Elizabeth decided that she would learn to be a great cook so that she could prepare Mlle. Harriot’s—Chantal’s—favorite dishes. She visualized the two of them sitting in their apartment, or small house, enjoying a candle-lit dinner that Elizabeth had prepared. First, there would be vichyssoise, followed by a lovely salad, then perhaps shrimp or lobster, or a Chateaubriand, with delicate ices for dessert. After dinner they would sit on the floor before a blazing fire in the hearth, watching the soft snowflakes fall outside. Snowflakes. So it would be winter. Elizabeth hastily revised the menu. Instead of a cold vichyssoise she would prepare a nice, hearty onion soup, and perhaps make a fondue. The dessert could be a soufflé. She would have to learn to time it so that it would not fall. Then the two of them would sit on the floor before a warming fire, and read poetry to each other. T. S. Eliot, perhaps. Or V. J. Rajadhon.
Time is the enemy of love,
The thief that shortens
All our golden hours.
I have never understood then
Why lovers count their happiness
In days and nights and years,
While our love can only be measured
In our joys and sighs and tears.
Ah, yes, Elizabeth could see the long years stretching out before the two of them, and the passage of time would begin to melt into a golden, warm glow.
She would fall asleep.
Elizabeth had been expecting it, and yet when it happened it caught her by surprise. She was awakened one night by the sound of someone entering her room and softly closing the door. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. She could see a shadow moving across the moon-dappled room toward her bed, and a ray of moonlight fell across Mlle. Harriot’s—Chantal’s face. Elizabeth’s heart began to beat wildly.
Chantal whispered, “Elizabeth,” and, standing there, slipped off her robe. She was wearing nothing underneath. Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. She had thought of this moment so often, and now that it was actually happening, she was in a panic. In truth she was not sure exactly what she was supposed to do, or how. She did not want to make a fool of herself in front of the woman she loved.
“Look at me,” Chantal commanded hoarsely. Elizabeth did. She let her eyes roam over the naked body. In the flesh Chantal Harriot was not quite what Elizabeth had envisioned. Her breasts looked a little like puckered apples, and they sagged a bit. She had a tiny potbelly, and her derrière seemed—this was the only word Elizabeth could think of—underslung.
But none of that was important. What mattered was what lay underneath, the soul of the woman, the courage and the daring to be different from everyone else, to defy the whole world and to want to share the rest of her life with Elizabeth.
“Move over, mon petit ange,” she was whispering.
Elizabeth did as she was told, and the teacher slipped into bed beside her. There was a strong, feral smell about her. She turned toward Elizabeth and put her arms around her, and said, “Oh, chérie, I have dreamed of this moment.” And she kissed Elizabeth on the lips, forcing her tongue into Elizabeth’s mouth, and making quick, groaning noises.
It was without doubt the most unpleasant sensationElizabeth had ever experienced. She lay there in shock. Chantal’s—Mlle. Harriot’s!—fingers were moving across Elizabeth’s body, squeezing her breasts, slowly sliding down her stomach toward her thighs. And all the time her lips were on Elizabeth’s, slobbering, like an animal.
This was it. This was the beautiful magic moment. If we were one, you and I, together we would make a universe to shake the stars and move the heavens.
Mlle. Harriot’s hands were moving downward, caressing Elizabeth’s thighs, starting to reach between her legs. Quickly, Elizabeth tried to conjure up the candle-lit dinners and the soufflé and the evenings before the fireplace, and all the wonderful years the two of them would share together; but it was no use. Elizabeth’s mind and flesh were repelled; she felt as though her body was being violated.
Mlle. Harriot moaned, “Oh, chérie, I want to fuck you.”