was. “He is a famous fashion designer, very famous. He wants you to be a live mannequin for his clothes.”
I raised my eyebrows. A mannequin? Me? I barely knew what that meant.
Madame stared at me, expectation burning in those green eyes of hers. Her lips were slightly parted, as though she wanted to speak if I wouldn’t.
“Don’t you see? You’ll be famous. This is every girl’s dream. Smile!” Her irritation at my silence was so tangible that it made me shudder. She shook her head and snorted. Then she told me to pack my things.
Half an hour later, I found myself sitting in the back seat of Monsieur Ponsard’s car. The bag in the trunk contained only clothes. No books. I had left those with Madame.
It was the last time I saw her. Much later, I found out that she had drunk herself to death. They had found her in the bath-tub. Drowned.
“For she’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny …” Doris trails off mid-song and falls silent for a moment. “Or rather: which I cannot deny! Happy birthday, dear Jenny!” She continues singing, her eyes fixed on the screen and the smiling woman in front of her. Once she finishes, Jenny’s children clap.
“Wonderful, Doris! Thank you so much! I can’t believe you always remember.”
“How could I forget?”
“I guess, how could you? Just think … When I came into your life, nothing was ever the same again, right?”
“No, my darling, that’s when it got richer. How sweet you were! And well-behaved, laughing away in your playpen.”
“I think your memories must be wrong there, Doris. I wasn’t well-behaved. All kids are difficult. Even me.”
“Not you. You were born a little angel. You had well-behaved written on your forehead, I remember that with certainty.” She raises her hand to her lips and blows a kiss, which Jenny pretends to catch, laughing.
“Maybe I was extra nice when you came. I needed you.”
“Yes, I suppose you did. And I needed you. I’m convinced we needed each other.”
“Need, I’ll have you know. Can’t you jump on a plane and fly over?”
“Uff, silly, of course I can’t. Have you had your cake yet?”
“No, not yet. Tonight. Once all the kids are back from their activities. Half an hour before they go to bed. That’s when we’ll eat it.” Jenny winks.
“You certainly need it. You look thin. Are you eating properly?”
“Doris, I genuinely think there might be something wrong with your eyes. Can’t you see my muffin top?”
She pats her stomach and grabs a roll of fat between her fingers.
“All I see is a slim, beautiful mother of three. Don’t go on a diet now, on top of everything else. You’re perfect. A bit of cake every now and then won’t do you any harm.”
“You’ve always been a good liar. Do you remember when I was going to a dance at school and my dress was far too small? It was so tight that the seams split. But you found a solution straight away, with that pretty silk scarf that you draped around my waist.”
Doris’s eyes glitter. “Yes, I remember it well. But you were actually a little chubby back then. It was when that dark and handsome chap … What was his name? Mark? Magnus?”
“Marcus. Marcus, my first great love.”
“Yes, you were so sad when he broke up with you. You ate chocolate cookies for breakfast.”
“For breakfast? I ate them constantly. All day long! I hid them all over my room. Like an alcoholic. Chocoholic. Gosh, I was so sad. And I got so fat!”
“Lucky you met Willie in the end. He got you in order.”
“I don’t know about order.” She gestures towards the kitchen table and the piles of newspapers, dirty glasses, and toys.
“Well, at least you aren’t fat,” Doris says.
“No, OK, I know what you’re getting at.” Jenny laughs. “I’m not fat. Not like that.”
“No, exactly. That sounds better. Where’s Tyra? Is she sleeping?”
“Sleeping? No, that kid doesn’t sleep. She’s here.” Jenny angles the screen so that Doris can see the little girl. The brightly coloured pot that she is playing with has her undivided attention.
“Hello, Tyra,” Doris coos. “What are you doing? Are you playing? What a nice pot you have there!”
The girl grins and shakes the pot in the air, making its contents rattle loudly.
“So she understands a little Swedish then?”
“Yes, of course. I speak only Swedish with her. Almost, anyway. And she watches Swedish kids’ shows online.”
“That’s good. What about the others?”
“They’re so-so. I talk to them in Swedish and they reply in English. I don’t know how much Swedish they’re actually picking up. I’ve started to forget certain words myself. It’s not easy.”
“You’re doing the best you can, my love. Did you get my letter?”
“Yes, thank you! It arrived on time. And the money. I’ll buy something nice with it.”
“Something just for you.”
“Yeah, or for us anyway.”
“No, you know the rules. It has to be something only you want. Not the kids or Willie. You deserve a bit of luxury every now and then. A nice top. Some makeup. Or a trip to one of those spas people go to these days. Or, oh, I don’t know, go out to dinner with a friend and spend the evening laughing.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see. I’d like to take you out to dinner and laugh at old memories. We’re coming next summer, I swear. The whole family. You have …”
Doris frowns. “I have to what? Live until then?”
“No, that wasn’t what I meant. Or yes, of course you have to live. You have to live forever!”
“Goodness me, I’m an old biddy, Jenny. I won’t be able to get up on my own soon. Surely it’s best to just die, no?” She studies Jenny with serious eyes, but then lights up and exclaims:
“But I’m not planning on dying before I get to squeeze that little cutie’s cheeks! Isn’t that right, Tyra? You and I need to meet. Don’t we?”
Tyra holds up a hand and waves while Jenny blows kisses with both hands, waves goodbye, and turns off the camera. The screen, so recently full of life and love, turns black. How can silence be so overwhelming?
The Red Address Book
P. PONSARD, JEAN
It felt a bit like being sold. As though I had no other choice but to get into the back seat of that car and drive off towards the unknown. Wave goodbye to the secure life behind Madame’s red painted door. She spoke my language. She had walked my streets.
Though we were sitting next to each other in the back of the car, Monsieur Ponsard didn’t speak. Not for the entire journey. He just stared out the window. The car’s tyres bounced over the cobblestones as we drove down the hills, and I dug my fingers beneath the edge of the seat to hold on.
He was very handsome. I studied his hair, the strands of silver beautifully blended with the black. Combed to lie flat. The fabric