Paris, Hysteria, & Chapter 16

Hello, my alien lovers!

I ate so many eclairs in Paris! I know I'm always talking about food, but when in Europe! Paris is always a fun city to be in, and I'm enjoying treating my trip there as a fancy, European writing retreat.

We saw an exhibit on mass "hysteria" and how the label/concept has been used as a misogynistic tool to control women. Always so interesting to see what oppressors use to justify, explain, and ultimately dismiss people's needs, knowledge, and power.

Enjoy this pivotal chapter in Maple's mission to save the show and in her relationship with her fierce nemesis and next-door neighbour! I loved writing these two chapters with Mrs. Parvière, and I'm happy I have a story that allows me to write intergenerational conversations about love and relationships.

L. 🩷

If you're new to the story, start with Chapter 1

If you missed the last chapter, Previously on Perilous Love Stars

Star Daphne Dutrignon marries Charles Von Brahanfield

At 2:33 pm on this beautiful Thursday, September 12th, 1XX9, Canadian superstar Daphne Dutrignon wedded Swiss scientist Charles Von Brahanfield in a lovely ceremony in Sobriquet Lake’s public square. The quaint affair, with a little under five hundred people attending, brought together family, friends, townspeople, and the cast and crew of the beloved show Betteraves & Betrayals. The celebration lasted until the wee hours of the morning and concluded with breathtaking fireworks depicting the newlyweds kissing. Their faces were anchored in the sky for a few seconds, while their love for one another is everlasting. 

Excerpt from an article published in Soapy Magazine, September 1XX9.

Cigarette smoke and silence filled the space after Mrs. Parvière’s declaration.

Maple’s first reaction was to laugh it off because this had to be a joke. There was no way—no universe—in which glamorous and fatally gorgeous Daphne Dutrignon, The Queen Of Soaps, had ever been with what was now a crusty and ghastly Mrs. Parvière, The Queen Of Being A Shitty Neighbour. Even if Mrs. Parvière had been beautiful at some point in the distant past, the women had nothing in common. They didn’t even exist in the same universe for Maple! It was simply unfathomable.

So unfathomable that Maple pretended she hadn’t heard it. “You know Daphne Dutrignon?”

Maybe by repeating the question, she would prompt Mrs. Parvière to tell her the truth, not an egregious lie.

The lady groaned and put her cigarette in the berry-basil-banana mousse, a tragic ending for all involved. She bared her teeth. “I knew her well enough to have her pussy leaking on my face for years.”

Glad to have rendered Maple speechless, Mrs. Parvière pulled a whisky bottle from the couch cushions. She took a generous sip from it.

“Daphne and I were together for a decade.”

Maple’s neighbour was losing her mind, probably caused by the unhealthy amount of smoking and drinking liquor before 11 am. They were all a step closer to sending the French Grinch far away in a home for old decrepit assholes and getting rid of her ugly bungalow. Maple was already dreaming of what she’d do with the land. Brooklyn could expand her garden and Storm would finally be able to build the rehearsal studio she dreamed of. Maple didn’t need anything as long as she got to bulldoze the bungalow herself, ass naked on a giant wrecking ball.

“I know all the people Daphne Dutrignon publicly dated,” she said to humour Mrs. Parvière and test how far gone the French antique was. “She dated eleven men and that one person who always refused to disclose their gender. She only married once. Was never with a woman. Never with you.”

Mrs. Parvière shook her head while a cavernous laugh escaped her chapped lips. It was the first time Maple heard her laugh. “You’re such an imbecile. Most of them were public stunts. She hated them. She’d always call me before her dates, listing all the awful things about the men her publicist forced her to date. Daphne and I were together for a decade.”

“Why not make it official then?”

“It was a different time. We couldn’t be out back then, especially her. She had to hide. She had to date those men to keep up appearances.”

It was hard for Maple not to scoff in her face. This was ridiculous. “So, what? You dated in secret for ten years and nobody knew?”

“Our close friends knew. Nobody else needed to.”

“Why did she marry Charles then?”

Everybody knew about Daphne’s late husband, Charles Von Brahanfield, a famous scientist whom Maple had quoted hundreds of times during her alienhood studies in university. Charles and Daphne had been married for thirty years before his sudden (and somewhat suspicious) death. The It couple, renamed Chaphne, had been awarded the title of Canada’s Best It Couple three years in a row, from 1XX9 to 1XX2, landing the covers of many magazines. Chaphne had been the pinnacle of the privileged and progressive straight couple, always advocating for the most marginalized. In her 2XX0 memoir (released two years before Charles’ death and Daphne’s departure from the show), the actress had described their relationship as “the best thing I ever had in my life.”

Everybody who’d read Daphne’s memoir knew that. 

Bringing up Charles displeased Mrs. Parvière. She growled before retrieving a new smoke from her case. “Daphne met Charles while we were still together. He was… something else.”

She made a dismissive hand gesture.

“Her future husband—he was her future husband,” Maple corrected.

After Rosalie and Cynthia, Chaphne was Maple's next best role model for love. She believed in the concept of Love, which she’d built a whole career on, because of her mothers and Chaphne. She wasn’t going to let that woman ruin it for her.

“Yes, yes, and so he was. She loved him and was too scared to try other arrangements. They got married. How predictable.”

“What other arrangements?” Maple sat back down on the couch. She remembered she was talking to a crazy lady and should have cut the conversation short instead of asking probing questions.

Mrs. Parvière scowled and lit her cigarette. “What do you think?”

She leaned in to blow smoke in Maple’s face. Maple startled, coughing. God, she fucking hated that fucking—

“Polyamory,” Mrs. Parvière continued, unbothered. “I went to the wedding. I believed we could figure things out. Daphne was afraid it would end in heartbreak, that Charles couldn’t handle it. She left me to be with him. Then, he died. In the end, heartbreak was inevitable.” Mrs. Parvière salvaged the whisky behind the cushion and took another long sip. “I sent flowers to her agent’s office when Charles passed away. I never heard back.”

 Maple had fantasies about Daphne Dutrignon (cerca 19XX, when the actress was in her 30s, perfect under any angles) doing certain things (her sleek fingers caressing Maple in all places) to her. That happened to the best of them, and Maple couldn’t blame frigid Mrs. Parvière for having an imagination.

A tiny part of Maple wanted to hear the woman out. The French antique was obviously unwell and probably hallucinating, just like when Maple had food poisoning from a salmon pizza in Italy that one summer. And yet… there was a tiny chance that she’d actually been Daphne’s lover and could help Maple find the star and convince her to return.

Yes, that thought was ludicrous, and Maple both cherished and resented the hope it brought to her. If she was wrong, the disappointment would add up to the pile of shit accumulating in her life, possibly being the last straw that pushed her to pull a Juliard—as named after Juliard Betterave, a fashion designer who self-immolated on stage during his final fashion show in the 45th season of Betteraves & Betrayals after accidentally killing his cousin during Betterave Town fashion week with poisoned pins meant to kill Eva Krakvòler, a German model who turned out to be a spy sent to murder Adele Betterave.  Soapy Magazine had called the plotline “bravely camp!”

But if Maple was right and Mrs. Parvière was telling the truth…

She braced herself, inhaling sharply. “Alright, let’s say that for the sake of the argument, I believe you had a personal relationship with Daphne.”

“We fucked a lot. The sex was formidable.”

Oh, dear God, Mrs. Parvière was drunk now. Maple could smell the whiskey and cigarette breath from here.

“Okay, yes, great sex, got it. But how can I be sure you knew her that well?” Maple gestured to the frame on the wall. “A picture doesn’t prove anything.”

“No, but love letters do.” 

Mrs. Parvière swallowed more liquor before she went to get a little metal box. She retrieved a letter from it and handed it to Maple.

The scribble was uncertain and barely readable. Maple narrowed her eyes. “La tienne à tout jamais, D.,” she read. “Who wrote this? A nine-year-old?”

“Non. Daphne did.”

Maple wanted all this to be real, but Mrs. Parvière made it very difficult. “This is obviously not a love letter written by Daphne. If that’s your only proof—

Mrs. Parvière snatched the letter back with a glare.  “Daphne was illiterate.” She raised a hand and waved her cigarette, stopping Maple from interrupting. “Before you try to gaslight me like the annoying millennial that you are—”

“I’m Gen Z.”

“Sure, Jan.”

Mrs. Parvière scoffed and offered her the whisky. If Maple was to fully engage in this conversation, she needed to be closer to the French Grinch’s level. So, she drank as much as she could without throwing up.

“Please, continue,” Maple said as the taste of liquor twisted her stomach. 

“Daphne’s parents disapproved of their only daughter dreaming of becoming an actress. When Daphne expressed interest in acting, they homeschooled her and refused to teach her how to read or write. They hoped to keep her away from the evil depths of theatre.”

Maple would argue that was a tad more severe than “disapproving.” Cynthia had disapproved of Maple’s wardrobe during most of her teenage years, but she hadn’t set fire to the clothes either. Stopping a child from accessing basic education didn’t feel like disapproval. It felt like control.

“Yet, Daphne persisted. She seduced every person in her way, always finding handsome men to recite her lines to her. That’s how she did it all of those years. You never wondered why she always had three assistants around?”

Maple shook her head but then nodded when Mrs. Parvière handed her the cigarette case.

“Might as well,” she thought as she lit it and winced. The acrid taste of carbon monoxide and tobacco mixed with the bitterness of whisky in her mouth.

She took a deep breath to stop bile from coming up before she said, “I always assumed she was a busy woman.”

Mrs. Parvière scoffed again. “Please, busy doing what? Getting her entire body filled with Botox? Non. Her assistants helped her learn her lines. She had a strict schedule and much text to memorize. They each took turns singing it to her.”

Maple coughed out smoke. “Singing?”

“That’s how she memorized best. The assistants even harmonized sometimes when there was a hefty monologue or a difficult scene to retain. Nobody outside Daphne’s inner circle knew because everyone who worked for her signed NDAs. She paid people a lot of money. In return, people kept her secrets. I was one of those secrets.”

Maple leaned back into the embrace of the comfy couch. The smoke and booze made her feel dizzy.

The fact that Daphne had been in love with a woman who happened to be Maple’s fierce nemesis and next-door neighbour was irrelevant to saving the show. But if Daphne was illiterate, that complicated her plans greatly. Sending a letter was now too risky. There were too many possibilities for interference. What if one of her current assistant-singers hated the new turn the show had taken? They could easily lie to Daphne and make sure she stayed away from Betteraves & Betrayals for good. Maple would only get one shot at convincing the actress with no margin for error.

There was only one solution left.

“Do you have her address?” Maple asked. She trusted Brooklyn to find it, but maybe there was a second address, a secret cottage somewhere. She had to cover all of her bases.

“Non. She never spoke to me after she married Charles.”

Mrs. Parvière's tone was glacial. Beneath it, Maple heard the heartbreak.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for using your full name earlier. That was rude.”

Maple stood up and felt her head spin. She sat back down, put out her smoke in the poor banana-something mousse, and stood back up again. Slower this time.

Light-headed and tipsy, Maple bowed in front of Mrs. Parvière. “I have to go. “Thank you.”

“I regret not fighting for her,” Mrs. Parvière called out as Maple walked to the door. “When you truly believe in something—in someone, you fight for them. You don’t give up. That was my mistake.”

“Then, I really have to go,” Maple said. “I have to go fight for what I believe in.”

Her neighbour gave her the closest thing to a friendly nod. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

She was going to need it.