As I enter my apartment, I’m struck by how clean and tidy it is. My hands itch to grab my phone and immortalize this rare condition. When Màma and Eva are gone and my place returns to its usual “creative mess,” I’ll look at those pictures and the urge to clean will consume me.

Or not.

But it won’t hurt to try.

“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” Eva calls from the kitchen.

“What is she cooking?” I ask Màma, who’s fluffing the cushions on the couch.

“Lasagna.”

I close my eyes and smile beatifically. “Yum.”

“She thought you’d be pleased.”

Màma unfolds the ironing board and dumps a pile of colorful clothes onto a chair next to it. Looks like she did my laundry while I was at work.

Again.

She leaves me no choice but to carry out my threat to lock up my dirty laundry inside a suitcase before her visits.

“How are you, Mia?” she asks.

“Great.”

She picks up a white blouse and lays it on the board. “Can you be more specific?”

“Sure.” I start unfolding my fingers. “The thesis is on track, the job doesn’t suck too much, and summer is coming. As I said, everything’s great.”

She shakes her head. “Why is it that when I ask Eva the same question, she always has a lot more to say?”

“She’s chatty.” I shrug. “It’s her nature.”

“And your nature is to be secretive, isn’t it?”

“That’s ridiculous.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m just… introverted, that’s all.”

She arranges the blouse over a hanger. “Herzele, do you think you could make an effort to tell me more?”

Herzele. My little heart. I love it when she calls me that.

“Like what?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Are you dating someone?”

As in fornicating?

I give her a wide-eyed stare. “Seriously, Màma?”

“You know what I mean.” She tilts her head to the side in admonishment. “Is there a young man you like who likes you back?”

I shake my head.

“I wonder if it’s my fault,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

Màma draws a heavy breath and picks up the next item from the pile. “Eva has a crush on a man who’s great but inaccessible,” she says. “You seem to stay away from all men as if they were dangerous beasts. Is it because of how strict Pàpa and I have been with you? And because of how I always insisted on no intimate relations before marriage?”

Oh God.

She sighs again and places my panties on the board.

“Not the underwear!” I snatch them from her. “Please, it isn’t meant to be ironed.”

She gives me a forbearing look. “Of course it is.”

I moan and pretend to pull my hair out.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Màma says, staring into my eyes.

“OK, I’ll answer it.” I hold her gaze. “Don’t worry, Ma, your high standards and your sermons about chastity are not responsible for my single status.”

“It’s perfectly OK to date a man, you know,” she says. “Pàpa and I should’ve stressed that point more. As long as you can abstain—and I’m sure strong-willed women like you and Eva can—you should date. I encourage you to date.”

I show Màma my palms. “Need to wash these before dinner.”

As I walk… er, run to the bathroom, a thought strikes me. The affair with Raphael aside, I haven’t actually dated anyone since college. More specifically, since the calamity.

Just a coincidence, no doubt.

“How’s Pàpa?” I ask my mother when we sit down to dinner.

I’m determined to steer the conversation away from Eva’s and my private lives and to keep it there.

“His usual self,” Màma says. “Volunteering as much as he can, gardening a lot, and trying out recipes from around the world. Right now we’re eating our way through Cambodian cuisine.”

Eva serves the lasagna.

I almost drool looking at the dish.

“Is he still involved in that refugee support project?” Eva asks.

“The one with the educational NGO?” Màma’s eyes the lasagna on her plate. “Where they teach refugee women basic French and help them find jobs?”

“Yes, that one.” Eva sits down and nods in a please-eat gesture.

Màma digs in. “Actually, I’m involved in that project, too. You know how we’re both keen on helping women in need.”

You certainly are.

As long as those women have good morals.

I focus on my lasagna, which is as delicious as everything Eva cooks, and let my sister and mother do the talking. At some point, I tune out, my mind wandering to the topic that’s become a bit of an obsession for me recently. Raphael’s other women.

He’s never mentioned anyone, and I’ve never actually seen him with anyone. But every time I pick up Voici or another gossip magazine, there’s a picture of him chatting with this model or that heiress at some posh event or other. Does he do more than chat when off camera? The man has a reputation, after all, and he seems eager to uphold it.

Besides, he’s always made it clear he’s not a “relationship” type of guy.

I asked him once if he remembered all the names and faces of the women he’d slept with.

He shook his head.

I looked askance. “What about those you saw more than once?”

He stroked his chin, thinking.

“Or do we all look the same?” I asked. “A blurred image with boobs and girlie bits?”

“That’s mean.” He tut-tutted.

I shrugged.

“To answer your question, yes I do.” He arched an eyebrow. “Regardless of what you think of me, I love women. I believe they’re the most amazing of God’s creations, vastly superior to men in every way.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” I said. “You love women too much. And… in the plural.”

He gave me a strange look, but didn’t say anything.

“Your gal pals,” I plowed on, unable to drop the subject. “Are they usually OK with your sleeping around?”

“The few times I stuck around long enough to ask, the answer was yes.”

“Thank God for condoms,” I said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“What about your lady friends having a lover on the side? Are you OK with that?”

He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Good question.”

“So?”

“Well, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t enjoy the same freedom I do. It’s only fair.”

I winced at his branding promiscuity as freedom. Then again, what right does a gang bang girl have to be prudish?

“That said, I doubt my partners have a need for a supplementary lover while I’m with them.” Raphael gave me a smug little smile.

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s just an observation,” he said. “But we could do a random test. You, for instance—do you have a lover on the side?”

“No.”

“Do you feel you need one?”

I shook my head.

“See?” He grinned. “I’m enough.”

I don’t remember what I said to that. What I do remember is that I was too chicken to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since January.

Do you have a supplementary lover, Raphael?

Or am I enough?