Page 119 of The Stranger

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PRIMROSE

A spiral of thoughts, pre-3.a.m (though I’m sure I’ll loop back at the appropriate time):

Is this utter stupidness?

Complete selfishness?

Or could it be an amazing holiday fling like Lavender suggested?

It took until dinner time for me to realize that today is Thursday, and Thursday is the night M. LDH said he wouldn’t be home because he had a dinner on the mainland. It’s easy to see how I might’ve forgotten this information given that the conversation seemed to take place eons ago. Back when our relationship was purely professional but on the cusp of becoming less contentious, I’d hoped.

Instead, those tentative beginnings took a hard right into something else entirely. That night, I was craving cake, and now I crave something else entirely. Oh, simpler times, because cake has never made me question my judgement or my sanity. Unfortunately, cake isn’t what I’m craving anymore.

How did we jump from warming to each other to being red hot for each other? I mean, maybe that’s his MO, even if it isn’t mine. “I’ve fucked a lot of women,” his deep voice echoes in my head. In fact, I’m fucking a lot of women right now.

Okay, that last part he didn’t say, but he might have. In fact, he might be doing that right now. And when Zoe set the table for three earlier, then reminded me the boss wouldn’t be home, I’d almost bolted for the stairs because the overwhelming instinct was to grab my phone to google lifestyle clubs on the mainland.

Organised orgies? Swingers R Us? All of the above.

I didn’t, of course, because I opted for a little decorum as I reminded myself that his sex life is his own private business and nothing to do with me. Supposedly. Actually.

“Urgh!” I tip my head back against the plush velvet cinema-style seating, irritated that I’m still unsure of the correct terminology. I’m also frustrated at myself because I’m annoyed I don’t know what he’s doing tonight, while also angry that I’m still thinking about him.

Basically, I’m a mess.

“Are you not enjoying the movie, Primrose?” Sylvie’s eyes dart my way, reluctant to stray from the screen for long.

“Of course I am.” I lightly touch the back of her hand. “Sorry, sweetie. I just remembered something I’ve forgotten to do.” And I don’t mean your father. Or maybe I do. Ack!

“We can pause it?” she offers.

“No need.” Because craniotomy by kitchen utensils is probably frowned upon in medical circles. I just need to get over the fact that I’ve become slightly obsessed with the man who taught me it’s possible to achieve a non-solo orgasm. He taught me so well, that I decided to revisit the experiment this morning in his office as a form of data collection verification. Or so I’m telling myself.

Sadly, my self remains unconvinced.

The Hermès monogrammed blanket lifts from my legs as, to the left of me, Felix kicks his feet. I slide him a chiding look, though Sylvie barely stirs, still enthralled by the immortal quest of an animated rat with culinary ambitions.

“Désolé,” he murmurs, brushing popcorn kernels from his legs as an explanation.

“Mm-hmm,” I reply with a little side-eye. I mean, I get it. Ratatouille wouldn’t have been his choice of movie. But also, being confronted by a hugely endowed woman getting railed from behind wouldn’t have been mine, either. At least he’s here of his own volition.

Apparently, it was Sylvie’s turn to choose a movie, and not only did Felix agree it was, but he also agreed to attend. Reluctantly, of course. The boy has a reputation to uphold. I think it’s very sweet that he’s here when he could be upstairs killing (virtual) things. Because, as it turns out, CoD isn’t a fishing game at all, but a combat… game… thing.

“Do you still want to try to play CoD when Sylvie is asleep?” he whispers.

I nod my head. “I’m in the mood to kill things.”

“Pardon?”

“I said I’m in the mood to learn things.”

“Bon,” he replies eagerly. “We will play an easier version. You will enjoy it, I think.” He reaches for his milkshake, clamping his lips around the paper straw. Because it wouldn’t do to be over-effusive.

“Primrose, do you think rats can really cook?” Sylvie’s eyes remain glued to the theater-style screen, its colors playing across her rapt little face.

“Maybe if they had lessons.” I give a tiny shrug. “In any case, they’d be no worse at it than me.”