Page 17 of The Good Girl Effect
He’s a ghost, and she’s come to accept it.
As for me, I’ve settled into a comfortable routine. Every morning, I take Bea to school, and every night, I tuck her into bed before preparing for the next day. And for the most part, I’m really happy here. Bea reminds me so much of myself when I was younger, except for the fancy dresses and perfect hair. She’s curious and playful. She loves to laugh and use her imagination. With every day, she comes out of her shell more and more.
Our favorite activity together is, by far, drawing. I’m teaching her how to do little doodles like I do. She leaves them for me, so when I go to bed every night, I find folded pieces of paper on my nightstand—one a beret-wearing whale and the next day a panda sitting on a bed of flowers.
On my fifth day in Paris, I finally have my first night off. Phoenix comes over around 6 p.m., relieving me of my duties for the night.
As much as I love this job, I’ve been looking forward to this all week.
“Go have fun,” she says, practically ushering me out the door.
I’ve been to Paris before. I spent the weekends here with friends when I was a teenager. But this will be my first time here alone as an adult with money. And I am taking myself out on a date.
I’ve always sort of prided myself on being somebody who is comfortable spending time alone. I could go to movies and shows alone. I could travel alone. And I could live alone if only I could afford it.
I have a reservation at one of the more sought-after restaurants in Montmartre. So I put on my best dress—a modest black knee-length A-line—with comfortable ankle boots good for walking, and I head out by myself. The restaurant is only a ten-minute walk from the apartment, but I take my time, savoring the taste of freedom on my tongue.
Passing by the Sacré-Cœur, I sit on a nearby bench at the bottom of the steps as the sun sets, and I watch the tourists as they pass. Families. Couples. Friends.
I like being alone, I do, but sometimes I wish there was someone next to me whose shoulder I could rest my head on. Someone who would let me hold their hand as we watch the sun set over Paris. Someone who would listen to me tell stories about the trips I took to the basilica as a kid with my father. Someone who would pull me away from the crowds to kiss me under the shade of the tree growing up the side of the hill.
As I stand up to head toward the restaurant, a nice couple asks me to take their picture, and I do. It makes me think of Emmaline and Jack, and I have to brush off the sadness that begins to creep in.
My reservation is at a small restaurant off the beaten path. It’s family-owned and quaint, but it has the best foie gras I’ve ever tasted. And as I sit at the small table, drawing a mermaid on a napkin, I think about Jack.
There’s something so sad about how deeply this man grieves. I still have the picture of him and his late wife in my purse. I tell myself that I carry it around with me to prevent someone at the house finding it, but I think the real reason is that it’s become sacred to me.
I never knew Emmaline, but I somehow feel as if I did. I could tell by the photo that they loved each other. But I see it even more in the way he’s withdrawn himself from his own life. I’m confident this is not how she would have wanted him to go on. Especially since they have a little girl to look after. How long can he really keep this up? How long canIlook after this child with no interaction with her father?
My meal is delicious, but I’m a little bitter that my obsession with Jack St. Claire has clouded my mind and my entire night. I was supposed to be spending tonight relaxing, not thinking about him and how to drag him out of this cage of solitude he’s locked himself in. Of course, it’s nothisfault I can’t stop thinking about him, but I’ll blame him anyway.
After my dinner, I take a stroll through the city, and I consider slipping into one of the bustling bars for a pint. It’s a lively night with people milling about on the streets, and I’m not ready to let this evening go. Who knows? Maybe someone will buy me a drink. Maybe I’ll actually get to talk to someone other than a five-year-old this week.
But just as I’m about to enter a pub that looks promising, I spot the familiar gait and stature of the very man I can’t stop thinking about.
Jack St. Claire is walking briskly down the road in front of me, taking a turn onto a quiet side street. Driven by curiosity, I abandon the bar I was about to enter and follow him. I’m far enough behind that he can’t hear me, and there are people on the street who seem to be heading in the same direction as we are.
I’m dying to know…what does Jack get up to in his free time? Where on earth does he go? Phoenix said not to pry, but I’m not prying. It’s not my fault if I just happen to see Jack walk into a building late at night.
At the end of the small street just off the main square is what appears to be a bustling nightclub, and I pause in astonishmentas I watch Jack march confidently inside. The club is nestled at the bottom of the building, the lower-level facade painted in discreet matte black with an awning and people milling around on the street outside. Voices and the bass of music echo through the narrow city street as I slowly approach.
He’s going to a nightclub?
I know nearly nothing about this man, but from what I do know, I find this slightly odd. No matter how hard I try to conjure up an image of him dancing, I can’t seem to do it. It just doesn’t fit.
After continuing my way down the street, I stand in front of the building and try to make sense of it. There’s no name on the door. No other bars or businesses nearby. When I catch the eye of a group of men lingering near the door, I turn my back and cautiously walk up the street. I could go back to the apartment. I could spend the rest of my evening at a different club or bar. I could do literally anything else, but for some reason, I’m moving toward the door of the club.
There’s a bouncer at the door who takes a long look at me before stepping aside to let me pass. I nearly turn away, intimidated by the deafening sound of music and people inside. I don’t belong here. This is not my scene at all.
The main floor of the club is incredibly loud and a little dark. There are crowds of people everywhere, and I have to squeeze my way through to find an open area where the bar stands off to the left with a dance floor to the right. It appears like any normal club, and as I make my way to the bar, I glance around, searching for my mysterious employer.
I’m not sure what I would even do if I saw him. What if he sees me? I could play it off as coincidence. Or he could accuse me of stalking him and fire me on the spot. Either way, I’m still looking for him.
“What are you having?” someone asks to my left. Turning, I find a woman behind the bar. She’s beautiful with spiral brown curls and big, dark eyes.
“Just water for now, please.”
“You got it,” she replies, turning away to fill a glass.
