“Exactly,” said Arthur. “Sometimes you don’t think. You just act. Somebody has to be the voice of reason.”
“And you think that’s your voice?” Clémence shook her head.
“You’re impossible,” Arthur said. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed.”
“If I need help I’ll ask for it.”
What was it about Arthur that always brought out her argumentative side? If she really needed protection, she had plenty of guy friends to ask, like Ben or Sebastien, and she wanted to tell him that, but something stopped her.
She looked at Arthur. Did she find him attractive? Sure, objectively, but was she personally romantically interested in him? She couldn’t be. Especially after he’d sneered about the flowers when she’d asked, or his insensitive insults, even if he’d just apologized.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then changed the subject.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
“Fine.”
“I hear you’re a painter,” he said.
“I dabble,” she said. “Why? Did your mother mention it?”
“Yes.”
Clémence got the feeling that Arthur’s mother really wanted him to pursue her. She also knew however that Arthur was more into bimbos. She’d seen enough girls coming out of the building with him on Sunday mornings—girls in tight mini skirts and full bosoms, doing the walk of shame. In fact, he had been bringing one of these girls home late at night when he’d found her unconscious outside of their building over a month ago.
So why was he being so nice now? Surely she wasn’t his type. She was slim and dark haired—not curvaceous and blond like his usual type. She didn’t show much skin at all. Clémence couldn’t go out with someone with such superficial taste in women. She’d been heartbroken by someone who’d dumped her for a great beauty, and she wasn’t going to risk her heart again. Especially by someone who was in essence a spoiled rich kid, even if he was working on a PhD and living in a servant’s room.
Nevertheless, she indulged him in his inquiries about her art, answering his questions about what she’d studied in school and the artists who inspired her. Although she was surprised by his interest, she didn’t want to delve into the subject of the personal paintings she was working on, or planned to work on. For now she felt like a fraud, a wannabe, even if she had a fancy degree.
Her ex-boyfriend had been the real artist. She knew she should probably have more confidence in herself, but confidence was something she had to build in this field.
She changed the subject to something that she’d been curious about, but had refrained from asking out of respect. But since Arthur seemed more and more relaxed, it felt like a good time to ask.
“Did your mother ever find out about Lana?” she asked.
He blew air out of his mouth and shrugged. “She probably knows, but I don’t know for sure.”
Last month when Clémence had been investigating the murder of la gardienne , the caretaker of their building, she’d uncovered that Arthur’s father had been having an affair with one of their maids. Arthur had been pretty upset about it. The maid immediately moved out from her room on the top floor. Such behavior from his father didn’t surprise him.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Arthur continued. “Their marriage is not really built on love, you know?”
Clémence didn’t. Her parents’ love story was grand and passionate. They’d met in culinary school, started the patisserie together and to this day they were still in love and having a great time travelling and having new adventures together.
“That’s a shame,” said Clémence.
Arthur shrugged again, as if to shrug the whole thing off. “It’s peaceful at home right now, so that’s all I can ask for.”
Clémence looked at his profile. Strong chin, gold reflecting from his chestnut
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