The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  I get to my desk, drop my bag on the floor, fire up my computer and sit down. Wesley is watching me with a smug I-got-here-before-you look on his face.

  ‘Hyacinth is looking for you,’ he says, a sort of glee in his eyes.

  It’s probably about my article. Please let it be good.

  And then I hear, ‘Harper?’

  I look in the direction of the sound. It’s Hyacinth, standing in her open doorway.

  ‘Yes?’ I ask, my voice coming out a lot more self-assured than I feel.

  ‘You’re late.’

  Shit.

  ‘Yes, I’m so sorry I—’

  ‘Can I see you for a moment?’

  Let me repeat: Shiiiiiit.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, heading to her office. This can’t be good. If she loved my article she’d have just sent back a ‘Great!’ or ‘Better!’.

  My heart is beating double time as I move through her door while my mind sifts through the changes I made to Noah’s article over the weekend: I spoke about his brother, his use of comics, his mysterious branding. I left out Sabine, of course. The last thing I needed was for her Vimeo account to blow up with new followers – if she posts that video of me and Noah I want as few people to see it as possible. But I’d cut my Berthe Morisot references in half, I thought I’d done well. Done exactly what she asked. So why is Hyacinth looking at me with an angry hyena glint as she sits down in her big black leather chair. ‘Sit,’ she says and so I do.

  Oh god, I’m going to get sacked.

  My legs are crossed, my hands clasped, my body leaning forward. I know enough about body language to know that I’m basically pleading, so I force myself to pull back and relax.

  ‘I got your rework,’ she says, her expression unreadable. She must get an inordinate amount of botox to keep her face that still.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing hard.

  ‘It was good. Much better,’ she says.

  My shoulders soften. Though why do I feel like she’s annoyed?

  ‘But my question,’ she says, leaning forward just an inch, ‘is why didn’t you do it that way to begin with?’

  Oh.

  ‘I was trying to fit in with what the magazine’s demographic might want. Trying to match the tone of the section.’

  She snorts.

  Clearly the wrong answer.

  ‘Harper, how many applications do you think we got for your job?’ Her words fire out like irritated bullets.

  ‘A lot?’ I suggest.

  ‘One hundred and seventy-six.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. Why is she asking me this? Is she about to point out how replaceable I am?

  ‘And of those about twenty-two were strong,’ she continues. ‘We interviewed three. And do you know why you were one of those three?’

  ‘Because I had art knowledge?’ I suggest, thinking of my interview questions.

  ‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘That was one thing you had: real-life art knowledge. Not the sort you get from university, but the sort that people understand. That makes someone want to go to an art gallery. But that’s not what I’m talking about. You had something else too. Something not everybody has. Something that can’t be taught.’

  I look at her, blank. I want to say the right thing but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘Balls, Harper. You had balls. Fire. I knew that the moment I read your piece “Why I hate John Lennon”.’

  Oh. The article I wrote about my breakup with Harrison. About how I’d lost myself and he’d ruined the Beatles for me forever. The article that started all of this.

  ‘That’s why we hired you, Harper. You’re interesting. And you’re accessible. So why do you keep trying to pretend you’re not?’

  I hold in a smile because I don’t want to look smug but Hyacinth just complimented me.

  ‘Understood,’ I say.

  ‘There’s another show I’d like you to cover. It’s on tonight at Galerie Nathalie Obadia. I’ll forward you the invite.’

  ‘Great, thank you, Hyacinth,’ I say.

  ‘That’s it.’ She smiles.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again, standing up. And then I head back out of her office and over to my desk.

  Wesley smirks as I sit down. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Great,’ I say with a fuck-you smile. ‘She just wanted to tell me how much she loved my new article.’

  Chapitre douze

  I stare at the triptych: three watercolours separated by two inches of stark, unblemished wall. Each is blue at the base for water, with trees or plants of differing proportions emerging with strokes of green, brown and fuchsia. Above them sits an orange and black all-seeing eye of a sun, in a grey and cloudy sky. The blue of the water drips upwards, while the trees and sun melt downwards, as though the canvases were rotated during production. I pull out my phone, balance it over the flyer I was given when I walked in and make a note: The artist’s representation of a cyclical and symbiotic relationship between earth and plants, air and sky, humans and planet, are deftly represented by…

  I pause. Searching for the right words. My eyes graze the room around me as I think. It’s a large, cavernous space with high ceilings, exposed metal beams and concrete floors. There are about twelve of us here, all milling around, inspecting ‘the work’ of multiple artists, all with something environmental to say. I look back down at my phone and finish my sentence: deftly represented by the way in which the medium drips and merges: that which goes up, comes down and vice versa.

  A full stop later I’m looking up and around again. There’s an abstract marble statue balancing on a tall white stand to my right, but it’s something behind that which has caught my eye, something on the far back wall. It’s a sculpture – it looks like a seahorse. I move past a man in a grey suit who’s enthusiastically sipping champagne to take a better look. Up close it’s made of found objects, mainly bits of rubbish. The nose is constructed of an old plastic soft drink bottle and the rest is fishing nets and hooks and plastic bags and feathers. From a distance it’s beautiful and sparkly and looks like it belongs in Bollywood. But up close, it’s made of junk. I move back and take a picture then upload it to Instagram with the hashtags: #galerienathalieobadia #savetheplanet #beautyoutofrubbish. And then I move on to the next wall. There’s a street sign there that reads ‘Wrong way. Go back’.

  I smile, take a picture of that too, and upload it with the caption: Can I get one of these for my life?

  The gallerist – a tall, slender man of around thirty-five – is standing over by the desk near the entrance and I want to ask him some questions. He’s towering over a fragile-looking woman of about seventy or so, who’s craning her neck to look up at him as she speaks. As I move in their direction, I overhear her questions and his answers and I start taking mental notes. They’re speaking in French but I catch the odd phrase. She’s asking about things like where the artists grew up and where they trained and the gallerist is answering in good humour, smiling and nodding and, every so often, throwing me a glance to acknowledge that I’m there, a few steps back, and waiting.

  Eventually she moves into the main room and the gallerist nods at me with a smile.

  I speak in broken French. ‘Hi, I’m Harper Brown, I’m from The Paris Observer and I have a couple of questions about the exhibition.’

  He smiles. ‘Of course,’ he says, in perfect English, the way Parisians always do when they detect an accent.

  * * *

  Half an hour later I’ve done another lap of the room and I’m heading outside, making final notes as I walk. It’s dark and the streets glimmer with the red and white reflections of restaurant signs and taxi headlights. The metro isn’t far from here but it’s been a long day so I scroll through my phone to order an Uber. I enter my address and wait for an estimate of the cost. A Deliveroo driver whooshes past me on a bicycle. I step out of the way. And then, seemingly from nowhere, I hear a voice: ‘Grace?’

  But Grace isn’t my name so I don’t turn
around. I’m too busy double-checking the price of my Uber – Why are they so expensive? – and reconsidering the metro.

  But then it comes again, louder this time, and closer too: ‘Grace?’

  My heart recognises the timbre of his voice a split second before my mind does. It starts pumping double time. Then my breath follows suit as I swivel on my heel.

  There he stands: blue jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket. His blue eyes watching me turn.

  Noah.

  My cheeks grow warm. ‘Hey,’ I say, a flood of incompatible thoughts and feelings downloading simultaneously. If I were a computer, right now, I’d crash. Because my body is happy to see him. My blood is speeding up. But my mind is pissed, hardening: Why is he here?

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

  ‘Instagram,’ he says, unapologetically. He moves in towards me. He’s close enough that I can smell his skin, his hair – metal, rain, peppermint – and a small electric shock runs through me.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he says. Serious.

  I swallow hard. I don’t want to talk. I want to go home before I make anything worse for myself. I know who he is now: an opportunist who married a woman ten years older than him to get what he could from her and then fucked around. With me. And probably with Sabine too.

  ‘Noah, look, don’t worry about Friday, it’s fine,’ I say, my eyes meeting his for a millisecond before glancing back down at my phone. It’s not fine, of course, but no amount of talking it through will fix it.

  I’m about to confirm my ride when he says, ‘No, it’s important, Grace. Let’s go grab a drink. I need to explain what happened.’

  I look up at him. ‘There’s nothing to say,’ I reply, a little less blasé and a little more snappy than I’m aiming for. ‘It’s fine.’

  He exhales loudly. ‘Are you serious?’

  I stare him down and say, ‘Yes.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘So I chase you down like a fucking rom-com and you won’t even talk to me? Not even for one drink? My feelings are hurt.’

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

  My heart is banging in my chest and shit, shit, shit. Because I don’t want to get further tangled up in this but I do want to know what Sabine said on Friday night when he went after her; whether she’s deleted that file or what she plans on doing with it. I’m not a fan of surprises; I like to know how big my problems are upfront.

  ‘Fine. One drink,’ I say. Firm.

  ‘Great,’ he replies, nodding to the bistro across the street. It’s pale pink brick with creepers in shades of red, amber and green lit up by the glow of yellow streetlights, and there’s a row of tables outside looking onto the pavement.

  A motorbike drives past, then a black Mercedes with a red taxi sign lit up on top. And as we weave between them, crossing the road, Noah reaches for my hand. His hand is big and warm and his fingers intertwine with mine. But when we get to the other side, I pull mine away.

  He pushes open the door to the bistro and lets me go in first. Inside, it sounds like an easy-listening radio station. There’s a dark wood table in a booth by the window, with a flickering candle in a jar in the centre. He moves towards it and we both sit down.

  The waitress comes over. He orders wine. I order Scotch. And as soon as she’s gone he leans in towards me.

  ‘I’m sorry about how the other night ended,’ he says, reaching for my hands again. I pull them away.

  ‘Which bit? How you got me caught on video naked, how you didn’t tell me you were married, or how you left me, mid-sex, on a rooftop and didn’t even say sorry for two whole hours?’

  ‘Fuck. All of it,’ he says. ‘I wanted to text you sooner but I just couldn’t find my phone.’

  A flash of that metal barrel on the roof, the ashtray and his phone.

  ‘It was on the roof,’ he continues. ‘I must have taken it out of my pocket when we were—’ He pauses and looks up at me sheepishly. ‘But honestly even when I found it I didn’t know what to say. I knew you’d be pissed off. Which is totally fair, by the way. And I couldn’t cope with being around people so I just sat up there trying to figure out how I’d fucked everything up so badly until it started to rain again.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, my arms crossed. ‘And your wife?’

  His gaze moves to the table, the muscle on the side of his jaw twitches, then his eyes find mine again. ‘Okay,’ he starts. ‘I’m in the middle of a messy divorce. That’s what that party was for on Friday. To celebrate my freedom. Thursday night’s exhibition was the last commitment I had to honour before I was free.’

  I frown at him. The broken half of a heart he drew on everyone’s wrist now makes sense. But something else just isn’t slotting into place as seamlessly. ‘If you’re getting divorced then why would your ex care what you do with other women? Why would Sabine threaten to tell her?’

  ‘You don’t know my ex.’ He scoffs. ‘There’s this side to her…’

  This, right here, is my pet peeve: every guy says his ex is awful. But, mainly, women are not awful. Mainly, we’re just fed up.

  ‘Noah, don’t do that. I googled her. I know she owns Le Voltage and is all old money and art connections. I also know that’s probably why you married her so please don’t spin some story about how it’s somehow her fault. I won’t buy it.’

  He looks around at the other tables, like he’s worried someone might be listening, the way people do when they’ve been doing bad things. Then he leans in a little closer and lowers his voice, inviting me to do the same.

  ‘I didn’t say it was her fault. There’s a lot of good in her and I know she loves me.’ He shifts in his seat. ‘I owe her. And not just for my career. When my brother was sick and the insurance ran out, she covered it. But…’ He’s weighing his words. ‘Look, just know it wasn’t all me, okay?’

  I narrow my eyes.

  ‘Please don’t look at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like I’m a total arsehole.’

  I raise my eyebrows as if to say, ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘She put a tracker on my car, okay? And spyware on my phone. She’s not some little victim here.’

  I think of his US number. That makes a tad more sense now.

  ‘Well, maybe she just wanted to see who you were fucking?’ I suggest.

  ‘I wasn’t fucking anyone,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Oh, so I was the first woman you had up on that rooftop while you were still married? Is that what you’re going with?’

  ‘You were the first.’

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. ‘So, you never had an affair with Sabine?’

  ‘I already told you she was just my model,’ he says. ‘Don’t you listen?’

  I lean forward, ready to go for the jugular. ‘Then explain this: why would she want to out you to your wife? That seems a lot like jealousy to me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s complicated.’

  The waitress places our drinks in front of us. I reach for mine and take a sip. It slows my blood just a little.

  ‘Well, I’m a smart girl, try me.’

  He smiles. ‘Fine. Sabine was jealous, but not in the way you think. I wasn’t sleeping with her.’ He looks down at his drink then takes a sip. He’s trying to figure out how to say whatever he’s about to say. ‘She… developed feelings for me. I told her I couldn’t be with her because it would jeopardise my divorce. It seemed kinder than saying I didn’t feel the same. I guess when she saw me with you, she got angry. I should have been more careful. But that’s why she videoed us and made that threat. She was hurt.’ He throws back the rest of his drink. ‘But fuck me. I’m here, aren’t I? Trying to do the right thing and be honest with you? Stop making it so hard, woman.’

  He sits back in his seat and I sit back in mine and we look at each other for a few moments.

  ‘So what did she say, exactly?’ I ask, breaking the silence. ‘When you ran after her?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he
says, leaning in again. ‘We argued for a while and I tried to walk her to the metro, but she was so mad at me. She just ran off and I went back up to the roof to look for you, but you were already gone.’

  ‘Well, did you call her?’ I ask. Because I’m here now. I want to know if she sent Agnès Bisset that video or not.

  ‘Of course. But she won’t answer.’

  And then I ask the million dollar question: ‘Do you think she’ll do anything with that footage?’

  His eyes meet mine, he gives a small smile and shakes his head. ‘There’s no chance of that. Not when she really thinks about it.’

  I squint at him as if to say, ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘There’s only one thing Sabine really wants in this world,’ he continues, ‘and that is to be an artist. It’s a tightknit group here in Paris. If she fucked me over like that, she’d be a pariah. She’d never risk that.’ He takes a sip of his wine and leans in a little further as if about to tell me a secret. So I lean in too.

  ‘Agnès wouldn’t thank her for it either. She’d pull her exhibition immediately. I mean, she doesn’t even like Sabine’s work, she calls it a Hallmark card on steroids. Getting Agnès to agree to an exhibition was a big win for Sabine. Agnès can make a career. So no matter what she threatens, no matter how upset she might be right now, there’s no way Sabine’s going to mess that up.’ He smiles at me. ‘So don’t worry.’ Then he reaches out for my hand again. And this time I let him take it. His eyes move to my wrist and his thumb traces the pale outline of that broken heart he drew on Friday night.

  ‘Don’t you shower?’ he asks.

  And I start to laugh.

  Then he lets out a big sigh and our eyes meet again.

  ‘Grace,’ he says, in a tone that is so very serious.

  ‘Noah,’ I say, mimicking him.

  ‘I need you to promise me something. You won’t tell anyone about all this,’ he says. ‘About what happened on the roof. Agnès is a very private person and her image is everything to her. The one thing she asked of me when we decided to split was that we do it amicably. That I don’t humiliate her. If she knew that footage was out there, that people could see it…’ He trails off, shaking his head. ‘It would complicate things. I don’t know what she’ll do if she’s humiliated like that.’