A Perfect Life: A Novel (12 page)

“The eggs are good,” she finally admitted. “What if I won’t go out?” He knew she was testing him, and he didn’t want to react.

“Let’s see, what would be suitable punishment for that?” He took her comment lightly, which seemed to be the best way to handle her. “Set your hair on fire maybe? Steal your favorite CD? Lock you in your room and refuse to feed you? Make you eat brussels sprouts?”

“I like brussels sprouts,” she said, smiling again. She almost liked him sometimes, but not quite. He wasn’t Abby. But she could tell he was smart. She had hardly ever spoken to him at school. He was in a cottage with younger boys.

“Then that won’t work. What food do you hate most?”

“Beans, of any kind.”

“Good. Beans. If you won’t go out with me, you’ll have to eat beans for a week.”

“You can’t make me,” she said, sounding belligerent again.

“Eat beans?”

“No. Go out.”

“Yes, I can. I can force you to do all kinds of horrible things with me. Like advise me about what music to buy. Something tells me you know a lot about music.”

“I just like to sing.” Her face brightened as she said it.

“Like what?”

“Anything. I’ve always loved to sing. It makes me happy.” He was smiling at her as she said it. He had found the key to the secret garden. She had just handed it to him.

“Can you play the piano?” he asked, and she shook her head in answer.

“I never wanted to practice. I’m lazy,” she confessed.

“I can. My mother made me practice every day. But it’s kind of fun to know how.” He didn’t offer to play for her, and she didn’t ask. And a few minutes later she got up and started to walk out of the kitchen, and left her empty plate on the table. She had eaten everything he’d made her.

“Excuse me,” he said, stopping her with his tone of voice, and she looked surprised. “Table service, please. You need to put that plate in the dishwasher.” He sounded casual, and she looked stunned. Abby would never have said that to her, and hadn’t in five years.

“I don’t have to do that,” she informed him in a supercilious tone.

“Yes, you do,” he said simply. “You’re not my secretary. I’m not your maid. That’s how it works.” He didn’t mention cooking as part of the deal, but he wanted to give her good habits, and she had very few. She was polite but used to Abby waiting on her hand and foot. Those days were over, and only for her own good.

“My mother doesn’t expect me to bus dishes. We have a maid.”

“That’s pretty rude, isn’t it? Why should you leave that for her? It takes two seconds to rinse it and put it in the machine.” Salima hesitated for a long moment, and then she picked the plate up off the table, walked to the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. She did it perfectly. And then with a haughty look, she walked out of the kitchen and back to her room. Round one, Simon thought to himself. And she hadn’t had the guts to defy him completely, which was good. She was back in the kitchen half an hour later. She could hear him in the room, and he was pleased to see that she was dressed to go out, in jeans and a red leather jacket. She was a very pretty girl, with her long dark hair, and she had on dark glasses, which she wore when she went out.

“You look nice,” he said admiringly. “I like your jacket.”

“Me too. It’s red,” she said, as though he didn’t know. She was proud that she did. Abby had put a little slip of paper in Braille in the pocket, which told her the color.

“I know. And I like your Ray-Bans. Are you ready to go out?”

“I guess so,” she said, sounding cautious. “Where are we going?”

“Music store first. Did you look it up?”

“I know where the closest one is. I always stock up there. I download music, but I like buying CDs too.”

“Close enough to walk?” She nodded, and he got up, pleased
that she was willing to go out. And he glanced at her as they were about to leave. “Do you have your stick?” He meant a white one with a red tip, to identify her as blind and guide her while they walked.

“I don’t use one.” He looked surprised by her response.

“Why not?”

“I don’t need it. I just hang on to Abby when we go out.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a little more mobility than just hanging on to me?”

“No, that’s fine.” She didn’t want to identify herself as blind, but he thought she should use a stick, since she didn’t have a dog. He wondered about that and asked her about it as they set out down the street toward the music store.

“Why no dog?” She had her hand tucked into his arm as they walked.

“I hate dogs. I got bitten once by a German shepherd when I was a little kid. All guide dogs are German shepherds.”

“That’s not true. Some are Labs. They’re nice, and they don’t bite. That might give you more freedom.”

“I don’t need freedom, or a dog,” she said, shutting down again, but she opened up the minute they got to the music store and spent two hours picking CDs. She introduced him to some bands and singers that he didn’t know, and gave him good advice. And she picked out twenty new CDs for herself, some of them old groups, and others new ones. She had very eclectic taste in music, which Simon found interesting. She had fun and so did Simon. He was getting to know her through music. Whatever worked.

And after the music store, he took her to a lively place for lunch.
She said she wasn’t hungry, but he insisted he was starving, which wasn’t true. But she went to be polite, and they talked all through lunch about what interested her, her values, her philosophies, how she felt about her father hardly ever seeing her, her mother’s career. She began to lay the keys to the kingdom at his feet.

For Blaise, the day had gotten off to a bad start. First, she found herself face to face with Simon before she even had a cup of coffee. He was in the kitchen before she’d fully woken up. She hated talking to anyone in the morning, even if she’d slept with them the night before. Early morning was a sacred time to her. And she felt as though her life had been invaded from the moment he handed her the cup of coffee until she left for work.

Then her usual hairdresser didn’t show up for work. Blaise was unhappy with what the replacement girl did to her hair, and she thought she looked a mess when she went on the air.

To make matters worse, after finishing her morning segment, she saw Susie Q sucking up to one of the network executives who was on the set. Watching her made Blaise feel sick. She was so obvious it turned her stomach.

And the rest of the day was a series of annoyances and aggravations. Tully was on vacation so she had a driver she didn’t like. By the time she got home that night, an hour later than usual, due to traffic, all she wanted was to take a bath and go to bed. Instead there was music blaring in the house, on the stereo system she never used. She could tell that it was Salima’s music. She could
hear her singing. And Blaise could hear voices in the kitchen. She walked in with a scowl on her face.

“What are you doing?” she said to Simon in a harsh voice. The day was ending as it had started, with Simon in her space.

“Cooking dinner,” he said calmly. He was wearing an apron, and he had Salima handing him ingredients. Their day had gone very well. She was teaching him the difference between reggae and ska. And she also loved jazz and blues, just as he did. They had bought a lot of CDs. However, the one on the stereo just then was not one that her mother loved. “It will be ready in ten minutes,” Simon warned her, “or longer if you need more time.”

“I told you not to cook dinner,” she snapped at him. “And I’m not hungry,” she said rudely.

“We are,” he said simply. “You don’t have to join us if you don’t want.” She stalked off to her room then, and Simon put a soufflé in the oven, as Salima sat nearby.

“What are you making?” She sounded curious, and the smells in the kitchen were delicious.

“You’ll see. I hope you like it. It’s an old family recipe I learned from a chef in Paris. Just not my family. No one in my family can cook. My mother’s cooking would kill you, except for blood sausage, which I love.”

“Yerghk.” Salima made a face. They had gone to the butcher after the music store, and he was making leg of lamb,
“gigot,”
with lots of garlic. Blaise could smell it in her room and was annoyed, but she washed her face and hands and walked back to the kitchen, just as he took the soufflé out of the oven. She looked surprised.
And the table was set for all three of them. He had Salima do it. She said she hadn’t done that since she was a child. Probably before she went blind, he guessed. For the past eleven years she had done no chores at all. That was clear.

“You made soufflé?” Blaise was stunned, and warmed up a little as they sat down at the table together. And she had to admit, the cheese soufflé was superb. They all had second helpings. And the
gigot
was just as good, maybe better. He had made mashed potatoes to go with it, and tossed a salad. It was a spectacular meal, with fresh fruit for dessert. “This is like eating in a four-star restaurant,” Blaise complimented him. It was an absolutely delicious dinner, which put all of them in a good mood. They sat around the table afterward, looking relaxed. And he made an infusion of fresh mint for Blaise. “Where did you learn to cook like that?” She was intrigued. He was a man of many faces, talents, and skills, and all of them pleasant so far. She knew she had been less than nice to him. And she noticed that Salima seemed to have eased up on him that day. She hoped she wasn’t falling for him. But at least she couldn’t see his good looks. Blaise was grateful for that. He was a very handsome man.

“I went to cooking school in Paris,” he told her, “after college and before I went to grad school. It’s something I always wanted to do. Cooking is fun.”

“Where did you do it?”

“Cordon Bleu,” he said shamelessly, and she laughed.

“No wonder. You should be opening a restaurant, not teaching at a school.”

“I like both,” he said easily. “I like cooking for my friends. It relaxes me.”

“Well, it certainly was a spectacular meal.” She stood up, as Salima helped him clear the table, and her mother looked surprised. She suspected that was Simon’s doing too, and she didn’t comment. It wouldn’t hurt her to put the dishes in the sink, and she looked happier than she had the day before. Blaise was sure she still missed Abby terribly, but at least she wasn’t fighting Simon, for now.

Blaise was about to leave the kitchen, when he turned from the sink to ask her something. “I see that you have a piano. Do you mind if I play?” She looked surprised again.

“No, that’s fine. As long as you don’t play too late, or my neighbors will have a fit.”

“I won’t.” He finished loading the dishwasher with Salima, and she thanked him for dinner and went to her room, while Simon quietly walked into the living room and sat down at the piano, opened it, and began to play. He didn’t play anything in particular, he started with show tunes, and played some of his favorites from the sixties, including a number of Beatles songs, and by the time he got to them, he saw Salima appear like a ghost. Blaise was listening in her room too. You could hear his playing throughout the apartment, and he was good. Maybe not as good as he was a chef, but it was close. And before she had reached the piano, Salima was singing to what he played. She knew all the songs, which was what he had hoped. He didn’t know her favorites yet. But once she heard the music, she couldn’t stay away. And Blaise could hear her too, and
realized how clever he was. He was using the things Salima loved to establish a rapport with her.

They sat together for an hour while she sang and he played, and then with regret he closed the piano, and said they’d better not play too late or they’d get in trouble with the neighbors and her mom would be mad. Salima was sad to see their musical alliance end.

“Have you ever thought of taking singing lessons?” he asked her as they left the room.

“No. I used to want to be a singer when I was a kid. But I don’t want to be Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder when I grow up. And I don’t write music. You kind of have to if you want to be special.” She looked disappointed as she said it.

“You don’t have to be a pro. Why not just do it for fun?” he suggested. “That’s why I cook. Because I enjoy it.”

“Maybe.” Salima thought about it, and then said goodnight. She stopped in at her mother’s room on the way back to her own. Blaise was at her desk, writing an editorial for the next day, with a stack of research beside her.

“You and Simon sounded great. He certainly has a lot of talents. Music, cooking.” And he was handling Salima well.

“Could I ever take singing lessons?” Salima asked her, and Blaise looked surprised again. It was the first time Salima had ever inquired about it, although she’d had a singing talent all her life.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll see what I can find. Someone who can come to the house.” Salima nodded. It sounded good to her. She kissed her mother goodnight then, and drifted back to her own room. She listened to several of the CDs they’d bought that afternoon, and sang along with them.

And in the kitchen, Simon was at his computer, checking Facebook, which gave him something to do. He saw then that Megan had sent him another e-mail. He read it, deleted it, closed his computer, and went back to his room. The one thing he knew was that their desperate, dishonest, twisted illicit affair had to end. But as he lay down on his bed and thought about her, he was sad. At least work was going well.

The next day got off to a better start for Blaise. She walked into the kitchen just before five
A.M.
and fully expected to see Simon there again, handing her a cup of coffee. But he tried not to make the same mistakes twice. Her coffee was hot and waiting, but he was nowhere to be seen, and his door was closed. He had set the table for her, and put the newspapers next to where she sat. Her coffee was ready, and she didn’t have to see him. It was perfect, and she left for work in a much better mood.

Her morning segment went smoothly, and when she got to her office, she asked Mark to find her a music teacher, and he looked at her in amazement.