by Lois Cahall
“I got carried away,” says Kitty. “I admit it. I’ve had a screw loose ever since I met Helmut. He and I got caught up in the thrill. Sorry for needing a thrill. We were both married, living on separate continents. We started emailing – which is like love letters on speed, let me tell you. We shared so much – the art world and all of its secrets. Besides, he kept telling me he adored me. And that my skin was so soft.”
I shake my head and fold my arms. Kitty grows more despondent by the moment, rattling the bars and pulling them toward her. She hollers out: “God, what have I done to myself? What have I done to my life? My marriage? My career? I’ve become my father!” Only thing missing is a battered guitar and a bag of cocaine.
“I’m not pussyfooting around anymore with you,” I say, standing up and sticking a finger in her face. “You fucked up, royally! We’re in jail for who knows how long. This is France. They’ll probably have us beheaded. We disturbed the peace, plus we bailed on the restaurant check. You ought to be on your knees thanking God you weren’t pregnant by Helmut! And then when you’re done praying, you better come up with another plan, because your Plan B just isn’t working.”
“How about a Plan C?” says Kitty, hovering near the toilet. “You know ‘just in case…” She gulps. “…In case?”
In that moment I realize that the only person who can ever really get it is my person, my backup plan, my life plan, my Ben. Suddenly I’m not sure I’m ready to let him go. I remember how much I once wanted him, how much I longed for him when we first began. I would have done anything to get him. Is the longing always better than the having? I don’t believe I’m the type who wants what she can’t have because I’m not one of those people who believes we really have anything. And right now I don’t have Ben, or a pot to piss in. On second thought…I look around the cell. Okay, fine. They gave us a pot to piss in.
When I get out of here, I’ll just have to get back to working at it, because when we stop working at it, we lose it. All of it. Whatever it is – our job, our body, parenting, sex. And the “it” I had with Ben would be such a shame to lose. Of that much I’m sure.
Ben and I share a sexy intelligence that maybe my pacing friend Kitty doesn’t understand. We never kept secrets from each other, even when we kept secrets from the world. And we weren’t one of those couples who didn’t appreciate what we have the way Kitty failed to see what she had with Clive. Ben and I had been so balanced. Not one of those couples who has to spend every second together. We could enjoy our own lives, our own work, our own projects, knowing that we were one and secure, even when we were apart. But everything has changed. Here I am in a jail cell. Paris isn’t for jailbirds. Paris is for lovers.
Kitty’s strident voice snaps me out of it. She hangs her hands through the bars, yelling for the bailiff, who slowly approaches:
“I want my one phone call!” says Kitty.
“Only one?” says the bailiff sarcastically. “Pfffff. Typical American! This is France. Make as many phone calls as you wish.”
Seconds later we’re traipsing down the hall, our wrists in handcuffs. We turn the corner from the jail cells into a reception area. The guard goes to his desk for a set of keys.
“Well, maybe we’ll be out of here in time for New Year’s Eve after all,” I say.
“New Year’s Eve?” says Kitty. “Are you kidding? I can’t show up at the home of a top Michelin-rated chef like Jacques Gagne! Not now. Once this hits the papers he’ll never buy those holograms from me. I’ll be ruined in Paris!”
“You’re damn lucky I have an editor friend at Le Monde who owes me a favor,” I say. “I think I can keep us out of the headlines.”
“I’m not talking about you. Why would you not want to be in the papers? I’m talking about me. I’m a behind-the-scenes person. For me, getting arrested is a disaster. For you, it’s a publicity coup. You need this. You’re a journalist about to launch a new blog. It’s called platforming! You should use your one phone call to land an interview in the Barbizon press.”
‘They don’t have press in Barbizon,” I say. “At least not on Tuesday.”
“As far as I’m concerned you should put on a pair of Uggs, hold a Starbucks coffee cup in your left hand and wear oversized sunglasses. Then get somebody to snap a shot of you leaving jail, waving to the crowd, and falling drunkenly on the curb.”
“That only works for Britney, Lindsay and Nick Nolte.”
“This whole incident has reality show written all over it.”
The bailiff unlocks my cuffs and I wriggle my hands to relax them.
“Why are they suddenly being so nice?” asks Kitty. “Is this the deluxe one-phone-call service? Maybe they throw in a facial.”
“I think we should call Bebe,” I say, heading for the phone.
“But she’s in Gstaad skiing with Tamara. Probably won’t have reception on a slope.”
“Then I’m calling Clive,” I say, heading to the phone. “You said he’s in London visiting his son so…”
“No way! You give me that phone…” Kitty snatches it from me like a madwoman. She inhales and exhales, and, when she feels composed, punches in a set of numbers. She stares at me, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and her ear. A few seconds pass and somebody picks up. “Hello?”
“Daddyyyyyyy?” whines Kitty.
*
In the end we were let off for time served after one night and the sacrifice of bail money. Kitty’s father, Screamin’ J Pepper, had paid the judge from last week’s unusually successful horse-race winnings. He had even sent a few autographed 8 x 10 glossies. It was all very kind of him, considering he was right in the middle of betting an inside straight at his weekly poker game with Vanilla Ice, M.C. Hammer, Adam Ant and David Lee Roth. That guy from Wang Chung had answered the phone, and thank God he was sober, or we might still be in jail.
I don’t know whether anyone in Barbizon ever really figured out that Kitty had stolen a Millet, however temporarily, but I think the batting of her eyelashes and a flash of her cleavage helped convince the court that no further investigation was necessary – at least no further legal investigation. The judge, who faintly resembled Hugh Jackman, seemed to love his role as Prince Charming, delicately placing the boar’s chewed up Louboutin on Kitty’s foot and exclaiming with a wry Gallic wink, “We have found zee Princess.” The boar dropped the shoe right before he headed back to the forest.
The townsfolk were all so nice that they sent us back to Paris with jars of homemade honey from the local market and a string of sausages from the butcher. They even fed us a big breakfast at the creperie before we departed. After all, no one had shown so much interest in their little town in years.
And me, I promised to write an article on “101 Reasons to Visit Barbizon” for a travel magazine when I got back to the states. And I made this ridiculous promise that if I ever wrote a novel, they’d be in it…
Chapter Thirty-six
The dry cleaning bag contains a red woolen sweater dress that I last wore when Ben and I ate dinner at Jean-Jacques Jouteux’s restaurant 153 Grenelle, the night he asked me to marry him. Again.
Turning the corner into the marketplace I study the faces of the people who pass by on this last day of the year. There’s something about being in Paris without a lover in the wintertime, especially on New Years Eve. I don’t necessarily recommend it to anyone, as the magnificent buildings manage to become a backdrop for depression, all slick and shiny ivory from the persistent drizzle. Even the cold street pavement seems to scream up at me, “What are you crazy? Go inside until April!”
Just after twelve noon, just like it is right now, the sun dips below the buildings of the market and all the café patrons magically disappear inside. Either that or they’re taking coffee-to-go. In a paper cup.
Mine is not the only somber face in this New Year’s Eve crowd. Their eyes tell me we’ve all had lovers gone wrong. At the traffic light, a motor scooter idles long enough for me to notice the driver’s
boots are in need of a good polish, his pants in need of washing, and his woolen scarf all tattered and matted, in need of a good trash toss. He looks at me, our glances meeting someplace over the rumble of his engine. He casts his eyes down first and I sense his sadness. Maybe his wife left him. Maybe this recession has hit him. Maybe he’s an artist who just lost his gallery. Or maybe he spent a night in jail like I did. Then I size him up again. He’s somewhat hot underneath his dishevelment. Maybe I should jump on the back of his bike and just go with him. But I know I won’t. The reality is we all want to run away but we can’t escape. Not really. And what would biker boy and I do once we get there? Wherever there is…
Kitty rounds the corner into view in the marketplace, where a bunch of pigeons have just scattered. She carries a neatly gift-wrapped box of chocolates in one hand, and a lovely arrangement of wild heather with a festive ribbon in the other.
“What about wine?” I say. “Should we grab a bottle?”
“You don’t bring a bottle of wine to a private dinner party,” says Kitty. “Not in France. It’s gauche.”
“Really? Since when?”
“You don’t know what the menu will be – red, white, what? Champagne is acceptable.”
“But you didn’t bring champagne.”
“I brought chocolates,” she says, lifting the bag. “Is that your dress for tonight?” She points to the drycleaning bag slung over my shoulder.
“Yeah, my good-luck dress.”
Kitty takes my arm, escorting me toward the bakery. When you’re single on New Years Eve there’s nothing like a Little Napoleon to cure your sweet tooth and broken heart. “I was thinking about the five things women need to know about a man…”
“Oh…” I say, always amazed at how her mind ticks.
“One, it’s important a man has a job,” says Kitty. “Two: that he can make you laugh.”
“So far so good.”
“Three. It’s important that a man doesn’t lie. Four, it’s important that he loves you and spoils you.”
“Yes, I know. And number five.,,:
“It’s important that these other four men don’t know about each other.”
“Very funny, but I thought you learned your lesson.”
“Yes, I did,” she says lowering her head, as though to suggest her shame. Actually that’s not why. She’s just staring at the pastries on the lower level of the glass case.
“Sooooo….” I say, hesitating. “Want to hear my big news?”
“You’re not pregnant?”
“No, silly. I sold four articles. Seems my blog is a hit, and I’ve been asked to do three more assignments.”
“That’s great!”
“I can’t believe I did it,” I say. “New year, new life…”
“And no Ben,” says Kitty, finishing my sentence.
“No Ben,” I pout.
“I know,” says Kitty, her eyes playing hockey between an éclair and a custard tarte.
“He’s the one thing that’s missing. We had hot kisses for years, you know? And usually kissing is the first thing to go in a relationship…” My tone drifts off, but Kitty’s eyes find mine. “Ben used to say kisses die off after the newness wears off. But, our newness lasted ten years. It still lasts. I mean, even when we were breaking up, just after my speech, he kissed me that day and I got shooting thrills that went from my tongue through my breasts straight down to…”
“That’s nice…”
“It was nice. Thank you,” I say.
“I get it now. I really do. I’m a changed woman,” says Kitty.
“Really?”
“Yes. Doing hard time will do that to you.”
“We were barely in jail for five hours.”
The woman behind the counter awaits our order. I raise my finger to tell her we need a few more moments to decide.
“Don’t you have hot kisses with Clive?”
“I don’t know. Yes. We did.” She sighs. She’d rather think about the raspberry, crème and chocolate tortes.
“I want to go back to Ben,” I announce. “Ben’s good for me. He really is. I was only seeing the bad in him which was his out-of-control twins, not how great he is. I mean, Ben is the guy who buys me Mother’s Day gifts from my daughters because their own father never did.”
“That’s really sweet, Libby…”
“And he’s a composer which is basically the same as being a writer, like me. He’s so smart about writing in general, which is why I always let him edit my articles. There’s something about the way he grabs his sharpened pencil and starts making corrections on my hard copy. And then midway through, without saying a word to me about how bad my word choices are, I hear the grind of the pencil sharpener and I know there are more edits. He always hands back my pages with a big smile and the words ‘good job.’ And he kisses me on my forehead.”
“You know I think Ben’s a good guy.”
“And Clive’s a good guy, Kitty.” Suddenly I’m not interested in pastries. “Listen, I’ve made a decision. I’m flying back home tomorrow. It’s the first day of the year. I’m going back to Ben, assuming he’ll still have me. Won’t he still have me, Kitty? I mean it’s not like I cheated…”
Kitty lowers her head. “No, you didn’t.” Her tone suggesting that she did.
“I’m not judging you, but you know the whole Helmut thing was ridiculous. Let’s go home together. Both of us. Ben is the love of my life. He’s the man I can be completely honest with even if I robbed a bank.”
“Or a museum?”
Kitty orders the raspberry torte and I decide on the pear and chocolate tart. Taking them to go, we stroll to the apartment, but we can’t hold off that long. Kitty fingers reach into the bag. “Do you think it is better to love or to be loved?” she asks.
“I don’t know about better, but it’s certainly easier to be loved,” I say.
“You have to believe you deserve to be loved, right? Maybe I don’t believe that I deserve to be loved by Clive. Maybe I don’t think I deserve to be loved by any man, and that’s the real problem.”
“What about unconditional love?” I ask. “After my mom died, I completely lost that.”
“I think love can be unconditional like with our mothers. But it’s relationships that are conditional. They have boundaries….’”
We pass a flower stand. “Hey, let me grab our hosts some flowers, too,” I say, reaching for a bouquet of chrysanthemums.
Kitty pulls my arm back. “Are you crazy? Chrysanthemums signify death in France.”
“Then they’re perfect.” I go into a French accent, “I feel like dying. We feel like dying. Our love lives are dead, remember?”
“How about a butternut squash,” says Kitty, grabbing one from the bin at the vegetable stand next door.
“Unlike America we won’t be finding any rock hard peaches this time of year,” I say.
“When they say seasonal they mean seasonal.”
“Okay, you know what? For tonight, I’m going to bake a pumpkin pie. Something old fashioned…And American.”
“You’re a good baker, but it takes balls to bake a pie for a famous French chef.”
My eyes can’t seem to disengage from the vegetable bins. “The thing I’m going to miss most about Paris…”
“This farmer’s market,” says Kitty, squeezing my hand. “I know. Roaming through the stalls, sniffing the stinky cheeses, examining the firmness of an orange…”
“The little dog who roams around everyday looking for handouts over near the fish market where today’s catch was just thrown onto ice slabs,” I say. Upon seeing me, a cute fisherman ignites a big electric smile. “And the smile of the fisherman putting it there.” I wink back.
“I love that there’s no such thing as fat-free in France yet everybody is skinny,” says Kitty. “Whole milk, pure sugar, no artificial sweeteners…”
“And real butter,” I say. “Forget margarine.”
“And…”
*
The gleaming silverware and the roaring fireplace represent holiday perfection. The only thing missing is a lover. The only thing missing is Ben.
But we have our lovely hosts. Mrs. Gagne sits at the head of the table across from Jacques Gagne at the opposite end of the table. To Jacques’s left, and posed on the Oriental carpet is Jacques’s beloved dog, General Paton, looking like he’s stepped off the pages of Town & Country Magazine with his velvet-red ribbon collar. To my right are two empty seats, and to Kitty’s left are two empty seats. One was to be for Bebe and one for Tamara, but our many attempts to reach them have failed. We can only assume they’ve missed their flight and are sitting in a hot tub in Gstaad celebrating on their own.
There’s a board of cheese to my right, a board of cheese to my left, and well, let’s just say the cheese doesn’t stand alone. Our hostess must be sleeping with the guy who runs the local fromagerie. Cheese is everywhere on the table – Cantal, Gouda, Brie. All begging me to take a nibble. Kitty gives me a look that says, “Do not touch the cheese until after the meal,” even though a small piece of Chevre is crying out “Eat me! Eat me, now!”
Our silverware gently clanks and we hear an arising ruckus from outside the dining room window. The screams grow to concert level, and soon the scream of police cars joins them – the klaxons in France sounding like a flock of honking ducks. Mrs. Gagne dabs her lips with her napkin and rises. “Pardon,” she says.
I follow. Kitty right behind me.
The three of us look down at crowds of women huddled together, shrieking, their knees bent as though their legs might give way. They yank at their hair, the look on their faces hungry and desperate. Now there’s a limo slowing down, a door opening, and cameras clicking wildly. Policemen’s arms hold back the tidal wave of females as a figure jumps from the car. Hands thrust forward vying for autographs. “For godsake, you’d think Johnny Depp had just arrived,” I say.
