Chapter 42

Iris

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Ms. Tarrou?”

Augustine glances up at the handsome male EMT as she lowers herself into her armchair and waves her hand dismissively. “No, no. I’m feeling much better now. You’ve been a great help.”

The EMT looks at me, and I shrug, showing him to the door. He gives me a number to call if Augustine has another episode before he leaves. I thank him and shut the door.

“Make sure you lock it,” Augustine calls, shivering in her chair. “Just in case…”

I shoot her a sidelong glance, but oblige. When I make my way back over to her, she has her feet propped up on the ledge in front of the woodstove. She looks a whole hell of a lot better than she did when I found her standing dazedly in the middle of the street earlier, although she still looks a bit shaken.

When she saw me earlier, though, something in her changed completely. The look of panic on her face turned into a pleasant smile, and she shuffled over to me, holding her arms out for a hug.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” she says now, shaking her head. “And to think I was so rude to you yesterday!”

“It’s alright, Augustine,” I reply with a smile as I take a seat in the rocking chair beside her. “You just mistook me for someone else, that’s all.”

The elderly landlady’s face hardens at the reminder. “Well, you’re not her,” she says with a shudder, even though it’s quite warm in here between the warm spring weather outside and the wood stove going. “You’ll never be like that woman.”

I can’t help but shudder a little, too. Something in Augustine’s voice makes me feel uncomfortable.

“Can I ask,” I say, turning in my chair to face her, “why would you be so unwilling to open the door if I was Selina?”

Augustine’s brown eyes, normally sparkling with life, suddenly go cold. She wrings her hands. “She’s a bad woman,” is all she says, wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield herself from the thought. “A very bad woman.”

I can’t entirely disagree with her, I’m afraid. I think Selina is nasty to her core. But I also don’t want to feed into a dementia patient’s delusions, so I decide to let the subject go. She’s only just started to feel better, and I don’t want her to spiral again.

Earlier, Cliff told me that she has delusions about government spies watching her; that she ran out of the apartment building claiming that people were in her walls.

We all know that’s not true, of course. And it breaks my heart that she feels so unsafe.

“Well, maybe you should write a note to yourself and put it on the door,” I say. “We’ll come up with a code: if I knock three times quickly and then two times slowly, that’s how you’ll know it’s me when I visit.”

Augustine seems to like that idea, and I help her craft a note that she can tape to the inside of the door. I have her add her signature so she knows that she was the one who wrote it, and not the ‘spies’ who are allegedly following her.

Just before I leave, we tape the note to the door. Augustine sees me out, hesitating in the doorway.

“You’ll come back tomorrow?” she asks hopefully.

I nod and give her hands a warm squeeze. Her fingers are slimmer and more knotted than five years ago, the skin papery and loose. But it’s still her. “Of course,” I say. “I’ll come every day at noon on the dot, just like old times, and we can have tea and cookies and talk about books.”

Her face lights up, and she squeezes me back with a strength that surprises me. “I’m so glad you and Arthur are back together, you know.”

I blink, not sure what to say. I don’t know if I have the heart to tell her right now that we’re… not.

But Augustine goes on, “Ever since you left, it became awfully quiet up there. I miss hearing the music late at night. And the sound of you two laughing.”

My heart wrenches painfully at the reminder. When we were together, Arthur and I used to dance late at night to the music playing on the record player. It was always after our nightly drink, and he would twirl me around the living room until my face hurt from laughing.

I miss those days. I miss that we can’t just fall back into them.

But I steel my heart, refusing to forget what has happened between us. Arthur chose political power over love, and didn’t consult me before he made his arrangement with Selina five years ago. Furthermore, he’s acted like I’m a gold digger on numerous occasions, lied to me, and has resorted to arrest to get me to come back.

I can’t forgive that.

Over the following week, I visit Augustine every day just as promised. She meets Miles, who warms up to her slowly but surely, and the week goes by without a hitch. I complete my paintings for the exhibition, and to my surprise, Ezra doesn’t seem to tell Arthur about the lawyer troubles.

Eventually, the day before the event comes, and I realize that I sent all of my more formal outfits back to Bo’Arrocan when we were supposed to leave Ordan. I only have my practical everyday clothes, and it’s a black tie event, so I’ll need something nice.

I consider snooping through my old shared closet with Arthur, figuring my old dresses are still there. But I can’t bring myself to go into our old bedroom, so I decide to head to a nearby thrift store to look for something inexpensive to wear. My new card came in the mail, so I can actually buy something now.

It’s pouring rain, but I head out anyway, allowing Ezra to give me a ride. He waits in the car while I head into the shop, and I begin to peruse the dresses, picking out a few that might suit me for the event.

I’m not shopping for long, though, before someone notices me.

“Hey,” a woman says, walking up to me by the fitting rooms. “I know you. You’re the President’s human mate, aren’t you?”

I open my mouth, suddenly feeling my throat go dry. “You must be mistaken,” I finally manage.

The woman narrows her eyes. “No, I definitely recognize your face.” She turns to another woman nearby, who I’m assuming is her friend. “Hey, Patty, look at this. It’s the President’s human mistress, isn’t it?”

The other woman sidles up to me, her eyes flicking to the dresses in my hands. “No, that can’t be her. The President wouldn’t make his mate shop in a thrift store. He’s so rich, he can afford to spoil his wife and his mistresses.”

They both turn to me then. “Doesn’t he provide for you?” the first woman asks.

I don’t answer. Instead, muttering some feeble excuse, I shove my dresses on the end of a nearby rack and hurry out of the store. Tears prick my eyes, the type of thick, hot tears that aren’t easily blinked away.

Mistress.

Even if his marriage to Selina is just political, that’s all the public will ever see me as. The human mistress who isn’t even worthy of being provided for. And if I did let him provide for me, I’m sure they’d take issue with that, too.

I climb into the car, instructing Ezra to drive away without an explanation. He stares at me for a moment, confused, before he puts the car in drive and peels away from the curb.