Page 10 of The Good Girl Effect
Bea grins at me from the hallway.
Just then, something draws my attention to the stairway again, and I glance up to find a man standing there, watching me from the second-floor landing. He has intense dark eyes and a wide, stoic stance. The way he’s staring at me sends chills down my spine.
Without saying a word, he walks away again as if he was just caught spying. He leaves me feeling cold and strange after gazing at me so intensely.
Phoenix doesn’t even notice his presence. She just notes something on the paper before smiling back up at me. “That was lovely. Thank you.” After a minute, she adds, “You should know the position is live-in. Beatrice would require around-the-clock attention with breaks, of course, in the evenings and on Sundays. I think that’s all for now. Do you have any questions?”
Questions? No. I’m still reeling from this entire encounter. My only question is how on earth did I end up in this job interview? Instead of asking that, I shake my head.
“Great,” she says as she stands. “We will be in touch.”
I stand from the chair and wave goodbye to Bea, glancing up at the stairs one more time, but he’s not there.
Then I shake the woman’s hand and walk out the front door. On my walk back to the Métro line, I can’t stop thinking about the man’s eyes as he stared at me. And about the sad way Bea spoke about him in her room. And about how strange it is that I just applied for a job I didn’t even come here for.
The letter is still hiding in my pocket.
I no longer feel bad for not giving it to him. I don’t feel bad for actually wanting this job now. And it’s not because I want the money or the life in Paris. It’s because something about this home and this family feels right.
It feels familiar.
It feels, in some small way, as if they need me.
Rule #3: Don’t look back.
Camille
What just happened?I’m in a daze on the walk from Jack’s apartment to the Métro station as if I’ve just woken up from a dream. Pressing my hand over my lips, I stifle a giggle as I relive the entire thing.
Was it wrong of me to apply for that job? If it was, I don’t care. When was the last time I did something so bold? It might have just been a job interview, but it felt like breaking the rules. And I nearly forgot how fun breaking the rules could be. It’s not like I’ll get it or ever see them again.
Or will I? What if I really do get the job? What if I really do move to Paris and work in that luxury apartment? I might not have gone there intending to apply for a job, but I still want it—I want itbad. Working in that home, spending my days with the cutest little girl I’ve ever seen, living in Paris, and making better money—it’s not wrong of me to want this.
Not to mention I am perfectly qualified. Okay, so I’ve never been a nanny before, but how hard could it be? I can cookand clean. I can make sure that she stays safe and entertained. Honestly, what else do I need to know from there?
With a renewed sense of invigoration in my bones, I walk. Although I was headed toward the Métro station to take me back home, I don’t continue there, not right away. Instead, I walk to the center of Paris, taking my time to breathe in the city. Strolling along the Seine, I buy a dusty old book from one of the stands, and I think for a while that my dad would be proud of me.
For one entire day, I’m not stuck in the same old boring routine.
Sitting on the edge of the river, my feet dangling over the wall, I pull the letter out again. I still don’t read it, but I stare at the picture. On the other side of the river, there’s a couple cuddled together, giggling so loudly they distract me from my thoughts.
Loneliness settles in like mud seeping into my pores, caking every part of me with this solitude. It’s not just that I’ve been stuck in my village for the past two years—it’s that I’ve been utterly alone throughout it all. The friends I did have I pushed away. When relatives call, I don’t answer. I’ve isolated myself, and it took me this long to realize it.
As the sun starts to set over the city, I make a promise to myself. Even if I don’t get this job, I need a change. I need to get out of Giverny. I need to meet someone. I can’t keep living my life like this, hidden in the shadows while the world passes me by through dirty bookstore windows.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I board the train for home. With my head pressed against the glass, I watch Paris disappear into the distance. “I’m coming back,” I whisper quietly to the city as if it can hear me. As if it will miss me.
Then I close my eyes as I relive every moment in that home. The adorable way Bea pulled me into her room, the smile on her face when I answered the interview questions.
The heavy gaze from the man on the stairs.
I only saw his face in passing, but the man I saw did not match the one in the photo. The man in the picture is young and exuberant. The one who glared at me, making me shrink in my seat, is a hardened, reclusive shell of a man.
Even still, he was handsome.
Not that it matters. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.
The next few days pass in a sullen, boring haze. When it sinks in by the end of the week that I truly amnotgetting that job, it hits me harder than I expected it to. I’m not sure what hope I was clinging to, but part of me genuinely thought he was going to hire an unqualified, inexperienced woman to care for his precious five-year-old daughter.
