Flowers of Darkness Tatiana Rosnay (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

darkness, both soothing and poisonous. Once, she thought she caught a glimpse of Virginia Woolf’s face—not the face she knew, not the writer’s, no, another one, a face that not many had laid eyes upon; the unbearable, bloated, ashen features of the drowned woman, the one whose body had been found weeks after she disappeared on the banks of the river Ouse. The dream of the lake had become a nightmare. It was impossible to know if the images had been born in her own head, or if they came from Mrs. Dalloway’s projections.

As she listened to Jordan, Clarissa delicately stroked her granddaughter’s head. Adriana, going on fifteen, applied her makeup carefully and wore lacerated black clothes. Despite the rebellious sulk she was fond of sporting, Andy adored her grandmother. She wanted to come and spend the night here. She had even picked out that little couch in the office where she was going to sleep. She interrupted her mother incessantly in order to obtain a date. Jordan got angry. Well, yes, Andy was going to be able to come! Could she just please let her grandmother settle into her new flat? And could she stop being so insistent? Clarissa felt flattered. She, too, loved the relationship she had crafted with her granddaughter.

“Doesn’t François live with you anymore, Mums?” Andy asked straightforwardly as Clarissa served them homemade cake for dessert.

Jordan glared at her. Clarissa had been expecting this from her outspoken granddaughter. She calmly replied that no, François wasn’t going to live here. This was her place. Only for her.

“And for me!” quipped Andy mischievously.

“That’s right, sweetie, for you, too.”

“And what about Granddad? Will he come?”

Jordan sighed. Why was Adriana asking these dumb questions? Clarissa smiled, to show them she wasn’t ruffled. She reminded Andy that Toby had started over, that he lived in Guéthary, in the Basque country, and that he had a new lady friend.

“Yeah, and she’s not much fun,” mumbled Andy, helping herself to more cake. “I liked the previous one better. She was less of a pain in the ass.”

Clarissa and Jordan laughed. Despite everything, Clarissa had kept up a good relationship with her first husband. Even if they had divorced over thirty years ago, Toby remained close. Which got on François’s nerves. Clarissa planned to invite Toby for a drink when he was next in Paris. Without the new lady friend.

“How are things with your brother, Mums?” asked Jordan as she stroked the cat.

Clarissa shrugged. What an idiot, seriously! Her brother! Her laugh sounded pinched and dry. Heritage stories often made a mess of things. She’d always thought she had been close to Arthur. He was only two years younger than she. They grew up together, spent their childhood and teenage years in London. He did as he pleased. At sixteen, he dressed as Ziggy Stardust, with full makeup, orange hair, and platform soles, to their unadventurous mother’s dismay. Their dad found it funny.

“He sounded so cool when he was young!” exclaimed Andy.

“Indeed. But with time, you see, Arthur turned into a full-of-himself, sad little man.”

“You bet! And my cousins are no better,” added Jordan.

Clarissa didn’t have to explain to Jordan and Andy how crushed she had been by Aunt Serena’s recent legacy. She’d thought the old lady had been fond of her, just as fond as Serena had been of Arthur. She had often spent holidays in Serena’s house in Surrey, with Toby and Jordan, when her daughter was a child. Warm, joyful moments. When the will had been read out loud to her, she had been flabbergasted. Serena had left her entire fortune to Arthur’s two daughters, Emily and Harriet. All of it. There hadn’t been a single item for Jordan, not even a trinket, a bracelet, or a small souvenir. Arthur’s daughters were in for a considerable sum. They’d be able to buy a small flat, go on a trip, invest, plan for the future. Clarissa had felt shock at first, and then uncertainty. Was this a mistake? she’d asked. She was told not at all. A slow, powerful rage replaced the incomprehension. She had called her brother. She still trusted him then; she still hoped. He was going to say, What an old bitch. How dare she do that! He was going to say his daughters would split everything with Jordan. But nothing happened that way. She’d had a hard time getting hold of Arthur. And when his puffy face finally showed up on her screen, he had acted cowardly and evasive. He didn’t wish to interfere. Serena had her reasons. They had to respect her decision.

Clarissa had taken the bull by the horns. She had gone to see her nieces. Emily and Harriet hadn’t minced their words. They needed the money. They were sorry for Jordan. But they were convinced Jordan had done quite well for herself, hadn’t she? They saw her on TV, on social media; she traveled; she seemed to lack nothing; she had a husband and a daughter; her mother was a respected writer. And on top of all that, she was beautiful. Jordan had it all, right? Oh, and one last thing: Jordan had chosen to live in France; one mustn’t forget that. Serena was very attached to her country. It was important to her. They had stayed in England, they had no husband or children as of yet, and time was flying by! That money was perfect timing, and they were sure Jordan would understand. What about another cup of tea, dear Aunt C…? Clarissa had felt like strangling them. Her father, who always spoke his mind, was right; he called them tarts. In the train on her way back from London, Clarissa thought about the way Jordan raised Andy, how much effort she put into it, and how complicated it had been during her numerous trips when Andy was a little girl. Clarissa had helped out a lot. What on earth had gotten into old Serena’s head? She knew her aunt hadn’t approved of