Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  “I didn’t actually think to ask him the details; I got rather caught up in the excitement of the moment,” she said. “He was really charged.”

  “It’ll be perfect,” Luella chimed in. “I’m sure you’ll be able to firm up the details with him, Henry. Well done you.”

  “I’m going to Paris tomorrow,” Henry said. “Probably talk it through with him when I’m there.”

  “He’s not going to be in Paris. He left for Provence,” India volunteered.

  “Whatever. I’ll call him,” Henry said, pushing back his chair.

  “When are you back from France?” Luella asked, gathering her papers from the desk.

  “Thursday.”

  She stood up. “Have a good trip. I’ll be in touch India,” she said. “Let me know how you get on at the LIFT meeting.”

  “India. A word before you leave?” Henry was standing in the doorway. He closed the door and lowered his voice.

  “In future I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me informed of all developments before sharing them with the client. Okay?”

  “Sure,” India mumbled. “I had planned to tell you first thing this morning, but Luella was here ahead of you.”

  “No big deal. Let’s move on shall we?” he said, running his hands through his hair and looking at her intensely. “New rules, hey? Professional protocol and all that…you understand I am not only talking about Jean-Luc. About Friday…too much drink on the job, water under the bridge?”

  “Of course,” India said. “Absolutely. New rules. Water under the bridge.”

  Henry opened the door for her and India caught her breath as she walked past him. He’s still going to be hard to resist, she thought. Damn his pheromones.

  India’s skirt flew up as the wind from the river whipped around the corner of The Embankment. Holding it down with one hand, she struggled to read directions with the other. The London Institute of Fashion and Technology was inconveniently spread out across the city on several separate campuses. Finding each one this week had presented her with something of a challenge. The Technology and Manufacturing Center had been all the way out at Shoreditch and it had taken her hours to get to the Footwear and Accessories Department meeting that morning in Hackney. Eventually using Google maps, she located an ugly building incongruously squashed between two red brick edifices. In the absence of an elevator, she climbed several flights of stone stairs to the fourth floor and pushed open a steel door.

  Who says the fashion industry is glamorous? she thought, catching her breath and looking for signs for the reception area.

  “You must be India.”

  India spun around. The voice was coming from a girl in her early twenties with spiked purple hair, a selection of predictable piercings and arms festooned with vibrant tattoos. “Victoria asked me to find you.”

  How come ‘creatives’ aren’t more creative? India wondered. They all look so alike. “Yes.” She smiled before following her down a bleak corridor to a room with a single window overlooking the scaffolding of a nearby building site.

  “Come on in. I’m Victoria. Lovely to meet you, India.”

  An exceptionally thin woman stood up from behind a white melamine desk. India noticed that she bore an uncanny resemblance to Tilda Swinton. Her blonde hair had been chopped into a severely masculine cut and she was wearing an asymmetrical sheath dress split wide at the neck. An arm shot out from some mysterious side opening as she went to shake India’s hand.

  “Here, grab a seat next to that console. I’ll be able to talk you through the images more easily from there. Would you like a drink? I can offer you green tea, mint tea or water.”

  “Thanks,” India said, sitting down on the steel chair beside her. “Just water.”

  “So you’re the educational consultant to this project. What does that mean exactly?”

  Good question, India thought. I ask myself that quite a lot. “I’m working as a consultant with Lichtenstein and Cowen to maximize the education outreach.” She hesitated and then added, “They consult me a lot…about all sorts of things.”

  “Fascinating. Well, may I just say that as a vegan, I am personally happier than you can possibly imagine to be part of this project,” Victoria said, sitting down in front of the computer screen and tucking one improbably long leg behind her ankle. “Many of the garments you are going to see here have been designed using organic cotton and recycled fibers. We aim to leave a low carbon footprint. No wool, sheepskin, silk or fur of course, but I think the students have even pushed the boundaries beyond the usual limitations.”

  India nodded and watched as Victoria set up the slideshow on her flat screen and they waited for the images to download.

  “We have stayed away from slogans and propaganda. This project is about education, not alienation. We want people to see that being cruelty free doesn’t mean fashion can’t be fun or sexy.”

  “Are all of the students vegan?”

  “Of course not.” Victoria laughed, looking at her curiously. “When we took the theme of desolation last year we didn’t expect the students to all be depressives.”

  “Of course. How silly of me,” India said. She concentrated hard as Victoria talked her through the montage on the screen and then pulled out specific designs by way of more detailed explanation.

  “Oh! Look, it’s hard to believe those trousers aren’t leather,” India exclaimed, spotting a pair of skinny jeans similar to the ones she had coveted from a Kate Moss advert recently. “Does the fabric breathe like leather or does it smell a bit off?”

  “Vegan ‘leather’ can be made from many materials. These trousers, as you can see from the notes, are made from acrylic and polyamide felt fibers.”

  “Isn’t acrylic made from petrochemicals?” India asked, confused.

  “Well observed, India. Yes, it’s the perpetual dilemma. The environment versus the animal rights issue. The line we have taken with this project is to use only recycled materials. The fabric for these pants comes from man-made fibers that are damaging to the environment, both in the dying as well as in the manufacturing process. In this case, the ‘pleather,’ as it is sometimes known, has been recycled and refashioned to make the garment, thus being both ethically sound, animal-free and still protective of the environment.”

  India shuddered. The idea of wearing recycled plastic trousers was altogether gross. “Tell me more about the shirt,” she said, attempting to switch Victoria’s focus. “It looks exactly like silk.”

  “It’s called ‘Soysilk.’ As the name suggests it’s made from soybean residue and is fully biodegradable.”

  “Who knew?” India murmured. “I thought soy was just tofu and milk.”

  “I have a particular issue around silk garments,” Victoria continued. “The idea of all those mulberry worms being bred and harvested for human vanity breaks my heart. The thought of pupae or caterpillars being tortured knocks me sick. The cocoons are dropped into boiling water, as I’m sure you know. It makes me shudder. It’s criminal. Brutal.”

  “Horrible,” India agreed, adjusting the buttons on her cotton blouse. I wonder if old Joe’s still pickin’ cotton, she thought, remembering the line from a Leonard Cohen song.

  “If they lived as nature intended,” Victoria continued, “the worms would turn into moths and chew their way out of their cocoons to escape.”

  And then go on to chew great big holes in my cashmere sweaters in karmic revenge, India thought.

  Victoria, still glassy-eyed with emotion, took India through the remainder of the presentation, finally hitting the ‘off’ button and turning to her with a deep sigh. “So what do you think of our attempts to change the world through fashion?”

  “I’ve learned so much. The collection is wonderful and you and the students are to be congratulated. As an ex-teacher, I know only too well how hard you must have worked to produce this.”

  “Thank you.” Victoria smiled. “I very much appreciate you say
ing that, although this is a labor of love as I’m sure it is for you. Let me give you the stills, and I understand you’re coming to our main campus to meet the students next week.”

  “That’s right. We have some exciting news to share with them, but I can’t tell you right now. Mr. Cowan wants to tell them himself. He’ll be coming with me next Tuesday.”

  “How exciting. I look forward to it.”

  Victoria stood up and strode over to her desk. India noticed her ‘pleather’ Birkenstocks. Every bit as ugly as the regular kind, she thought.

  “Here’s the schedule. Sorry you had to wait for it. I’ll call Tara now and she’ll show you out. This place is a maze. I don’t want you to get lost.”

  17

  Luella threw down a tea towel on the kitchen worktop and checked her hair in the hall mirror before going to open her front door. Peter was framed in the archway wearing his weekend uniform of beige khakis and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He handed her the mail. She took the envelopes from him and walked briskly down the hallway into the kitchen.

  “It’s such a lovely day I thought we’d eat in the garden,” she said, gesturing to the wrought iron circular table on the patio set out with two places.

  “Good idea,” he said as he stepped outside onto the verandah. “The wisteria’s doing well.”

  “Kind of,” Luella answered. “It still hasn’t flowered even after all this time. It must be at least ten years old, don’t you think?”

  She handed him a serving dish piled with olives, heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella. “Can you manage the arugula too?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking the salad bowl from her. “We planted it the year we went to Cyprus. I remember because that’s when we bought the olive trees.”

  “They didn’t survive long did they? Too much rain here I suppose,” she shouted opening the fridge. “Would you like a glass of Prosecco?”

  “Yes. Please,” he said, stepping back indoors and taking the bottle from her. “Anything else to carry out?”

  “Over there,” she said, pulling warm ciabatta from the Aga. “Grab the olive oil and the balsamic and we’re good to go.”

  Taking off her oven gloves, Luella untied her apron and joined him under the shade of a beech tree as he pried open the cork.

  “Here,” she said, lifting two long-stemmed glasses from the table and holding them toward the bottle.

  “Cin Cin,” he said, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” she said without raising hers. “Let’s eat. You look like you’ve not had a meal in months.”

  “This is so civilized.” Peter sighed, pulling out the ornate garden chair and shaking out a floral napkin. He speared a tomato and layered a slice of cheese curd onto the warm crusty bread. “I miss you, Lu. I miss this.”

  Luella didn’t respond. She sat down looking into the middle distance, avoiding eye contact with him.

  “How’s the new book coming on?” he asked through a mouthful of salad.

  “Not so well. I’m collecting content right now,” she said pouring iced lemon water from a jug into their tumblers. “Planning the fashion show and preparing for the media promotion is taking up so much of my time it’s impossible to get into a writing rhythm.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Lu. I think Faux Fashion is your best book yet.”

  “I’ve given you a good acknowledgement for all the research you helped me with,” she said. “I felt so close to you when I was writing this book. You were such a big part of the process…it’s hard to imagine that when I was running all that by you and you were taking such an interest, you were…”

  Peter refilled their glasses. “I know. I know,” he murmured. “Tell me what I can do to make things any better.”

  Luella sighed heavily, put down her silverware and pushed her plate away. She shook out a cigarette and tapped it on the table, twisting it between her finger and thumb.

  “I’ve been to see a counselor,” she said. “I’ve been going every week. It’s helping. It’s why I’m able to sit here with you, like this.”

  “A counselor? I thought you didn’t want that.”

  “Well, turns out I do. Having you here today, meeting you yesterday was all part of how I’m supposed to, and I quote, ‘begin to understand what’s happened and not blame you or blame myself.’ Apparently and somewhat obviously, if we aren’t communicating I won’t get answers to all my questions and I have SO many questions.”

  Peter looked at her intensely. “Do you want me to come to the sessions? I told you ages ago that I would if you’d like me to.”

  “No,” she said, more forcefully than she intended. “At least not yet. Maybe not at all.” She struck at the side of a card of matchsticks and lit her cigarette. “Peter, I’m not going to pretend that sitting here like this and being all civilized and grown up isn’t difficult.” She blew the smoke away from him over her shoulder and flicked the ash into the grass. “It’s excruciating if you want to know.”

  “So what can I say or do now?”

  “I have questions. You owe it to me to answer them truthfully.”

  “Okay. Absolutely. I promise.”

  “Are you still seeing this man?”

  Peter pushed away his plate. “Yes,” he said.

  “When did you meet him?”

  “Five years ago, when Société Générale was extending its asset management and mutual funds business. You remember I stayed in Paris for a month.”

  “And then went back there virtually every week for a while,” Luella said. “Yes. I remember. Ironically, I was writing Synchronized Secrets at the time.”

  “Yes. That wasn’t lost on me. Life imitating art as they say.”

  “I was chasing a deadline. I was grateful to have the time to myself to work while you were away.”

  “That’s when it started,” he said quietly.

  “Peter, how long would you have gone on deceiving me if I hadn’t found the letters?”

  “Lu, I’d have told you years ago if I hadn’t been so torn. I’ve been in denial. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to break it off with him. Nobody wants to be different. I didn’t. I really don’t, but now that you know, it has forced me to take a hard look at myself and accept that this is what, I mean, who I am.”

  He looked at her, his face creased with pain. “There’s more I have to tell you,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s about my job.”

  “Peter, you aren’t telling me you’d lose your job for coming out as gay. That’s ridiculous, surely?”

  “No. Not for being gay, but there could be insider-trading issues here if I do – if they find out about us. He’s wealthy. He’s well known. He invested strongly in shares that, well…look, it could be construed that he had access to information that he might only have known about through me if they find out we are…” he hesitated, “…having an affair. He’s being investigated.”

  Luella’s mouth dropped open. She leapt up and looked at him in horror. “What the flying fuck? Are you telling me that not only do I have to come to terms with your homosexuality and infidelity now I also have to get my head around the fact that you’re a crook? What the fuck, Peter? Do I even know you at all?”

  Throwing down her cigarette and squashing it hard into the gravel path with her foot, she turned and faced him, her voice exploding with rage. “You’re involved in some kind of Martha Stewart insider-trading thing? You could go to fucking jail. We have joint accounts. We have investments. Are they at risk? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, Luella,” Peter said quietly. “I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just how it might look. I will be investigated no doubt, but they won’t find anything. What they will find out is that we have had an affair and I didn’t want you finding that out before I explained everything, and I haven’t had the courage to tell you.”

  Luella sat down and lit anothe
r cigarette. She felt spent. Her head throbbed and her throat felt so raw she could barely swallow. Leaning back, she put her hand on her chest to stop the palpitations.

  “Peter, I can’t think straight. Please leave now. Please. I’ll call you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m making this harder than it needs to be. Maybe I’ll put it in writing. That way we can talk more calmly.”

  Luella watched him walk away. Pushing away the remains of her half-eaten lunch plate she remembered how badly Peter had always responded to confrontation, how frustrated she had always been by his inability to show emotion. In the early days of their marriage whenever they would disagree, she would fly into a rage, becoming more articulate the angrier she became and whipping things up into a more furious row. Peter would simmer silently, retreat into his personal space and freeze her out for hours, sometimes days.

  Now as she began to calm down, she could see how futile and extreme her response had been. As the red mists of anger lifted, she felt saddened. She had done everything within her power to behave with civility, with dignity and maturity. She had been to see a counselor every week for months, called help-lines, talked endlessly to Susie, scoured books and followed blogs for hours on end, reading heart-wrenching stories of other women who had discovered their husbands were gay.

  Taking deep drags of her cigarette, Luella understood how badly the months of agony, self-reproach and shock had affected her. Something had to give. After all, she had been functioning for all intents and purposes as if nothing had happened, going to meetings, writing, preparing guest blogs and traveling, while her life was crumbling around her. She had been feeling the intense pain of grieving. It was as if she had been numb up to this point. Now she felt the searing pain of abandonment.

  Luella looked up. Peter was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he said.

  “I thought you’d left.” She sighed, getting to her feet and lifting a couple of their lunch plates. “Peter, I’m exhausted. I thought I made it abundantly clear I need some space right now.”