by Jess Bentley
I am just about to go in and rearrange some dining room chairs again for the fifteenth time when I see a lady with hair the color of a copper drum. It shines so brilliantly that even from way up here, I am momentarily entranced.
A redhead? I wonder if I could look that fabulous as a redhead. And maybe so many people wouldn't recognize me anymore.
It doesn't take long before I'm sitting in the bathroom with the box of hair dye in my hand, trying to find the English language directions on this huge sheet of paper that seems to fold out for yards and yards.
I mix up the batch and squirt the chemicals all over my head, knotting it on top with a duckbill clip and then carefully walking around the flat for thirty minutes without getting any on R’s prized stuff. I can just imagine what he would say if he came home and found a big coppery splotch in the middle of his big, white throw rug. He'd be incensed. He’d probably punish me, I think, and squirm a little.
After it's all washed out, dried, and falling in a fringe in front of my face, I just stare at it for a while. Why didn't I ever do this before? I look amazing as a redhead. It curls over one eye like Jessica Rabbit, bouncing under my chin in a cute little curl. A couple swipes of auburn-tinted eyebrow pencil and I look brand-new. Reborn.
And reborn with a little bit of sass, I comment silently. I give myself a couple of hip-pops in the long mirror and shake out my hair, pantomiming a coquettish, come-hither laugh. I can't wait for R to get a load of this.
I hear a knock at the door and wonder if he's forgotten his key, practically skipping to open it for him,
“Oh, um, —”
It's not him. I rock back in confusion. “Mr. Maillot?”
The portly, sneering little man we met at the Louvre looks me up and down slowly as he stands in the doorway. I can see his fingers moving inside his trouser pockets.
“How did you get up here? Didn’t the doorman…”
He waves his hands, cutting me off. “Are you alone?” he interrupts impertinently.
I cross my arms in front of me, barring his entry into the flat. He is apparently unimpressed, just shoves past me and looks around like he owns the place, like he belongs here. He cranes his neck to peer into the kitchen, and then into the bedroom.
“Monsieur King is not here?”
“He will be home any minute!” I lie. I'm not entirely sure how I can have this man ejected from my flat. 911? Is that it even a thing here?
He stops in the middle of the dining room, then pulls out a chair and drops his wide bottom into it. His legs fall open at the knee, leaving his crotch thrust in my direction as though daring me to look at it. I swallow my disgust and avert my eyes.
“Oh, Mr. King. Always getting the best of things, isn't he?”
“Yes, well, he'll be home shortly. He's bringing me lunch,” I inform him. I mentally catalog the heavy objects in the room that I might be able to use to bash his head in, given the chance. I'm not especially strong, but I'm not especially forgiving either. One false move…
“You know, it's funny,” he begins, “I expected you to recognize me too. Isn't that droll? I mean, of course you wouldn't… But for a moment, was a little offended you didn't!”
He chuckles as though I am supposed to know what he's talking about. I get myself a glass of water from the kitchen and sip at it, watching him over the top rim. I don't offer him anything.
“Yes, well,” he begins again, his tone clipped and businesslike. “I'm here to make you an offer, as I'm sure you know.”
He is sure I know? I wonder. What am I missing?
“I will pay you double,” he enunciates, nodding proudly at the end as though he said something very impressive.
I can't help it; I begin to get curious. I say, “Double?”
He waves his fingers in the air in front of his wet-looking eyes. “I will pay you double whatever he's paying you.”
My mouth drops open. “He's not —”
“— fine, triple!”
“I think you should be leaving, Mr. Maillot,” I inform him. I set my water glass down on the countertop and hold my hand back in the direction he came. “Now.”
“Oh come now,” he rolls his eyes. “You can't be standing on propriety, can you? I mean, it is preposterous! You don't have to sell your loyalty, ma cheri. Loyalty should cost extra.”
My hands tremble with rage and I ball them into fists.
“Or, can it be that you're enjoying this? His little… obsession? Come now, Jordan. A woman in your position shouldn't be so sentimental.”
“I will call the police!”
“Though I can see why he would be so fond of you, ma cheri,” Maillot continues, his eyes going distant as though remembering something quite fondly. “The first time that I saw you, I was astounded. It seemed so natural, it was like coming upon a nymph in the wood, you know? Like a fairytale!”
“Leave!”
“And you seemed so honest! Like you really didn't know! I really had no idea that men all over the world were convincing themselves that you were their precious little secret, their little ingenue.”
I snatch my purse, zipping it open and searching for my cell phone, rummaging around to the bottom. Where the hell is it?
"But King, he is a man of action, isn't he? He turned his obsession into reality. I can respect that.”
I gape at him, not understanding. His jowls vibrate as he nods, settling back into place like a Jell-O mold that's been shaken vigorously.
“What are you talking about? King?”
The foyer door opens again and R strides through, his eyes flashing, the doorman standing apologetically behind him.
R's on a mission and he barrels past me toward the dining room. Maillot rises from his chair so quickly it falls over behind him and he stumbles to the side, staggering toward the back of the table to keep it between him and King.
“Maillot!” he bellows. “This is outrageous!”
Maillot’s hands go up.
“Fine! Fine!” he cries out, his voice suddenly girlish and afraid. “But you didn't think she would just be yours alone, did you? She belongs to everyone. I have every right to ask!”
R lunges for him, but Maillot bolts for the front door, running as fast as his stubby legs will take him out of the flat. The doorman closes the door firmly behind him.
Striding toward me, R’s eyes flicker over me. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you in any way? I'll kill him!”
I can barely breathe. The flat seems to be collapsing on top of me.
“You knew!? All this time…”
He winces, squinting his eyes closed. “Jordan, let me explain something —”
“I don't want to hear a word!” I shudder, somehow forming the words around breath that seems too insubstantial to make words. I'm suffocating. I'm drowning.
“All this time… you knew? You never told me. You never said a word.”
He stares at me for a long time and I can finally understand now why he was so willing to protect me. Why he never even questioned my motives, my sincerity. Because he knew.
He was one of them.
“I'm leaving,” I announce, shaking my red hair out of my eyes and pushing it behind my ear with my fingers. “And I never want to see you again.”
I fling everything I can carry into one large suitcase and leave with it, rolling it behind me. Everything else that R had claimed he was buying for us, that he was furnishing to decorate our new life together, I leave behind.
Using the documentation he'd given me, I find a new flat in the Marais. It isn't as charming or as historical as the one I shared with R, but it is mine. Back to my original Paris with the drug dealers and the homeless, dragging their dogs behind them.
I'd struggled over the decision to spend some of Kelsey's money doing it, but isn't it really my money? Didn’t I earn it, albeit unknowingly? Isn’t it something that had been stolen from me that now I am reinvesting in my own life? At least that's what I am telling myself.
An
d I am starting again. I keep my hair red and cut it short into a cute pixie that sweeps the top of my eyebrows. I get glasses even though I don't need glasses. I buy a lot of hats.
A new wardrobe, a new address, and a new attitude... I tell myself that this time it will be for real.
Chapter 18
Raleigh
I gave her a week to come back to me. But she didn't.
She changed her cell phone number, at least I knew that much. I asked the doorman to ring the old number and it had already been given to a new couple that spoke only Polish.
It was as though she'd disappeared completely. I promised myself not to hire another investigator, but the skin on that promise was wearing extremely thin. What if she was hurt? What if she had already run out of money?
And then one day on the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, I saw her. Just the curve of the back of her shoulder, but I knew was her. How many hours had I spent looking at that shoulder while she was asleep? While she was flung over her childhood bed, arms and legs spread out, completely unaware of my intrusion?
It couldn't have been anyone else. I knew it had to be her.
But I wanted to respect her wishes, and so I merely followed her at a respectful distance until I saw her disappear into a doorway on the Rue de Bretagne, where she must live.
She is a creature of habit, as I well know. She has little rituals that I've watched countless times. She talks to herself. She likes to confront the mirror, casting her weight on one hip and pointing her chin in the air imperiously as though she is daring her reflection to talk back. She is never really quite that sassy in real life, but it is nice to know it is in there somewhere.
I sip at the small paper cup as I sit on a bench outside her apartment, waiting for her to go to the café for her breakfast and morning coffee.
As soon as I see her emerge from the darkened doorway, I rise from my bench, holding the newspaper under my arm as I stride toward the other end of the block.
This should take about two and half minutes. I flip the coffee cup lid off with my thumb into a garbage can as I navigate the sidewalk. Near the end, I hold out the newspaper and pretend to read it as I'm walking, as one does. Reading and walking, totally normal, until…
“Oh no!”
I stop up short, the coffee sloshes over the edge of the cup and splashes across her toes in a pair of fetching leather sandals.
“Pardonnez moi! I'm so—Jordan?”
She just stands, stepping slightly from foot to foot, probably feeling the coffee squishing under the balls of her feet. Just the thought of that sensitive skin makes my gut clench with longing.
Maybe this was a mistake!
Too late now, I tell myself. It's too late. Just do it.
“I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there!” I mutter, completely embarrassed. Now that my charade has been executed, I can see how completely pathetic it is. She probably sees right through me.
“Let me buy you new ones. Oh… those are really nice shoes.”
“No it's all right,” she finally says, and I watch her stained toes flexing in her sandals.
“Oh, you must let me,” I insist. “I can have something delivered to you today. Truly, I am so sorry.”
She looks up at me, her eyes steelier than I remember. But there's that pink flush in her cheeks, the stubborn set of her jaw. She still in there, my little girl.
“I suppose you better come upstairs then,” she mutters, turning on her heel and stalking off.
I don't know what to say, so I simply follow her. She gathers her skirt around her knees as she stomps up the narrow stairway way to a second floor flat and flings open the door. I follow her tentatively.
As soon as I clear the doorway, she flings herself at me. Her hands push up into my hair, dragging me on top of her, pulling me down onto the bare wooden floor. Her leg wraps around me, as hungry as her mouth.
Instinct takes over and I snap open my trousers, freeing my ready, throbbing cock just as she slides black lace panties over her ankles and flings them to the side. Her knees spread open in a silent invitation. I roll on top of her, mounting her with my hand under the small of her back to lift her hips.
She arches back, exposing her throat to me and I dive for it, burying my nose against her and inhaling deeply as I plunge into her warm sheath. Her ankles lock behind my hips, dragging me deeper inside her.
Like a thousand times before, we are locked together, grinding, thrusting, finding each other in the dark space between our souls. I know exactly what she needs from me and I give it to her, all of it. I lunge into her, impaling her until our bodies explode simultaneously.
We are both covered with sweat as I finally fall, withdrawing breathlessly and trying to pull her into my arms.
“Oh, Jordan, I missed you so much. That was—”
“That was sex, R,” she says simply. She sits up, smoothing her skirt back over her knees and letting her eyes wander over me dispassionately. “Good sex, I'll be the first to admit,” she continues coldly. “But just sex.”
“I think you know it's more than just sex,” I retort.
She shrugs one shoulder, looking away.
“I suppose you did that on purpose? Bumped into me on purpose? That was some kind of plan?”
I don't even want to lie it to her anymore, so I just tell the truth. “Yes. I had to see you.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out over a long, long time.
I look around the room, trying to get my bearings. I don't recognize anything here, in fact, I'm kind of surprised these are the furnishings she chose. It's completely different than the pieces in our flat. More modern, more austere, with natural fibers and a more pragmatic aesthetic that I would've ascribed to her.
“Jordan, you must know I have feelings for you.”
Her head bobs up and down a few times. “I think that my feelings for you are purely physical, R,” she sighs. “If that's all right with you, I mean. Otherwise, we probably shouldn't see each other again.”
“You are giving me a choice?”
Her lips purse, and I can see how she's different. Not as soft. Not as eager. Not as innocent.
“Well,” she says finally, her tone full of impatience. She's dismissing me. She expects me to leave now. “I suppose you can let me know.”
I want to come up with some kind snappy retort, but everything in my repertoire sounds thin and insincere. Instead I just stand, redress myself and head for the door. I hear it close behind me and feel like I've lost. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have lost everything.
Chapter 19
Jordan
One of the really nice things about my neighborhood is that there is a small school, an École, they call it, just around the corner. They do the usual adult education classes like English and French for foreigners. I'd like to learn French but every time I try I get this sneering attitude and I've decided it's just better to go ahead and be an American, speaking English. At least that way they'll be snotty to me in French and I won't necessarily even understand what they're saying.
The school also has classes about other things, and after a little while I decided it would be worth looking into. Maybe something would spark my interest, give me some idea of the direction for my life. While living in France was expensive, I did have quite a lot of money left. I knew it wouldn't last forever, but I wasn't feeling any great urgency to start working at the local Burger King or anything.
Art appreciation classes have been going really well. The instructor shows us slides, talking in this bored, above-it-all sort of voice as she describes each painting in her impenetrable accent. According to her, French painting is the best. Apparently those Italians and Dutch are a bunch of has-beens who shall not be named.
After class, Daniel finally gets up the courage to talk to me as we’re leaving. He's tall and good-looking, with a youthful shock of hair that just covers his coffee-brown eyes. I’ve seen him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he al
ways dashes off without saying anything at all.
He happens to be in the doorway at the same time that I'm attempting to leave, slinging my satchel strap over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine shyly from under that hair and he purses his lips slightly. I find that expression particularly charming, as though he is just lightly kissing the air.
He speaks to me in a sexy, boyish accent. “You speak French?”
“Not a bit,” I tell him proudly.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles at me and I suddenly realize he's the first person I have made eye contact with in weeks. It's nice, seeing someone. Really looking at them. He asked me if I will have dinner with him and I tell him no, but I agree to a cocktail at dinner time.
I am being coy, how about that? I like the feeling of being in control. I like the subtle twitch of disappointment when I say no at first, and he has to come up with an alternate plan. It makes me feel powerful.
I gave him the address of the little restaurant down the block from my house. Not too close so he can't stalk me or anything, but not so far that I need to take a taxi. I could probably have three or four glasses of wine and still manage to stumble home.
He's already there when I arrive, camped out at a small, tablecloth-covered table at the corner of the gated enclosure. His smile is wide and brilliant when he sees me, his cheeks lined with long dimples that bracket his perfect white teeth.
This is fun, I tell myself. Fun, remember that? It's a thing people have people. I should try it.
There's already a glass of wine at my seat when I sit down. I smile at his thoughtfulness, thanking him as I tip the rim of my glass against his. That sound the glasses make is like the starting gun of a race. The game is on. Flirtation, go!
He is charming and self-effacing and has this lovely, sexy chuckle that I find myself eager to hear again every time it dies away. It makes me think that his chest must be broad and strong, just right for leaning my head on.
