Chapter 15 - Le Julianon
Is the canvas defiant now? Has Lucian finally met a challenge he cannot control? Can he improvise?
(oOoOO - try)
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The next morning, while I was in the shower, I found myself thinking about yesterday. It was not because the date had been a disaster, but because of the way Monica had looked at me and how her hand had struck my face. It felt so far beneath me. Never before had I felt so naked in front of everyone. The disrespect lingered.
During the hospital rounds, one of the surgeons touched my shoulder. The brief tap against my glenohumeral joint sent a tingling sensation through me.
“Doctor Hoffmann?” the slim brunette surgeon asked. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes. You mean the rhinosinusitis?” I replied, crossing my arms.
“Correct. I thought you were somewhere else. Are you sure you should be here instead of resting?” she continued, wincing slightly. “Anyway, you don’t need to overwork yourself. The patients rely on us, okay?”
“Of course,” I replied, nodding again at her concern. I knew my oath. I was the senior surgeon. Who did she think she was?
Meanwhile, at the ENT office, I was working on my laptop when Monica called. She sounded hysterical, so I immediately went to the bathroom to talk to her, signaling to Claire that I needed a moment.
“Andre?” Monica’s voice was frantic. “Are you at work? Oh, I’m sorry. I just… I just don’t know what to do. I’ve made a mistake!”
“Wait, Monica. Calm down,” I said, almost mumbled my words. “What do you mean?”
I waited for her to respond, but the rapid clicking of a mouse echoed in the background. It felt like she was panicking over whatever predicament she was in.
“Monica?” I whispered. “Are you okay?”
She breathed heavily, a rattling sound echoing in the background. Monica could not form a coherent sentence. She kept sniffling between breaths.
“I booked the wrong dates for the client meeting,” she said, her breath hitching. “My boss… he was so furious. I don’t know how to fix this. I can’t lose this job.”
She cut herself off, hyperventilating.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Monica,” I interrupted, “stop. Listen to me.”
Before I could continue my long, supportive message, Monica cut me off abruptly.
“Wait,” she whispered. “My boss is calling. Let me call you back.”
Voices rose in the background, and the line went dead. I sent her a message telling her I would come to her apartment so we could talk. Leaving the bathroom, Claire greeted me when I got back to the clinic.
“Doctor Hoffmann, Mr. Novák is at the consultation room,” Claire said, while she handed me the patient’s record.
“Thank you,” I replied, before I headed to the consultation room.
A short while later, when I was done with lunch, I threw the garbage into a nearby bin and returned to the hospital. Back at the clinic, two patients were waiting for the afternoon consultation. The first patient was there for a follow-up checkup, while the other was concerned about his vertigo. Inside the consultation room, the heavy scent of alcohol lingered in the air as I assisted the patient. Claire handed me the VNG goggles and prepared an emesis basin in case the patient felt nauseous.
Once the consultation ended, I instructed Claire to update my schedule and ensure that any documents requiring my signature were scanned and emailed. As I headed toward the exit, a stout woman caught my attention. She was rushing toward the emergency room, frantic, pointing at a man carrying a child.
“Please! Help my son!” she screamed with panic etched across her face.
The nurses immediately attended to the patient, a young teenage boy. His father carried him gently in his arms. The tibial shaft jutted through a Grade III open wound. A high-energy impact, likely from a torsional force during a traumatic accident, had snapped the bone with enough force to pierce the dermis.
One of the orderlies and a nurse rushed to their side, carefully transferring the boy from the stretcher to the hospital bed. Blood poured relentlessly from the wound, soaking the floor. Meanwhile, the trauma surgeon caught my eye and acknowledged my presence before I left.
I parked the sedan in a parking lot and walked to a nearby public restroom to change into fresh clothes. The scent of my fragrance, rich with amber and cardamom, lingered in my wake as I walked toward the bus stop.
Upon arriving at Monica’s apartment, she greeted me with a sullen attempt at a smile. Her eyes were swollen from crying earlier. She sat on the chair, one leg drawn up, continuing to type on her laptop. Her hair was tied up with a pen, while loose strands fell gently across her face.
“So, tell me what happened?” I asked, pulling a chair across from her.
“The meeting was canceled anyway,” she said, her eyes still on the screen. “The client had an emergency.”
“Was that good news?” My hands pressed against the wooden table as I waited for her answer.
“I don’t know, Andre,” Monica said, glancing at me before turning her gaze to the figurine display on the console. “Maybe…”
“Okay…” I muttered, watching her walk to the fridge.
Monica drank from a bottle of water before responding.
“I guess I was just overreacting earlier,” she said, smiled faintly. “Anyway, I’m sorry about our date last time. I hope we’re not awkward.”
“No. No, clearly we’re not,” I assured her, moving closer. “I’m sorry too.”
“Let’s forget about that. So,” Monica sniffled as she sat back down. “Where have you been lately?”
“Just got back from…,” I said, clearing my throat. “The office.”
“You what?” Monica turned to me, her eyes widening.
“The office. I was tired, I haven’t been sleeping well because of stress,” I mumbled, gently massaging her shoulders. I could feel the warmth of her skin under my cold touch.
“Oh. Then you should go home now, so you can rest.” Monica placed her hand over mine as I continued. “I’m sorry for being such a trouble.”
“You’re no bother. I’m glad to be here,” I quickly replied, sitting beside her on the wooden chair with a faint smile.
We talked for the rest of the night until Monica became tired, and I had to head home since I needed to be up early the next day.
The following day, I was at the hospital reviewing a patient’s record when my phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a notification. It was Monica. “You sent me something, what’s it for?” she asked. I sent a short, automatic reply, letting her know I was at work and would call her later. When I finished the remaining charts, I handed them over, along with my pending files, to the head nurse and signed out.
It was dark when I arrived at the estate. I quickly went to the bedroom to prepare. I pulled a few dark suits from my wardrobe, placing them on the bed along with a pair of Lex Raffia loafers. After a long shower, I styled the soft waves of my hair with pomade and wore a slim JLC wristwatch. I sprayed on a fragrance that left notes of lemon verbena and sandalwood lingering in the room.
On the way to the parking area, I was on a call with Monica. The silhouette of my face reflected in the side mirror, only half of it visible in the darkness. Cold air from the highway rushed against my skin. Her voice was breathy, almost a whisper, with a touch of warmth through the speaker. Monica settled back into me like a Magdalene. The vixen had disappeared.
“Come on, Andre, what’s it for?” she asked, laughed on the other end of the line. “Am I supposed to wear this at Le Julianon?”
“Yes,” I replied as I navigated the parking area. “Are you done getting ready?”
“Thank you! Uh-uh,” Monica laughed again. “Uhm, what’s the occasion?”
“Nothing in particular,” I answered, slipping on my coat as I left the area for the bus stop. “I just wanted to make up for our previous date.”
“Oh! But you don’t have to,” she laughed. “Okay, give me twenty minutes to fix myself.”
“I’ll see you there,” I said, ending the call as I boarded the bus.
Upon arriving at the charming restaurant Le Julianon, I admired its contemporary bistro-style interior. It was nothing overly extravagant, despite its Michelin-starred reputation. While searching for Monica, I noticed her seated on a bench between two large trees near the parking lot. She wore the beige sheath dress I had given her, layered beneath a black faux midriff sweater.
“Hey, Monica,” I called, waving with a grin. “You look beautiful.”
She smiled nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
The dinner went well enough. Monica was talkative, sharing stories about her travels and her history of being rebellious as a teenager. She even asked me personal questions, wondering if I was an expat like her because she had noticed a slip in my accent.
By then, she had removed her sweater. I could appreciate her shoulders more clearly now, watching the way her blonde hair glided along her cheeks. I had not noticed it before, but the fit of her dress made her seem almost exposed in my eyes. I wondered how she smelled beneath those layers. Everyone else around us became a blur.
The moment was suddenly broken by Monica’s hand waving in front of me.
“Hey! Hey! Andre?” she winced, tapping my hand. “You’re staring at me like a maniac. I could melt!”
“Sorry, I didn’t notice,” I gasped, searching for somewhere else to direct my attention. “I was just amazed by how you look.”
“Really?” she sneered. Monica turned away briefly to call for the server, then looked back at me, her eyes suddenly foxlike. “It’s the dress. Don’t be fooled, comrade.”
I was not going to respond to that. I did not know what to say. All I knew was that I was staring at the portrait of La Comtesse de Keller, her bare shoulders luminous before me. I could sleep there. I could live there. It was everything I had ever wanted.
Later that evening, Monica and I hailed a cab. She made sure not to get drunk this time. I had hoped to stay the night.
When we reached her apartment, the stone arches and aging neighborhood seemed dimmer than before. Even the old green wooden door had weeds growing around it. Monica unlocked the entrance while I waited for her to invite me inside.
“Andre, thank you for tonight,” Monica said as she opened the wooden door. “I really enjoyed this evening.”
“I’m glad,” I replied with a smirk, standing straight in anticipation. “Did you enjoy the food?”
“Sure,” she teased. “Okay, good night.”
Monica closed the door in my face. She had not even invited me inside. I could feel the pulse in my veins growing stronger. Oh, the disappointment. Une femme fatale venimeuse.
Several days went by. I kept myself occupied with hospital duties and errands, intentionally leaving the secondary phone locked away in my study. I chose not to contact Monica; I wanted to punish her.
Instead, I focused on my work at the hospital, despite Mother’s usual barrage of messages and missed calls on my primary phone. I ignored her constantly, even going the extra mile to invent excuses, just to have enough time to prepare the chamber. It would be a goddess’ experience, covered in gold and pleasure. At least, that was my vision: Ofelia floating in luxury, surrounded by yellow marigolds.
But Mother continued insisting that I return to Switzerland, and I had no intention of leaving. By that afternoon, I finally checked the secondary phone. It was flooded with missed calls and voicemails from Monica.
Voicemail: 05/12/2025 11:24
“Hi Andre, I thought you might come to the salon with me. So, if you want to, I’m here until noon.”
Voicemail: 05/12/2025 13:21
The next recording continued, “Hey, Andre, it’s Monica again. He-he-he, so are you still coming?”
Voicemail: 05/12/2025 14:55
“Andre, I’m done at the salon. You can meet me at the bistro.”
Voicemail: 05/12/2025 15:02
“Andre?”
Voicemail: 05/15/2025 20:33
“Andre… after all the love bombing, you just disappeared for three days without leaving a single message?” Her voice was sharp, tinged with anger.
Her last voicemail: 05/19/2025 17:57
“I’ve called so many times… okay, whatever. I won’t bother you again.” The beep cut off the voicemail abruptly.
After setting the phone to silent, I slid it carefully into my bag, letting the quiet of the evening settle around me. I left the hospital and traveled back to Senlis to observe Monica.
Meanwhile, at the café, Monica seemed to be having a rough day. Her fingers kept brushing against her forehead. She scrolled through her phone, repeatedly refreshing her messages. I watched her from behind a post, hidden among the parked cars, wrapped in a black coat and scarf. The evening air bit at my cheeks. She tapped her phone screen, glancing up at the empty street before returning to it, shoulders slightly hunched. A sigh escaped her lips, quick and quiet, as if no one were there to notice.
Leaving her in a state of drowning expectation and assumption, I walked back to the stop and boarded the bus to Paris.
In the bedroom, I lay in bed and called Monica, but the line was busy. I tried several times before the phone went straight to voicemail. Perhaps she did not want to talk. While seated, resting my back against the headboard, I drank a glass of bourbon and rested.
Then suddenly the phone rang. The screen showed Monica, and the ringtone broke the silence as I answered.
“Monica?” I muttered, putting the glass down on the side table.
“Andre, what do you want?” she snapped, her voice low.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls. I was sick for a few days. My doctor ordered me to stay in bed,” I explained, stretching my legs. “I kept thinking you didn’t want to hear from me, but I just wanted to let you know.”
“Really? And you expect me to believe that?” she exclaimed, striking something off-screen. “Andre! What the actual fuck? So, you’re just going to ghost me? That’s it?”
“No, you can call my doctor to confirm. Look, I’m sorry. I was bedridden,” I said, sniffling and coughing.
She hissed through the line. “You could’ve just texted me. Was that so hard? I don’t understand you.”
“I know. I keep making excuses, and I deserve that you’re mad,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want.”
There was a long silence on the line. Then Monica drew in a deep breath and let out a long, frustrated exhale.
“Please don’t talk to me like I’m dumb. Just shut up,” she said, her tone serious. “Whatever. I need time to think.”
Monica ended the call without waiting for my response. But if I’m being honest, arguing with her felt like comparing apples to oranges. It was funny while it lasted, but dumb enough to linger.
In that moment, I knew she wouldn’t resist talking to me. Even if she acted angry, she was still desperate. There was no helping the situation, and I could feel my eyes growing heavier. I should just rest.
I was up early that morning, and Mr. Dubois went about his usual errands, as did Mrs. Moreau. I did not expect Monica to leave me such a heartfelt message. Had she dodged her own madness last night? The queen of the jungle had retreated back into the forest.
“Andre, I’m sorry for overreacting. It’s just that I felt like you ghosted me after everything. You act like you care, and then you disappear. I was trying not to think the worst, but I couldn’t help it. I jumped to conclusions because you left me in the dark.”
I ignored her message, turned off my phone, and locked it away in the study. I went through my day in silence. It was like the hairline cracks on a Fabergé egg, subtle but inevitable. In a strange way, it felt anticipated, as though the vixen had finally surrendered herself to the wolves.
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