I reach out towards the saucer. “If you don’t mind—”
But she pushes my hand away, preventing me from taking it. “See? This is you!”
“What?” I ask, confused. I want that cream puff.
“The cream puff!” Cécile exclaims.
“I am the cream puff,” I repeat sceptically.
“Yes, you are: you are made of fragrant and buttery choux pastry filled with velvety Chantilly cream and topped with a golden icing that melts on your tongue.”
“It sounds a little crude,” I observe.
“You are the cream puff, but this is how you look,” she says, indicating the pastry wrapped in newspaper. “The content is great, but the appearance is not very inviting. If that cream puff looked better, everyone would fight to have it.”
“Finish your speech while we’re still friends, because I’m not sure we will be later,” I warn her.
“Oh, don’t be prickly and listen to me, I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart. You have a wonderful world inside you, and you’ve further enriched your qualities by extending your knowledge. However, while I deeply respect your choices, we have to face the fact that your clothes and your appearance are off putting for people who don’t know you. I’m free from prejudices, but, as you can see for yourself, most of them aren’t, and they find it hard to give credit to a fuchsia haired girl with green nails who shows up in a leather miniskirt and blows bubbles with chewing gum, even if she has a degree in Quantum Physics.”
“I know this one!” I jump up like a kangaroo. “Quantum Physics: a branch of physics introduced by Planck’s studies in 1900. It describes the behaviour of matter and its interactions with radiation as undulating phenomena of particle origin, consisting of concentrated energy which is measured in quanta, contrary to what had been maintained by classical physics until then,” I say, in one breath.
“Exactly. You might have many things to say, but you have to make other people want to listen.”
“Keep talking until I stop you. It could save your life.”
“This is a snake pit, where someone’s value is directly proportional to their title. It’s even harder for women because, getting their husbands’ titles, they have to work twice as hard to get respect.” She take a little break. “Except for me, but it’s not me we’re talking about.” I look at her as she performs her monologue. “You’ve caught one of the most sought after bachelors, so all the angry bitches are ready to bite your ankles. Moreover, you’re new to this environment, and come from a culture that these people have always made fun of. You have to avoid giving them reasons to mock you. If you don’t serve them on a silver platter, you’ll starve them. You know you are far superior to the people you’ve met so far, but being aware is not enough. If you want to play at their table, you have to identify yourself with a character that makes them feel at ease.”
“Okay, you’re saying that my look is wrong. I can read every bloody book in the library of Denby Hall and learn to speak all the existing languages, but I will never be accepted because of the way I look? Freaking hell! I can use fourteen pieces of cutlery and five glasses!”
“You have to be a chameleon. I’m not saying that you have to change the way you are, you’ll always be yourself, but you should revise your ‘facade’ a bit!”
“I’ll think about it,” I answer, doubtfully.
“Haven’t they humiliated you enough?” Cécile’s tone of voice gets colder.
I sigh, looking away. These are things I’ve already heard a thousand times from Delphina and Ashford. Of course, they put it in a different way, as if there were something wrong in me, and if I’ve opposed any change so far, it was just out of pride. How could I listen to Delphina or the Triple Six, who hate me?
However, this time it’s Cécile saying it, and God knows she’s been the only person to show any interest in me in this madhouse.
Perhaps she’s worth listening to?
*
After I spent days reflecting carefully on her ‘pep talk’, I go to Cécile’s residence immediately after lunch. Tonight there’s an important masquerade ball, a gigantic (of course) fancy dress party thrown by Lord Neville in person.
We arranged a long dress fitting. Cécile called a tailor from Paris and, since I want no less, I asked her if I could use him myself. I was thinking of something very flamboyant, fiery red, with feathers, taffeta and sequins… but nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I arrived.
The private parlour in Cécile’s apartment was set up as a beauty centre and equipped with styling chairs,spabeds and all.
“Aargh!” an effeminate shriek welcomes me as I open the door.
“Pierre, pourquoi tu cries?” Cécile asks.
“I scream for terror! You did not tell me it was such a desperate case!” The man complains while looking at me, almost paralysed.
“Let’s not overreact. I know your talents, you will make a masterpiece,” she encourages him.
“You overestimate me,chérie,” he comments in his strong French accent.
