House of Bettencourt Read online

“Good, except that—” I was going to say my phone almost went off during the taping, but that may lead to questions about the framing of the painting, which could lead to the package behind that painting. So instead, I say, “I messed up one of my lines. Nothing major but still.”

  “I’m sure you were great. Let me know when it airs so I can watch it. How are the new girls working out?”

  The “new girls” are Trendy and Leo.

  Betty used to take care of Lady Bettencourt’s social media accounts. Although she could technically do that from her bed, we wanted to have someone trained before her maternity leave. So I’ve hired a recent college-graduate as an intern. I thought it was really cool her name was Trendy and she worked in social media. But she told me it’s just her nickname and her real name is Trindade, then made me swear to never tell anyone.

  I also had to hire a freelance photographer named Leo because Betty took all of our dress photos and, well, she can’t take photos from her bed. Leo’s real name is Leonilda. She didn’t ask me to keep it a secret, but she prefers Leo.

  Not only was Betty in charge of photography and social media, but she’s Lady Bettencourt’s accountant (her regular day job), as well. Thankfully, Betty is still able to do my bookkeeping and payroll. She says she can do numbers in her sleep . . . and I believe her.

  She’s been a big help with my business, having all of these multiple talents, her absence is missed. And no wonder she’s bored, she’s used to having so much to do.

  “The new girls have turned out great!” I see Betty’s face fall a bit, so I add, “But they’re no you! Oh, yeah, I brought you a treat. I left it in the kitchen. Do you want me to go get it? It’s your favourite!”

  The purpose of the treat is two-fold: First, to cheer her up. Second, and more importantly, to sweeten her up before getting to the purpose of my visit. The way to Betty’s heart is generally with food.

  “Thanks, I’ll have it later, maybe. I’m too full of babies to eat, right now.”

  I didn’t anticipate this. Betty is always hungry. And now I don’t have a backup plan. “Um . . . read anything interesting lately?”

  “Just some parenting books.”

  This isn’t going well at all. How am I suppose to ask her what her thoughts are on diaries? But maybe reading the diaries will entertain her, give her something to look forward to each day.

  “Hey, Betty, remember when we were kids and mom gave us both a diary for Christmas? What happened to yours?”

  “I shredded it.”

  “You what? Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want anyone finding it. It was so embarrassing. All these petty grievances I had because this person did this or said that. Imagine if someone read what I’d written years later, and thought that was what I actually felt.”

  “So . . . you don’t regret not being able to go back and reread them now? To see what the old you was like?”

  “No way. Diaries are specific to the time in your life when you wrote them. It’s almost like they aren’t real, like they’re an exorcism of your demons. Honestly, I’ve always thought there was something a little sad about them. Why are you asking?”

  This is it. I should tell her now. Maybe Betty would feel differently if she knew the diaries belonged to our mother. But maybe not. I can’t risk it.

  “Um, no reason,” I say.

  When our mom wrote her letter, she hadn’t anticipated it’d be found when one of her daughters was heavily pregnant with twins, full of excess hormones and other weird stuff happening to her body, and not in the right mind-frame to make this sort of decision. Our mom wouldn’t want her other daughter to have to suffer by waiting an extended period-of-time before she could read them.

  Wouldn’t she?

  I am the older sister. I should get to make the final call. Betty can always read the diaries after the twins are born, at her own leisurely pace.

  Or I could shred them after I’ve read them, like Betty did with hers, and she never needs to know they existed. She doesn’t seem to appreciate the importance of diaries. It doesn’t matter to her, like it does to me. To me, it matters more than anything else at the moment.

  But would that be a horrible thing to do?

  I’m never quite sure. I need to talk to someone impartial.

  I need to talk to Aaron.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AARON AND I have taken an oath.

  An oath to always tell each other the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  The oath is really for his benefit and not my own. He doesn’t have trouble with this truth-telling business. But it was part of the deal when we first got together . . . I was the one who suggested it.

  I should probably mention that Aaron and I are “official.” Like boyfriend and girlfriend, official. Which may sound kind of immature and very high school, but as I haven’t had a boyfriend in forever, I don’t care.

  I have a boyfriend! A boyfriend!

  Okay, now that that’s out of the way, back to the oath. Because of this oath (that I sometimes wish I’d never suggested), I need to tell him about finding my mom’s diary. I actually want to tell him because I could use his advice on what I should do.

  There’s only one, teeny-tiny problem with that: Aaron is in East Africa.

  He’s volunteering with a non-profit organization that’s trying to bring clean water to remote regions in that area. He’d been planning this trip for a long time, even before we became a couple. It’s been two weeks since he’s been gone, and he won’t be back for another few weeks. Hopefully, before the twins are born.

  We’d decided on weekly Skype calls while he’s away, but let’s just say, East Africa not only needs clean water, but could also benefit from a better Internet connection.

  I’m at my laptop at our scheduled time, but I’ve already been disconnected twice. I try again. Finally, Aaron appears on the screen.

  God, I’ve missed his face.

  “Hey, Lady B,” he says, grinning. (That’s his nickname for me.)

  “Hey, Mr. Trader,” I say, beaming back.

  When I told him the old nickname I’d had for him, he said he thought it was funny. I use it now because it reminds him of how far he’s come; how he’s traded-in his old life of being an arrogant equity trader, for a new life of helping fund small startups that share his values.

  But I think the real reason we use nicknames for each other is because it’d be weird to regularly use our birth names. Almost redundant somehow.

  “And hello there, Mademoiselle Coco,” he says to Coco, who is sitting on my lap.

  Coco looks down and blushes. Or, at least, appears to blush. I sometimes feel as though she thinks Aaron is her boyfriend.

  “I don’t have long to talk; we’re moving camps tonight. But I have some bad news—”

  Nothing.

  “Wait, the screen froze,” I say. “What’s the bad news?”

  “The camp I’m moving to doesn’t have any Internet, and phone service is unreliable. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call again.”

  I feel my face fall at his news.

  “Sorry, babe. I thought I’d be staying in one place the whole time. But we finished up earlier here than expected, and there’s another location that needs our help.”

  “I understand,” I say. Okay, I want to understand. But I can’t deny someone clean water, just so I can Skype with my boyfriend.

  “How’s everything over there? How’s Betty doing?”

  “Betty’s bored out of her mind.” This reminds me of what I wanted to talk to him about. I have to tell him now, or I might not get the chance. “Remember how I told you I wanted to get my mom’s painting reframed? Well, when the framers took off the paper-backing, they found . . . a package!”

  I wait for Aaron’s reaction, but his face is frozen on the screen again.

  “Aaron? Aaron? Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Aaron!” I say louder, as if that’ll help.

/>   The call disconnects.

  Dammit!

  I spend the next hour, trying to get him back, both by Skype and by phone. Neither works. Now he can’t help me figure out what I should do.

  Coco, who has been waiting patiently for Aaron to return to the screen, looks at me with wondering eyes.

  So I say to her, “And in that package was a bundle of my mom’s old diary entries. My mom wanted Betty and I to read them together. But when I talked to Betty, she said she didn’t believe in diaries. Do you think I should read them anyway?”

  Coco turns her head to the side, almost like she’s about to shake her head. But then, she lets out a little bark.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” I say, before she can do anything else.

  But first, I take Coco for her walk. It’ll give me a chance to clear my head to make sure I’m doing the right thing. Because I know that once I read my mom’s words, I won’t be able to unread them.

  What if I find out something bad? Or what if what I read changes the way I remember her?

  Maybe Betty is right; she usually is. Maybe diaries should be kept secret—even if you have permission by the owner to read them.

  But I can still hear our mom’s voice in the letter she wrote to us, replaying in my mind. I want to hear her voice again. It’s like having a piece of her back after so long.

  I’m walking down the street in a daze, debating what to do, when a little girl of about five comes running up to Coco and I.

  “Mommy!” she says excitedly. “Look at this cute doggie!”

  The little girl’s mother catches up with her. She’s wearing a baby carrier with a . . . baby in it. “He is very cute.”

  Coco looks offended. (I think this is why she likes it when I dress her up.)

  “‘He’s’ actually a ‘she,’” I say, correcting her.

  “Oh, sorry. She’s very cute,” the woman says, bending down awkwardly to pet Coco.

  Coco lets her, so I guess she’s forgiven.

  “We better get going,” the woman says as she starts to walk away. But the little girl is still at Coco’s side, petting her. The woman turns. “Come along, honey. Mommy’s waiting.”

  Mommy’s waiting.

  “Yes, mom-my,” the little girl says, in her sweet, sing-song voice. She runs to her mother, then reaches up to take her outstretched hand.

  When they’re almost at the end of the street, the little girl turns around and sees I’m watching them, so she waves. I wave back.

  I know what I’m going to do. What I was always going to do.

  For the first time in years, my mom is waiting for me, too.

  I have to know what she wants to tell me.

  One. I’m reading only one of my mom’s diary entries.

  That way I can get a sense of what they’re all about. And if I can’t handle it, I’ll stop. Then, after Betty has the twins and is fully recovered, I’ll tell her about them.

  Given the present circumstances, with Betty not really being Betty at the moment, I think this is the fairest solution for all parties involved.

  It’s only one.

  What harm could that possibly do?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  > Diary Entry <

  AUGUST 27, 1982

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Sorry I haven’t written in a while. I know, I know. I’d promised I’d write every day to remember my time here in Paris, but things have been crazy. Okay, so I forgot about your existence until I found you hiding under my bed when I was looking for my missing shoe. And now there’s so much to tell you.

  I’m in love with Paris! I wish I didn’t have to leave in a week. My summer living in Montmartre has been everything I wished it would be. Everything!

  Most of my days are spent sketching portraits of tourists in the Place du Tertre. I speak with a fake French accent and wear a black beret tilted on my head. I get better tips that way. Occasionally, I even pretend to smoke using one of those long cigarette holders, like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It adds to my character.

  I’ve also spent countless hours painting at the Louvre, copying from the great artists. I can only dream that one day, I’ll be half as good as they are. I’ve already learned so much in the short time I’ve been here, so much more than I’ve ever learned at school.

  School. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be sitting in a classroom again. It doesn’t seem possible. I want to stay here forever. Runaway for good. Especially now that I know I can make it on my own.

  Sure, money has been tight, but what do I really need to live? I have baguettes, cheese, coffee . . . oh, and pain au chocolat! I could live on pain au chocolat alone. And I can speak the language, so that’s made things easier. The studio I’m renting is tiny, but it’s cheap and full of charm. That’s all I need to make me happy. Well, and my art. I need my art.

  My maman is still angry. Quelle surprise. But I thought she’d be over it by now. She doesn’t understand why I had to run-off to Paris, not when she had setup an internship for me at her friend’s art gallery. But I didn’t want to spend my summer in a stuffy gallery, trying to sell paintings, I wanted to create them.

  We haven’t talked in weeks. The last time we spoke, she threatened to stop paying my tuition and housing fees for the upcoming school year. I told her to do whatever she felt she had to do.

  This summer has taught me that I don’t need her money. It’s not even her money: it’s my step-father’s. But she definitely acts as though it’s hers. I hate how having money has changed her. Or maybe that’s what she was always like underneath.

  I can’t wait until I’m officially done with school in the spring, then I’ll get to start living my life the way that I want to.

  Love you always,

  Lizzie

  P.S. So much more has happened while I’ve been here. I’ve met so many interesting characters. One in particular has caught my eye. C’est l’amour! But I’m too sleepy to write about it now, I need to go to bed. I’ll write more later. Promise.

  ***

  My mom was an artist!

  How come I never knew that? She made the best Halloween costumes and was really good at decorating our birthday cakes, but I never saw her paint or draw.

  When did she stop?

  She also never mentioned spending a summer in Paris. I’d have remembered if she did. As far as I knew, she’d never left the continent. If it was the summer of 1982, that would make her . . . twenty-years-old. She was so young! For some reason, it’s hard for me to picture my mom being young.

  I knew she spoke French, but I thought she’d learned at school, like Betty and I had. (I’ve since forgotten almost everything I’ve learned.) I do have some vague memories of her talking on the phone in French.

  Sometimes when she did, I’d creep behind her bedroom door to listen, more out of curiosity than anything else. But she spoke so fast, I couldn’t understand what was being said, except for a word or two. Those conversations would always make her angry and would often end with her slamming down the phone.

  Maybe she was talking to someone she’d known back in Paris? Or maybe it was her maman, my grandmother.

  My rich grandmother. Or, at least, her second husband was. But what happened with my mom’s real dad? She never talked about him. I never met either of my maternal or paternal grandparents. I thought they’d all passed away before I was born.

  Isn’t that what my mom told us? Had she told us? Or had I assumed they’d passed away?

  They could still be alive. I could have grandparents!

  Although, if they are, my mom’s mother doesn’t seem very nice. I guess it makes sense she was rich. She’s the one who gave my mom the Chanel 2.55 bag that I tried to get back all those years ago. I do remember her telling us that story. Well, I remember the part where she said her mother had given her the bag when she got her first job. That’s all I really remember.

  Why hadn’t I paid more attention?

  The weird thing is, as I was reading what my
mom wrote, I couldn’t help thinking how much the younger-version of her sounded like me. I always felt that her and Betty shared the same kind of personality, whereas we just looked alike. Maybe when she became a mom, she changed. Or was forced to change.

  I have so many questions I wish I could ask her: What happened when she came back? Did her and her mother make amends? And this amour, could it have been my father?

  But mostly, I want to know why she stopped painting if she loved it so much.

  Maybe some of those answers can be found in the rest of the diary entries she left us.

  I’m about to turn to the next sheet of paper to read it, but Coco places her little paws on my knees, tilts her head, and barks.

  Right. I said I’d read only one. It’s probably better I stop, anyway. I need to process what I’ve learned. I can decide later what I’ll do next, if anything.

  Carefully, I organize all the sheets of paper to keep them in the order they were in and grab a binder clip to make sure they stay together. I put everything back in the original envelope, then I take the envelope to my room and hide it under my futon mattress.

  I don’t know why I’m hiding it. But I feel I’m suppose to. Plus, I want to keep it somewhere safe, where I won’t lose it.

  And somewhere only I know where to find it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I LOVE MONDAYS.

  When I had a cubicle job, Mondays were the day of the week I dreaded the most because I knew I had another five days to go before I could be free again. Now that I love what I do, I love Mondays, too.

  Actually, as I no longer have a regular workweek, all the days kind of get mixed up together. I can work whenever I want to, as long as the work gets done. It doesn’t matter if it’s day or night, Monday or Sunday, I get to choose. I can’t believe how far I’ve come in just three years.

  Every now and again, I pinch myself to make sure this hasn’t all been a dream. Praying, I won’t wake up to find myself sitting in my old cubicle, in a job I hate, with Carol—my former work nemesis—peeking over my cubicle wall, reminding me of some boring meeting I’d forgotten about.