responding with tales about mistresses of your own. Jade eyes, cobalt eyes, and both with conviction as solid as rock.

You return to the balcony before the night is over, passing him another cigarette and noting that you left your wine glass before. You get David to try the mix of flavors the sommelier incidentally created.

“So…” He licks his lips, nodding at the taste as he speaks. “You said you liked me.”

“I said you are not that bad, David. I tolerate you.” You know where he is going with this, and get to the point before he can. “But, I would not be averse to the idea of spending more time with you, or possibly taking you up on your offer. Time will tell, this was only one night, afterall.”

“Well, I will be in France for the foreseeable future. Took this trip to get away from my old man and his insistence I get married. Besides that, I quite like it here, afterall. So, I will get your contact from Mlle. Peixes?”

Your lips part slightly, surprised he is in the same corner as you. You fan your face to calm your expression. “You will get my contact from me, David.” Your fanning hand presses to his chest to shove him playfully. You could blame the wine, but something about tonight, and a shared situation, has warmed your usually cold heart.

“And I will walk you home, too, Mademoiselle?” He holds his arm out, and his tone is just as playful as your actions.

“You will walk me home, Monsieur.” You latch, leaning against his shoulder as he guides the two of you to the foyer, and out of the main entrance.

“Je veux juste que tu sois heureux de tout ce que tu choisis de faire, Rosalind.”