Until Gabriel leans in and kisses the blonde on both cheeks, French style, then lingers a little too long in her personal space. She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Hannah Bond and Marla Bond, may I introduce you to Anastasia Girard. She does not speak English, but I am sure that will not be a problem.”
Tall and beautiful, with large hazel eyes and a pouty mouth, Anastasia looks as if she would be as confident in front of the camera or on the cover of a magazine as she seems to be in real life.
I sense a vibe that she and Gabriel might have been involved once… or even now?
They’d make a beautiful couple. I’m mesmerized by their interaction. The subtle ebb and flow of flirtation, the way Anastasia angles her perfect chin down and gazes up at Gabriel through long, dark eyelashes. The way Gabriel’s gaze lingers on her face, caressing it without even touching it. The chemistry that pulses between them is breathtaking.
If they haven’t had a thing, they’re ripe for one.
“Anastasia says she is pleased to meet you. She is ready to go inside when you are,” Gabriel offers.
“You’re going to stay and translate, then?” Marla says to him.
Gabriel gazes at Anastasia, who is putting her cameras in their cases for the short trip inside. She seems careful, which bodes well for her treatment of the apartment.
“I’m sure you have other things to do,” I say. “My French is limited, but I can speak enough to get by. Plus, I have a translation app. I think we can manage.”
Gabriel waves off the out I’ve given him. “I am happy to stay. As I said, I set aside the morning for you. However, let me call the office.”
He steps away for a moment and makes the call. When he returns, he says something to Anastasia in French. She turns and looks at Marla and me and nods.
We go inside.
It’s a small elevator. Anastasia steps in with her camera equipment. Marla offers to ride with her and unlock the door.
When the empty elevator returns, Gabriel motions for the assistants to enter next, leaving the two of us alone. It would’ve been a tight squeeze, but the four of us could’ve fit. I am happy to wait and talk to Gabriel.
“You really should check out the Musée Rodin before you return to London,” he says. “It is the most wonderful place. One of my favorites in all of Paris. It is a collection of Rodin’s sculptures. There is a lovely garden, which might not boast its full glory in the heart of winter, but it is still full of beauty, a perfect place to sit outside and enjoy Paris.”
“Isn’t the museum housed in a mansion?”
“Yes, it is. It’s called the Hôtel Biron and it was built in the early eighteenth century.”
“Did Rodin live there?”
“He did, but he did not have the place all to himself. At the time it had been subdivided and he rented several rooms on the ground floor. After he died, the place was nearly destroyed to build apartments, but they saved it and turned it into a museum honoring him. It has been the Musée Rodin for more than a century.”
“You know a lot about it.”
“As I said, it is one of my favorite spots in Paris. I hope you will visit.”
“I hope so, too,” I say. “Someday, anyway. I don’t have a lot of free time this visit.”
“How long are you in Paris?”
“I have to be back in London by next Tuesday. For work.”
“And what is it that you do for work?”
“I give tours about Jane Austen throughout the British countryside. I take Austen fans to all the places they’ve read about in her novels.”
“Ah, that is intriguing. I assume your clientele is mostly women?”
“Women and a few husbands who have unwittingly agreed to come along for the ride.”
“I take it you are a reader,” he says.
After seeing him flirt with artsy, gorgeous Anastasia, I’ve never felt like more of a bookworm, but I am who I am.
“I love to read. All kinds of books.”
“I do, too,” he says. “I prefer biographies myself. I love reading about interesting lives and the people who have lived them. Your job is very interesting, no?”
“It has its moments. I love meeting the people on my tours. I have a chance to get to know them because often we are together in relatively close quarters for the better part of a week as we tour the countryside. I’ve learned a lot about human nature.”
He smiles at me and for a moment it feels as if his gaze is caressing me the same way it caressed Anastasia moments ago.
Then the elevator arrives and breaks the spell. We get in and silently make the trip up one floor. Before the doors open, I can hear Marla’s voice.
“You can’t photograph the paintings in the bedroom,” she yells. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
When I get inside, I find her standing in the bedroom waving her arms like a referee.
“No photographs of the pictures on the bedroom wall.” She’s raised her voice again, as if talking loudly will help Anastasia understand her better. But Anastasia shrugs and looks pleadingly at Gabriel, who is standing beside me.
“Is there a problem?” he asks. “Quel est le problème?”
“Quel problem is I don’t want her to photograph the paintings in the bedroom. They’re off-limits.”
“Ah,” Gabriel says. Then he and Anastasia have a short conversation in French, which I don’t understand because they’re speaking fast.
Finally, Gabriel says, “Anastasia thought you didn’t want her to photograph the apartment.”
“That’s not what I said,” Marla hisses.
“I know that and you know that,” I say, “but Anastasia doesn’t understand you, just like you didn’t understand what she was saying to you. Mind your manners.”
Marla snorts and crosses her arms. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this today. I mean, it was thrust on us out of the blue. We haven’t even had time to comb through the inside of the apartment ourselves.”
“Let’s go out here.” I motion for her to follow me out of the apartment and into the hallway so we can speak privately.
On my way out, I say to Gabriel, “I’m sorry. Give us a moment and we’ll be right back.”
I lock eyes with Anastasia, who is regarding us as if we’re a couple of escaped lunatics. Who can blame her? Marla is making me feel a bit deranged at the moment.
Once we’re out of the apartment and in the hallway, I say to her, “If she doesn’t take the photographs today—in fact, right now—the cleaning crew will be here and we won’t get ‘before’ photos.”
“And why is it so bloody important to photograph the mess?” She’s shouting again.
“Because this is kind of a big deal.” I’m talking in a quiet voice to set an example, but Marla isn’t big on nonverbal cues. “And lower your voice, please. We don’t need to make a scene.”
Marla throws up her hands and presses the elevator call button. When the doors open, she steps inside. I do, too. We ride down in silence.
On the ground floor, we exit the elevator and I hold open the lobby door and allow Marla to pass through first. Once we’re outside breathing in the brisk morning air, my head clears enough to talk sensibly.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. “There’s more to this than you not wanting people in the apartment, isn’t there?”
Marla shrugs.
“Please tell me what you’re thinking. It matters.”
Marla stops in front of a concrete bench and drops onto it. Her eyes are glistening with tears.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
She does a double take.
“I like it when you call me Mom.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I lower myself onto the bench next to her and wait patiently for her to speak.
“When I was growing up,” she finally says, “I always felt like the odd one out. You had Gram. Granny Ivy was mad protective of Mom and you, of course.” She shakes her
head. “It’s… never mind.”
“No, keep going.”
She opens her mouth to continue but closes it again as if she can’t find the words.
“So, discovering this place sort of felt like a second chance to be part of that triangle?” I ask.
She shrugs. Blinks.
“It’s a chance to turn that triangle the three of you had into a square where I’m included. Does that sound dumb?”
“It doesn’t sound dumb.” I smile at her and I don’t know what comes over me, but I reach out and put my hand on hers. I half expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t.
“It’s just that this… this apartment feels like something for you and me. A gift from Granny Ivy and Mom—although, I don’t know that Mom even knew about it. It doesn’t matter. It feels like Ivy’s way of reaching out to pull you and me together. I remember something that Granny Ivy said to me once. Mom and I were in a really bad place. It was the day before I was leaving for Europe with my friend Callie. Mom and I weren’t speaking. It was really bad. That afternoon while Mom was at work, Ivy stopped in my bedroom doorway and said, ‘Lovie, I know your mum isn’t happy with your summer plans, but between you and me, I’m glad you’re going. Most people go about their lives as if they have all the time in the world. But they don’t and they only realize it after it’s too late. Be careful, but go out there and get whatever it is you’re chasing.’ ”
Marla’s voice breaks on the last word. She swallows hard and then clears her throat. I don’t want to breathe for fear that she’ll stop talking.
“I wish I would’ve asked her what she meant,” she continues. “Because looking back on it now, I think it might have had something to do with her time in Paris. But I was so self-absorbed, all I could think was, ‘Finally someone in this house is on my side.’
“It doesn’t matter now. You and me… We’ve never done well when others were involved. Since I arrived in London, I feel like we’ve been making such progress, but now there’s all this stuff coming at us from the outside. I know we need to clean the place up and it would be cool to have before and after pictures, but I don’t know that I’m ready to share our treasure with the world just yet.”
“I get it. I totally get it. For the first time in our lives, we’re on the same page.” Even if it feels a little tenuous. A little fragile. “I want to protect that, too. But this is our only chance to get pictures of how the place looks now, and just because we take the pictures doesn’t mean we have to publicize them immediately. I’ll talk to Gabriel about drawing up release paperwork. You can’t blame him for wanting the photos, but we are his clients at the end of the day, and I doubt he’s going to do anything rash to jeopardize that.”
“Oh, Hannah, you always see the best in people. How do you do that?” Marla laughs. “I guess you’re not old enough to be jaded and cynical like I am.”
She reaches up and touches my face. “You’re so pretty and you don’t even know it.”
We sit there a moment.
Her words have thrown me. It’s a totally un-Marla-like thing to say. I feel as if I’m living in an alternate Parisian reality. A decidedly non–Jane Austen dream.
* * *
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, as Anastasia is wrapping up her shoot, the cleaning crew arrives.
“There is no sense in you remaining here while the work is in progress,” Gabriel says to us. “Why don’t you use the opportunity to step outside and enjoy the day? When you return, the place will be transformed.”
He snaps his fingers in the air as if that’s how the magic will happen.
“Thanks, but I’m not leaving,” says Marla. “Um, excuse me.”
She motions to one of the crew members who has taken an industrial vacuum to the dusty sofa. “Please be careful there. That couch is old. You’re being too rough.”
The woman must understand because she slows down and vacuums less vigorously.
“See, this is why I can’t leave this place unattended,” Marla says. “Why don’t you two go? In fact, Gabriel, why don’t you take Hannah somewhere and show her the sights? I think it would be a good break for all of us. She was saying she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.”
With her next breath, Marla shouts at one of the workers. “Hey, be careful with that. It’s a very old lamp, not a soccer ball.”
Gabriel laughs as Marla moves in the direction of the offender.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say. “She means no disrespect.”
“No apologies necessary.” He arches his left brow. “Or perhaps I should have said you can make it up to me by allowing me to show you the Musée Rodin this afternoon and maybe the Eiffel Tower, too?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Right now, I need to return a work email.”
“I thought you were on vacation?” Gabriel says.
“I am, but I’m sure you understand work doesn’t take a holiday just because you do.”
He nods and leaves me to conduct my business.
A few minutes later, as I’m finishing up, Marla steps out of the bedroom, her arms full with three gilded framed paintings. No doubt the ones of Ivy. She walks over to the sofa table, carefully lays each one down, and begins gently dusting one of them. A woman obsessed.
I relay Gabriel’s plan and confirm she’s okay being here solo.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she says, holding the painting in both hands and examining it in the sunlight. She leans in. “He’s cute, Hannah.”
He’s only a few feet away doing something on his phone, but I’m glad the vacuums are making enough noise to muffle Marla’s words. He must sense that we’re talking about him, because he smiles at us and closes the distance.
“I’ll have my cell phone with me,” I say. “Call if you need anything. Is your phone charged?”
“Of course it is. I’m not a child.”
I give her the side-eye.
“I’m young at heart,” she says. “Now, you go be young. It’s time you start acting your age.
“Take this daughter of mine away from here and teach her how to have fun,” Marla says to Gabriel as the woman running the vacuum switches it off. Her words virtually ring in the room, dancing off the walls, twirling and swirling with the dust motes that the cleaners have stirred up.
Gabriel grins his Clooney smile. “I am happy to oblige. I am a very good teacher.”
July 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
It’s been a week now, but posing for Pierre is still awkward. I doubt it will get easier lying naked in front of a stranger with a lousy disposition who refuses to play by the rules.
Today, he crossed the very clear line I drew before accepting the job.
Helen warned me he might. Lo and behold, one week in and he felt emboldened to take freedoms with my naked body.
Here’s what happened: I was having trouble arranging myself into the pose he was trying to describe. He came over and took my left arm and placed it over my head. Then he lifted my chin to a precise angle. As he did, his hand trailed down my neck, past my collarbone. Before I knew it, he was cupping my breast.
I smacked his hand away, jumped off the divan, and grabbed my clothes, telling him he was never permitted to touch me.
He smiled sheepishly, murmuring that it was my fault for being so alluring. I had tempted him. How was he supposed to help himself?
I told him he could help himself to a new model because my work with him was finished.
I have never dressed so quickly in my life.
When he realized I was serious, he begged me to stay, saying without me he could not finish the series. I told him he should’ve thought of that before taking such liberties.
Then he slumped down on his stool and put his head in his hands, mumbling to himself. Je suis un idiot.
He is an idiot. I did not dispute him. Instead, I grabbed my handbag and sketchbook and walked out the door.
He ran after me, begging me to reconsider. When I
kept walking, he told me I could take the rest of the day off and he would pay me for a full day if I would come back tomorrow. Then, we would start anew. He told me that he knew I was not like the others and he would never touch me again.
I slowed my pace.
The next thing I knew he’d raced back into the studio and came out rattling the rusted can he keeps on the shelf. He handed me a fistful of coins. I stopped, but I refused to look at him. I kept my gaze pinned on the coins in his outstretched palm.
He said it was more than what we had agreed, but he wanted me to have it to make up for his blunder.
He transferred the coins into my hand and begged me to come back tomorrow.
I told him I couldn’t because I felt unsafe alone with him.
Then he sweetened the pot by offering to introduce me to someone who could open doors to the world of Paris fashion. He said the meeting would happen tomorrow evening.
I told him I would think about it. The last thing I want is to feel indebted to Pierre, but would accepting his help be any less dignified than retreating to Bristol? Because that is what I will have to do if I don’t return to Pierre’s atelier. Even so, as I write this, I do not know if I will return tomorrow or pack my bags for home.
Twelve
January 3, 2019—11:30 a.m.
Paris, France
I go back to the hotel and take a quick shower to rinse off the apartment dust. I have just enough time before Gabriel collects me for our adventure to put on some makeup and change into my velvet wrap dress. Cressida helped me pick it out. It’s red and hot pink with bold black letters stenciled into the pattern. Paired with black tights and boots, it’s sophisticated enough to wear to a Paris museum.
We take our time meandering through the old mansion that houses the Musée Rodin, following the black-and-white checkerboard marble entryway to the grand staircase that leads us up to the second floor. As we cross the creaky parquet floor, Gabriel tells me the history of the house.
Lost in Paris Page 12
