Page 66 of The Stranger

Sylvie has her mother’s hair, and Felix her dark, soulful eyes. And her husband? I wonder fleetingly what she left him. A sudden sadness blooms in my chest, not for Sylvie’s father and not for the woman I’ll never know. I’m sad for the daughter she left behind. The child who insisted on packing the silver frame in her monogrammed suitcase because “Maman might get lonely left in Paris all alone.”

“Get some rest, little love.” I turn from the bed, hoping she gets her wish someday. “Sweet dreams,” I whisper as I pull the door almost closed behind me.

Out in the hallway, I pause in the cool silence. Felix’s room is to the right of Sylvie’s and mine to the left. Their father’s bedroom door is on the opposite side of the hallway. A little too close confines, but hey-ho. There will be no sleepwalking and rug tripping here.

Now, what to do with Felix. I duck into my room, give the walls and ceiling a quick gecko scan before reaching for my phone. I flick to the text Emmy sent that first day. The dos and don’ts of the du Beaumont children.

Felix is mostly self-directed during school vacation time and can generally be trusted to do what he ought to. You just need remind him that he isn’t allowed to game through the night, and that the cut off is midnight. No junk food after ten, so no Uber Eats when everyone has gone to sleep. Security will tell you the next day if he has.

And then what? I suppose I tattle to his dad.

For children who travel by private jet and live in the lap of luxury, these rules seem remarkably normal. Maybe when the kid is older, the parameters will change. No blow and ho’s on a school night. Given where I first met their father⁠—

I drop the thought like it’s a hot potato as I give a straightening tug to the front of my shirt. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s nearly ten, so I guess I’d best check on him. Shoving the handset into my back pocket, I knock softly on his door and call out his name as I very slowly swing it open. “All good in⁠—”

“Don’t come in!” shouts a panicked Felix—so panicked that he speaks in French. But it’s not his reply which freaks me out but that of a woman rapidly and very enthusiastically reaching orgasm. In stereo.

“Oh God! Oh God! Yes! Yes! Fuck me, baby. Fuck me hard! Fill my dirty hole with your hot, juicy⁠—”

The voice cuts off mid encouragement as I vacillate, half in and half out the door. I almost reach for my phone, but something tells me the protocol for this isn’t documented in Emmy’s text.

My first thought is: not my circus, not my monkeys. Also, not my twelve-year-old son watching porn. But if I back into the hallway now, we’re not going to be able to look at each other for the rest of the month. And, either way, I’ll still have to tell his father. Awkward to the power 10! He already seems to be lamenting the fact that his son is growing up and, hello—he doesn’t even like me! Urgh. That is not a conversation I want to have—ever.

It’s not my Hippocratic oath that makes me step fully into the room, but my morals. Sometimes it’s tough being a person who always feels the need to do the right thing.

I close the door behind me as, from the nest of his bed, Felix makes a noise of pain. I so don’t want to know what’s been going on under those covers as he tips his head to his bent knees with an air of defeat.

There’s never a sinkhole about when you need one, eh? I think with a sympathetic smile.

“I said not to come in.” His muffled voice breaks on the last word.

“A bit too late, friend. And, in my defense, I did knock.” I loosen my hand from the handle and, as I glance away from the mortified preteen, I startle. “Oh, f-fudge!”

“Please don’t tell him.” He doesn’t look up, though I’m sure he can guess what caught my attention. What I’m still looking at. To be fair, it’s hard to tear my eyes away from the image frozen on the huge TV screen.

“Those cannot be real.” My eyes appeared to be glued to the porn star’s rather ridiculous boobs. Maybe I should take a photo and send it to Lavender. It might make her appreciate what she’s got because those boobs are a recipe for a lifetime of lumbago.

The… actress is on all fours, naturally, and pulling the most ludicrous face. Which is probably something to do with the hand her, ahem, paramour (work mate? Fellow thespian?) has twisted in her hair. Ouchies. He’s also wearing the kind of expression that makes me think he’s in pain.

“That does not look fun.”

“Pardon?”

My gaze slides Felix’s way, and I suffer a moment of pity for his discomfort. Rookie error, kid. This is something you’re supposed to watch on your phone, air pods in, according to my brothers. I forget how many times I’ve heard the “busted by Mum” stories. Usually, and inexplicably, recounted during a family dinner.

“Primrose?”

“What?” I come back to the moment, staring at the screen again. “Oh. Boobs.” I throw a thumb in the direction of the TV as my gaze flicks to him. “Each to their own, I suppose, but I don’t understand why some women choose to have boobs that look so obviously fake.”

He says nothing. But he blinks. Maybe I shouldn’t use the B word.

“I mean, it’s like carrying around a handbag labelled Cucci while trying to persuade everyone it’s designer.”

The kid stares back, nonplussed. I did say designer, not vagina, right? “Cucci instead of Gucci?” Maybe I shouldn’t say coochie either. “Frendi instead of Fendi? Anway, those are a recipe for debilitating lower back pain.”

“If you’re going to tell me off, please get it over with.”

It takes my brain a moment to work out he’s not asking me. That he’s prepping for taking his lumps, so to speak. But this is way above my paygrade, not to mention my experience.