by Pip Drysdale
Unless…
There’s a small fridge full of Evian and soft drinks in front of me, and I check my reflection in the glass: dark roots that fade into crème blonde at the ends and eyes that are either green or hazel depending on the weather. But right now, those eyes are sex-smudged with mascara. Shit. I use my fingers to try to wipe them clean.
Because I was planning on going home right now, but we all know what John Lennon said about life and plans…
Chapitre deux
I’m on Rue Bonaparte, eight steps away from the gallery, Le Voltage. It has a black wooden façade, and stuck on the inside glass is a red and cream poster. It’s styled in Seventies font and reads, ‘Noah X Exhibition, jeudi, le 14 octobre.’
X.
Wow.
Could he get any more pretentious?
I bet he’s one of these types who refuses to wear shoes or has half his body shaved for no decipherable reason. I move towards the window, squint through the glass and try to make out the canvases on the walls. Because I’ve had enough lonely conversations with frustrated gallerists to know how exhibitions run by now: work needs to be hung, lighting adjusted, ahead of time. Whatever I’m supposed to write about tomorrow night will already be on the walls. And if I can just catch a glimpse of it, a sneak preview, get a feel for Noah-bloody-X, I can start the article tomorrow morning. That will give me a strong head start.
But shit, shit, shit – they’re all white. Please don’t have gone all Malevich White on White, that’ll be impossible to write about…
No, wait, they’re not white. They’re covered in something. Cloth.
I glance left to the door. There’s a handwritten sign on it that reads ‘Fermé’, but there’s a light on inside so maybe, just maybe…
Fuck it. I need to try.
I reach for the handle and push. It opens with a creak. Hooray! I move inside, shutting it quietly behind me. The air smells like damp, dust and furniture polish and I stand still for a moment, listening for movement. But there’s nothing. It’s just me, and the canvases all covered by cloth.
Still, the door was unlocked, a light is on and there are two alarm sensors flickering red from the corners of the room, yet no alarm has been set: someone must be coming back. I don’t have a lot of time. I tiptoe over to the canvas in front of me, reach for the edge of the white covering and gently pull it off.
Plain black frame. A sheet of glass. And beyond it: a canvas. The edges are old, distressed Marvel comics stained in deep shades of burgundy and purple. Interesting. They’ve been torn away to reveal a woman, sitting on a shimmery golden background – think thirteenth and fourteenth century Italy. She’s naked – aside from a red kabbalah string tied around her wrist and a small gold nose ring. She’s hugging her knees, ankles crossed as she stares straight out at the viewer. She has porcelain skin, light blue eyes, fire-engine red hair and a grey-metal gun lying on the floor beside her.
I reach for my phone, snap a picture and quickly glance down at it.
Shit. All I got was my own reflection and the flare of a couple of streetlights in the glass.
I snap a few more from other angles and the last one is strong. No reflections.
I start to drape the cloth back over it but then—
‘What the hell are you doing?’ comes a male voice. American.
Shit.
I turn my head quickly. He’s tall, young – maybe thirty-two? – has floppy brown hair and tanned skin and, wow, he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Skies-over-the-alps blue. His chest is broad, like he works out, and he’s wearing a pair of black jeans with a white T-shirt and a navy blazer. He’s the kind of guy I’d usually flirt with, but he’s carrying a big set of jangly keys and he looks way too pissed off for flirting right now.
He must run the gallery. Shit.
‘Sorry,’ I say, as he strides towards me and I awkwardly pull the remainder of the white fabric over the canvas. I swallow hard, trying to figure out how to get out of this. I have to come back here tomorrow night to review the exhibition. I can’t get myself banned…
‘Didn’t you see the sign on the door?’ he snaps, nodding towards it. He’s half a step away from me now; I can smell his cologne. His eyebrows – thick, well formed – are raised. ‘We’re closed. You can’t just come in here.’
His eyes trace my body: neck, clavicles, breasts. They linger on my hips then snap back to my face. Our eyes meet: zap.
My throat closes up. But I need to say something. I can’t just stand here. Staring.
Luckily, I fuck up a lot in life so I’m well practised at getting myself out of fixes like this. I reach for my failsafe: damsel in distress.
‘Oh shit, is that what the sign says? I don’t speak French,’ I say, all doe-eyed darling. ‘It’s just I saw you were having an exhibition for Noah X tomorrow night,’ I nod to the poster in the window, ‘and he’s my favourite French artist…’
Something flickers behind his eyes; does he believe me?
‘And I just wanted to see… I’m sooo sorry.’ It all comes out in one, long, rambling breath. And that’s just perfect. Because I sound flustered. I look flustered. And here’s a life lesson for you: no man can resist flustered.
I look up at him, blink twice, and wait for him to soften. Wait for his eyes to do that thing they do when a man is mentally undressing you.
But his blue eyes narrow. Uh-oh, this is not good.
‘You know I could call the police, right? This is trespassing.’
Wait, what?
My throat grows tighter. ‘But the door was unlocked.’
‘Riiigghht,’ he says. ‘What did you say your name was?’
I do not want to tell him my name. What if he looks me up, figures out where I work and this somehow gets back to Hyacinth?
‘Grace,’ I lie. I reach out my hand to shake his.
‘Well, Grace,’ he continues, ignoring my outstretched hand, ‘tell me, what precisely did you think those covers were for then? Keeping the dust off?’ And then he stands there, arms crossed, just looking at me and waiting for a reply.
My ears ring.
‘Look, I’m really sorry, you clearly want me to leave,’ I say in my firmest, most grown-up voice. I head for the door, reach for the handle and pull it towards me. A gush of cool air hits my cheeks and I step outside into freedom then—
‘Wait,’ Mr Blue Eyes says.
And there’s something in his voice that makes me stop mid-step and look back. A hook.
‘What?’ I ask, still edging my way outside. He’s standing in the middle of the room now, arms by his side, and the air between us is thick and silent.
The muscle on the left side of his jaw is twitching but his eyes have softened.
Oh, right, I know what’s going on here: he’s freaking out.
He’s thinking about Google and Yelp and the reviews I could leave if he doesn’t smooth things over. Rude manager! Kicked me out! Maybe I will…
‘Did you like it?’ he asks. It’s conciliatory. Like he’s hoping I’ll forget he just yelled at me. ‘The painting.’
And there’s a part of me that wants to say ‘no’ and just leave him there to stew, but I do still need to come back tomorrow to see the rest of the work. It would be so much better if we could make amends. Be friends. Even if he does think my name is Grace now…
I let out a deep breath and let the door close as I step back inside. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I love anything pop art. And I mean, she’s naked with a gun; it’s total vulnerability and absolute strength all in one. The Marvel comics are great too; it’s a very modern representation of femininity. And I love that she’s staring out at the viewer as though begging for their gaze. Begging for connection,’ I say, eyes to him now. Small smile. ‘Or is she challenging them?’
He grins, his forehead creases. Jesus, his eyes are practically neon up close. Something in my stomach flips. I break our gaze, glancing round the room.
‘Do you think I’d be able to take a look
at the others?’ I ask, nodding at the other canvases all still shrouded in white. That would be perfect. Then I wouldn’t even have to come back tomorrow. I could write my article in peace from my bed, wearing knickers and a T-shirt, with a bottle of red and Netflix going in the background…
‘Hell no,’ he says, moving over to the large wooden desk at the back of the room where he picks up a flyer. ‘But…’ he says, as he moves over to me. He’s standing just a millimetre too close for a stranger and I can smell his cologne again. It smells familiar but I can’t quite place it… like earth… no, leather. No: wet cement after the rain. ‘You should come to the exhibition.’ He hands me the flyer; his hands are big and rough.
‘Great, thanks. I will,’ I say, like I wasn’t planning on it anyway. I take the flyer and move quickly towards the exit.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Grace.’ He opens the door for me. ‘Try not to get arrested in the meantime.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I say as I move out into the crisp night air. ‘And you see if you can figure out how to use those grey metal things. I think they’re called keys.’
Then the door closes and he’s on one side of the glass and I’m on the other and everyone’s happy. Mr Blue Eyes averted a disaster: nobody will be writing nasty things about him or his gallery on Google or Tripadvisor. And me? Well, I’m heading home with exactly what I came for: a photograph of a new Noah X painting and a head start on my story.
Chapitre trois
My bedroom window looks out onto the rooftops of Paris. All grey metal and terracotta chimneys. So no matter what colour the sky – pink, mauve, tin, electric blue, treacle black – it always looks like an Instagram post. An Instagram post with a direct view into my neighbour’s apartment. Every night she lies in bed, watching something on her laptop. Sometimes she touches herself. Sometimes her boyfriend comes over and they have sex. Either way, I try not to notice. Of course, she can probably see me wandering around naked too, but whatever. That’s urban living for you.
Still, I shouldn’t be so blasé. That poor girl in the newspaper, Matilde Beaumont, was probably blasé too, and now look: one night she disappeared without a trace and four months later her body was found in a forest to the south-west of Paris. If I was still writing my ‘How not to get murdered’ column, the takeaway from Matilde’s story would be: always walk with your keys between your fingers and stay the fuck away from the woods.
But that window is my favourite part of the room. The rest of it is all old white-grey paint and enclosed spaces. I have no closet – just a hanging rail and piles of folded clothing in my suitcase beside it. Not that I’m complaining. According to glum Wesley, apartments in Paris usually take six months, four guarantors, a shady landlord, hefty insurance and a pound of flesh to secure, and so I wouldn’t even have an apartment if one of Mum’s school friends (Anne) hadn’t taken pity on me. She’s very rich, very blonde, lives somewhere in North America now, and she has a place here she rarely visits. It’s in the 6th, bordering the 7th, right by Jardin du Luxembourg and Montparnasse. Yes, I live in Postcard Paris. My apartment building has one of those grand wooden doors with an enormous black knocker, a cobbled courtyard and a chandelier that magically turns on whenever you walk down the stairs. It feels a bit like being a Disney princess.
I pull out my earplugs and reach for my phone. The time reads 6.55 am. I’m up five minutes early and that feels like a minor victory. It’s always nice not to be ripped from sleep by the church bells that ring every morning at 7 am.
I sit up, my limbs heavy, and look out the window: this morning the sky is streaked with pink cloud. I snap a picture and upload it to the Instagram account I set up when I moved here: @new.girlinparis. I add #goodmorning and #paris then take my phone through to the living-area-slash-kitchen and flick on the light.
To my left is a white sofa (just a matter of time before I spill something on that) with a series of pink, terracotta, olive green and yellow striped pillows and an old Louis Vuitton luggage case as a coffee table. In front of me sits a big bookshelf full of books and CDs, a lamp and another Louis Vuitton case. Above that is the only window in this part of the apartment – it’s on the ceiling and requires a stick and a special knack to open it. And to my right sits a table, two chairs and a big wooden cupboard I found my sheets and towels inside. Behind me is where the coffee lives. The kitchenette: two hot plates (one is broken and the other has two settings: off or volcanic), a microwave where I heat up the creamed spinach I pretty much live on (I’m definitely going to develop some sort of nutritional deficiency soon, but at least it won’t be scurvy), a sink, a fridge, and just enough room to open one, but not two, of those appliance doors at once. Anne’s bedroom and ensuite (which I’m under strict instructions not to enter and aside from once, just to look around, I’ve complied) is to the right of that, just past the main bathroom.
I flick on the kettle. There are three mini bottles of Scotch right beside it, but I will not drink this morning. I have no issue with drinking at 7 am, but I want to be clear-headed at 10 am because today is Thursday. We have our editorial meetings on Thursdays where we pitch ideas to Hyacinth. I want to do well. I look past the amber liquid and out through the kitchen window. It’s open and rain-stained and there are three terracotta pots outside filled with the brittle corpses of herbs or flowers. The sound of the kettle hissing echoes off the walls and the church bells ring in the distance as I reach for my phone and do the thing I told myself I wasn’t going to do anymore.
First, I pull up Google and then I type in: Harrison Daze. If you want to know what haunts someone, check their search history.
I glance down at the results, scanning through the list of links. One day I’m going to run this search and find Harrison has been nominated for a Grammy or something. That will be a dark fucking day. But not today. Today it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Just articles praising him in ways that make me want to drown my phone in the sink.
I’ve been watching Harrison’s life from afar, watching it flourish – moving to LA with Melody, large scale support tours, photographs with a Beatle – ever since he left me. Every time something else goes right for him, it feels like there is no cosmic justice. It fucks up my entire day. I have to imagine bad things befalling him just to calm down. Nothing life threatening – just, you know, vocal nodules.
And I know I should just stop looking, but I can’t. It’s like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
But, still, it’s better to watch him through this electronic window than to pick the lock on his physical front door and break in again.
I only did that once, by the way, and only to get some of my stuff back.
People get all judgey when you admit to things like that, but if other people didn’t do similar things I’m pretty sure that YouTube channel for Mr Locksmith wouldn’t be so bloody popular and I’m pretty sure that Amazon wouldn’t have 3976 five-star reviews on the professional locksmith set I bought for the occasion. There can’t be that many locksmiths out there losing their tools. But that’s the thing about a lot of people: they aren’t brave enough to admit they might have darkness. That sometimes they might do questionable things. Instead they sit back, sip on delusion and judge those who do own their demons. But people like that scare the shit out of me. Because those are the people who one day are triggered, see their darkness, get a fright, go postal and end up as the surprise main character in a true crime podcast.
I’m still staring at the search results, listening to the kettle whistle and then click off, when a text message fills the screen.
Hi Harper, I’m not sure what happened yesterday but I think you’re right, it’s best we end things. Just let me know you’re okay. T.
Oh goodie.
Just what I need before caffeine.
A message from Thomas.
A flash of his caramel arms, the smell of candle wax, the gaze of the man in that ugly painting by his bed.
I put my phone down on the countert
op and make my coffee then take a sip of it as I glare at the screen, rereading his message.
I’m not sure what happened yesterday?
There’s no simple way to explain that.
There’s only the truth.
Around the time Harrison left me and I finally denounced the idea of true love forever, I started seeing things differently. I guess once you see through one socially sanctioned lie, everything is up for debate. Things like: work hard at a sensible job and everything will turn out fine, fall in love and you’ll be happy, don’t drink at 7 am or you’re an alcoholic. That sort of thing.
Because… why?
Why is drinking at 7 am any worse than 7 pm – isn’t time itself a man-made construct? And nobody judges the guy throwing down a Xanax with his cornflakes, why is that so different?
Why does love get such a great rap when it can quite logically only end in one of three ways: disillusionment, death or divorce?
And if working hard at a sensible job is the answer, why are there so many people working multiple jobs and still unable to pay their bills at the end of the month? Still unable to buy their children new shoes? All while they down antidepressants in a bid to forget the unforgettable: their dreams.
Exactly. It seemed to me society was founded on a series of rather precarious rules and narratives and I didn’t want to be disappointed again. Not like this.
So now I only live by one rule: do no harm.
And Thomas was a hair away from getting attached, it would have harmed him if I’d stayed, so I ended it.
And I didn’t want to end it. It was a sacrifice. Because he was six foot two. Also, he was hot (in a groom cake-topper kind of a way), a financial journalist for Endroit (Paris’s major media conglomerate) and really good in bed. On paper we were a good match and I would have liked him as a fuck buddy. But I’ve learned the hard way that guys might think they want a fuck buddy at the beginning, but once they’ve gotten used to you and seen that you don’t get clingy, all that always seems to change. They start looking at you differently. Sooner or later they start holding your hand. And when it hasn’t changed for you too, egos get hurt and the guy gets mean. They call you a slut. A bitch. A psychopath. And then, if you’re like me, you get so hurt you go home and do an online test just to check they’re not right.
