“I know. It's a long story.” She was not going to explain to him, with subtitles, that she had been conceived on her parents' honeymoon in Paris. “Do you have all your bags?” she asked him pleasantly, still trying to figure out who was who. But if he was Belmont, the other two were obviously his assistants, although one of them looked old enough to be his father.
“We have everything,” he said in heavily accented but coherent English. “We have very little bag, only cameras,” he explained and pointed, and she nodded. There was something vastly charming about him. She wasn't sure if it was the accent or the hair or the earring, or maybe the smile. She kept wanting to laugh every time she looked at him. And the red-headed boy looked like a baby, and was in fact Jean-Pierre's nineteen-year-old cousin. Belmont himself was thirty-two, Paris discovered later, but looked nowhere near it. His whole demeanor and style was that of someone infinitely younger. He was the personification of charming, outrageous youth and totally Parisian.
She told him she would be back in a minute with the car, and left the three of them with a porter, and five minutes later she was back, and the two assistants and the photographer himself proceeded to pack her station wagon with such speed and precision that it looked like some kind of puzzle. And moments later he was in the passenger seat, the two others were behind them, and they were on their way to the city.
“We go to the hotel or to see the bride girl now?” he asked clearly.
“I think they're expecting you a little later. I thought you'd like to go to the hotel first, rest, eat, shower, and get ready.” She said it carefully and clearly as he nodded, and seemed very interested in his surroundings. He spoke to her again a few minutes later.
“What do you do? You are secretary… assistant… to the bride mother?”
“No, I plan the wedding. Bixby Mason. Flowers, music, decoration. We hire all the people to do the wedding.” He nodded, having understood what her function was in the scheme of things. He was quick and alert, and extremely lively. And as he looked out the window, he lit a Gauloise, papier mais, with bright yellow paper made from corn, and a pungent smell like no other filled her station wagon.
“Ees okay?” he asked politely after it was lit, remembering that Americans weren't nearly as amenable to smoking, but Paris nodded.
“It's okay. I used to smoke a long time ago. It smells nice.”
“Merci,” he said perfunctorily, and then chatted with the others. Although she spoke a little French, she had no idea what they were saying. They spoke far too quickly. And then he turned to her again. “Ees a good wedding? Beautiful dress?… Good?”
“Very good,” she reassured him. “Beautiful girl, beautiful dress. Handsome groom. Beautiful party. It is at the Legion of Honor Museum. Seven hundred people.” The Delacroix family controlled an enormous French textile industry and had moved to San Francisco during the Socialist regime, and then stayed there, to protect their fortune from French taxes. But they still spent as much time in France as they could get away with.
“Big money, yes?” he inquired, and Paris smiled and nodded.
“Very big money.” She didn't tell him, but they were spending two and a half million dollars on the wedding. More than respectable, to say the least.
She drove him to the hotel without further ceremony, and arranged at the hotel desk for someone to pick up their van and deliver it to them. All they had to do was show their driver's licenses and sign the papers. She handed Jean-Pierre Belmont a map of the city, and showed him on the map where they had to be at six o'clock.
“Will you be okay?” she asked, as he blew a cloud of smoke in her face inadvertently, and someone at the desk asked him to put it out. He found an ashtray full of sand a few steps away, and came back to Paris at the desk. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, and handed him her card. He was going to be doing portraits of the family and the bride.
He relayed everything to the others then, waved at her, and they disappeared into the elevator to find their rooms, as Paris went back outside to her car. Being around Jean-Pierre was like being in a whirlwind, with arms waving everywhere, hands gesticulating, clouds of smoke, and snatches of conversation with the others that she didn't understand. There were lots of exclamations, facial expressions, and through it all he never seemed to stop moving with his big brown eyes and spiky hair. He looked like one of Meg's friends, except everything about him was so French. And at the same time, although he looked young, he seemed very much in command. She could still smell his corn-wrapped cigarettes when she got back in her car and drove back to the office, to pick up her messages and a last file.
Bix was still there, and he looked up when she came in. “Everything go okay?” She nodded, glancing at her messages. Everything was on track for that night.
“Fine,” she reported, and then told him about Jean-Pierre Belmont. “He looks about twelve. Well, not quite, but close.”
“I figured he'd be older than that,” Bix said, looking surprised, and she nodded.
“So did I. He's very French. Too bad Meg has a boyfriend, he'd be fun for her.” But she wasn't sorry really that Meg had Richard. He was so wonderful to her. They'd been dating for almost three months, and Meg was ecstatically happy.
Bix and Paris were both at the Delacroix house that night, overseeing a family dinner for thirty people, as people started arriving from France. And Paris stood in a back corner to watch the portraits being done. Ariane Delacroix looked exquisite when she posed in her wedding dress, which no one else saw. The bride looked like a tiny fairy princess, and laughed when she saw Jean-Pierre smile his outrageously contagious smile. When he caught sight of Paris, he winked at her, and then went back to work, as his assistants alternated cameras, and changed film for him. He took several family portraits. And when the bride went upstairs to change into a dinner dress, to pose for a photograph with her mother, he stopped for a minute to talk to her.
“Would you like a photograph?” he asked Paris formally, since no one else was around, and she shook her head quickly. It would have been terribly unprofessional, and she would never have done that.
“No, no, thanks.” She smiled.
“Beautiful eyes,” he said, pointing to her green eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, and as he looked at her, she could almost feel an electric current run through her. It was exactly the opposite of what she had felt, or hadn't felt, for Malcolm Ford. She couldn't even talk to this man, and he looked about half her age, but everything about him was masculine and electric, and he had a visceral effect on her. She could never have explained it, nor wanted to. There was nothing gentle or subtle or cautious about him. Everything about him was bright and vibrant and bold, from his brilliant eyes to his spiky hair, to the diamond in his ear. And when the bride and her mother came back, he went back to work again and Paris disappeared. But she felt almost shaken as she left the room, as though she had touched something and gotten a severe electric shock.
“You okay?” Bix asked as she walked by. He thought she had an odd look on her face.
“Yes, I am,” she said, and they met again once the family and guests had gone into the dining room, and Jean-Pierre and his crew were leaving too. He smiled at her, and she had never had such a flirtatious look from any man. And certainly not one her own age.
“Pretty hot,” Bix commented, which was the perfect word for him. “In my youth, I'd have gone berserk over him,” he said, and laughed, as Paris did the same.
“In my old age, so would I,” Paris said. She was teasing, but nonetheless it would have been impossible not to feel the energy that emanated from the young photographer from Paris.
And for the next few days, their paths crossed constantly. He was always at work, crouching at people's knees, or hanging from somewhere, nearly falling off a staircase, or inching toward a face. He was in constant motion, yet every time Paris was in the vicinity, he made eye contact with her. And as the bride left the wedding, he finally seemed to unwind for an i
nstant, and then walked over to where Paris was standing.
“Very good!” he said. “Very, very good marriage! Beautiful photographs … beautiful decor … et les fleurs !” The flower arrangements Bix had designed were beyond belief. They were all roses and lily of the valley, and exquisite tiny flowers Paris had never even seen before. They had been flown in from Africa and France and Ecuador, at outrageous expense. But the Palace of the Legion of Honor had never looked more beautiful. The lighting Bix had organized was spectacular and worthy of Versailles. And as she and Jean-Pierre stood there under a starry sky at two in the morning, she wasn't even tired. “We go for a drink?” he asked, and she was about to say no and then nodded. Why not? He was leaving in a few days anyway. She knew he was going to stick around to take some shots in San Francisco, although she also knew that his assistants were leaving the next day. “I go in your car?” he proposed, and she told him she'd meet him out front in ten minutes.
She told Bix she was going, and he was about to leave too. All the members of the family had left, and there were only a few stragglers left. Neither he nor Paris needed to stay.
“It was terrific, wasn't it? We did a hell of a job.” Bix beamed, tired but pleased.
“No, you did. All I am is the shepherd, and the organizer of details. You're the genius behind all this, Bix.” He kissed her and thanked her, and then she left to retrieve her car from the valet, and a moment later she and Jean-Pierre were in it, speeding off into the night. There was nowhere to go at that hour, except an all-night diner she knew, but he was enchanted when he saw it, and immediately started taking photographs at weird angles, including a quick roll of her. And then he settled back in the booth and ordered pancakes and scrambled eggs. He hadn't had time to eat all night.
“I love America,” he said with a jubilant look, and he looked more than ever like an elf who had fallen from another planet. He was medium height, and taller than Paris, but he was extremely wiry and lithe. Almost like a young boy. “You are married?” he asked her, although she had a distinct impression that he wouldn't have cared if she were.
“No. Divorced.” She smiled at him.
“You are happy or sad?”
“About being divorced?” she inquired, and he nodded. And she thought about it. “Both. Very sad at first. Very, very sad. Now I'm happier.”
“You have a little friend?” She looked puzzled, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a passionate hug and looked like he was embracing someone, and she laughed. “Un petit ami,” he said in French this time, and she understood.
“A boyfriend! No. No boyfriend.” It seemed a funny question for him to be asking, and she pointed a finger at him to ask the same question. Not that it mattered. She was nearly twice his age.
“My little friend … my girlfriend … she go away… I am very, very sad.” He made a tragic face and marked tears down his face with his fingers. “Now I am verrrrry happy. She was very much trouble.” He managed to get his messages across, and Paris laughed. “You have children?” She loved his accent and his mannerisms, and he was full of life as he conversed with her. Language didn't really seem to be a problem.
“I have two children. A son and a daughter. Maybe older than you. How old are you?” she asked, and he laughed. People never guessed his age correctly, and he found it funny.
“Thirty-two,” he said, and she looked surprised.
“You look younger.”
“And you? Thirty-five?”
“Merci, ” she said, laughing at him too. “Fortyseven.”
He nodded with a very Gallic face. “Bravo. You look very young.” She loved his accent and the way his eyes danced. “You are of California?”
“New York. Then Connecticut. Now here for nine months, because of the divorce. My children are here,” she explained.
“ 'Ow hold?” He had trouble with h 's, but she knew what he meant. How old?
“My daughter is twenty-four, and my son is nineteen. He's in college, and she lives in Los Angeles and works for a movie studio.”
“Very good. Actrice? ”
“No. Production.” He nodded, and they continued to chat while he ate his pancakes and eggs, and she drank tea and had an English muffin. She wasn't hungry, but she was enjoying him very much. “How long will you be here?” She was curious. It would be fun seeing him again, although it seemed a little silly. Even though he was older than he looked, he was still very young. Too young for her, no matter how attractive he was.
“I don't know,” he said in his rolling accent. “Three days. Four. Maybe I go to Los Angeles, and do some work. I have a visa for six months. Maybe I stay a month. I don't know. I want to see Lac Tahoe, Carmel. Los Angeles. Santa Barbara. En voiture. ” He made the gesture of a steering wheel. He wanted to drive around. “Maybe photo for Vogue in New York. I am very tired. Work very much. Maintenant peut-être des vacances. On verra. ” He lapsed into French, and this time she understood because he spoke slowly. He said he might take a vacation, he would see. When he talked to the others, he spoke so quickly, she didn't get it, but when he spoke to her, it was much easier.
They left the diner well after three o'clock. She dropped him at his hotel, and he kissed her on both cheeks before he left, and then she drove home, peeled off her clothes, and fell into bed. And she lay staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, thinking about Jean-Pierre. It was crazy, but she was incredibly attracted to him. He was a boy, and very talented, but he was so full of life and charm. If she thought she could get away with it, she would have loved to run away with him, just for a day or two. But she knew that was impossible, and would have been very foolish, but even at forty-seven, sometimes it was nice to dream.
Chapter 24
Paris's cell phone rang the next morning, and she rolled over in bed and grabbed it, and was surprised to find it was Jean-Pierre. He said, “Bonjour,” and she knew instantly who it was.
“How are you?” she asked with a smile on her face.
“Very good. Et toi? And you?”
“Tired,” she admitted as she stretched.
“I wake you up? I am very sorry. What do you do today?”
“Je ne sais pas, ” she said carefully. “I don't know.” It was a lazy Sunday and she had no plans, other than to recover from the wedding.
“I see Sausalito. You will like to come?” She smiled as he said it. Crazy as it was, she liked the idea. There was something so joyful and full of life about him. He was playful and high-spirited and full of fun. And she liked being with him. It was the antithesis of the time she had spent with Jim Thompson, who was such heavy furniture and so much work. And even Chandler, who was so sophisticated and so smooth. There was no artifice to this boy, which was the only way she could think of him. He was totally alive, and unfailingly direct, even with his broken English. Something told her that whatever you did with him, or said, you would know where you stood. “We go to Sausalito together?” he asked, and she thought about taking him to Tiburon to lunch at Sam's. It was on the water, and there was an open deck. She had a feeling he would like that very much. She looked at her watch. It was just after eleven.
“I'll pick you up at noon.”
“Noon? Where is that?” He sounded confused.
“Twelve o'clock,” she clarified, and he laughed.
“Ah bon, midi. D'accord.”
“D'accord?” It was her turn not to understand.
“D'accord is ‘okay.’ ” She liked the way he said “okay.” She liked everything about him, which was the worst of it. She showered and put on a red sweater and jeans, and grabbed her pea coat out of her closet. She knew that with him, she didn't have to get dressed up. And she told herself they were doing just a little harmless tourism. It didn't hurt anything. They could have fun seeing the sights together, and he'd be gone in a few days.
He hopped in her car when she picked him up, and he had a camera in his pocket. He was wearing jeans, a black sweater, and a black leather jacket, and he looked like a rock s
tar with the diamond earring and the spiky hair. She tried to say as much to him, and he laughed.
“I cannot sing,” he said, pretending to strangle himself, and they headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. He hung out the window and took photographs of the city as they went across. It was a crystal-clear day, and when they got to Tiburon, he was delighted with Sam's. He managed to explain to her, using both languages, that he had been taking pictures since he was a little boy. His parents had died, and he was raised by an older sister whom he loved very much. He had been married at twenty-one, and he had a son ten years old, but the boy lived with his mother, and Jean-Pierre almost never saw him because he and the child's mother were on bad terms.
“That's very sad,” Paris said. He showed her a photograph of an adorable child, who looked undeniably French. “Where do they live?”
“In Bordeaux. I don't like at all. Good wine, but very small.”
They managed very decently to talk about her children, and the divorce, the work she did with Bix, and the fact that Peter had left her for another woman. He told her that he wanted to take a lot of photographs in the States, and he liked San Francisco a lot.
After that they went to Sausalito, and they walked around, and then he asked her if Sonoma was very far away.
“Not very,” she said, looking at him. “Do you want to go?” They had no plans, and it would take less than an hour to get there.
“Maintenant? Now?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” He looked pleased.
They drove past the vineyards, and roamed around, and then went on to the Napa Valley, and were there by dinnertime, and they stopped at a little bistro for dinner where everyone spoke French, and Jean-Pierre was thrilled. He and the waiter had a long conversation, and they headed back to the city around nine o'clock. They were back in San Francisco at ten-thirty, and had had a terrific day.
Dating Game Page 26
