by Hyland, Tara
Amber had always thought of herself as fairly savvy. At St. Margaret’s she’d been cool, the trendsetter, even among the older classes. But Eva left her in the dust. She was frighteningly knowledgeable about everything. Within a week, she’d introduced Amber to caipirinha cocktails; the wonders of plastic surgery—“I ’ad my breasts and nose done before I was fourteen—everybody does in Rio”; and, most importantly and painfully, cavados—or, in English, Brazilian waxes.
“Ow!” Amber yelled as the first strip came off. She was lying spread-eagled on the bed and had never felt so exposed or sore in her life before. She’d always been secretly proud of her white blonde bush, but Eva had insisted everything must come off apart from a small landing strip.
“Shush,” Eva hissed from between her legs. She handed her a piece of cardboard. “Here. Bite down on this. You don’t want Mrs. Dauston to come in, do you?”
Amber bit. It didn’t help much. But at least nobody heard them.
It turned out Eva was experienced, too. She’d lost her virginity to an American college boy during last year’s Carnival. She’d just turned fourteen.
“It was sheeet,” she informed a wide-eyed Amber. “He had a small cacete.” She held up her little finger to illustrate. “But don’t worry. It gets better, saca?” she said, using the Brazilian slang for “you know what I mean?” It was her catchphrase.
Amber listened attentively, devouring every gory detail.
“I gave him a boquete—you do it like this.”
“He put it up my cu. It hurt like hell. Next time—no way!”
It was all news to Amber, who had only gotten to second base with Andy Turner from the boys’ school twinned to St. Margaret’s. He’d been the hottest guy in the senior class, but barely more experienced than she was. After some furtive groping during his graduation ball, she hadn’t been especially tempted to go any further. But when Eva talked about it—the different positions, what it was like when a guy went down on you—it made Amber curious to find out what it was all about.
When Amber phoned her mother the first Sunday after she arrived, she was able to truthfully report to Isabelle that she had learned more in the space of four days at Beaumont Manor than she had in an entire year at St. Margaret’s.
18
_________
“Salut, Caitlin!”
A dozen voices greeted Caitlin as she walked into the cramped living room. She tried to muster an enthusiastic response. It had been another late night at college, and she’d gone back to the apartment hoping for some peace. Instead, she’d found Véronique hosting another one of her impromptu parties. Cigarette smoke and laughter filled the air. Empty wine bottles covered the floor. Jules Martel, Caitlin’s one-time suitor, had brought along a guitar. He was sitting cross-legged on a cushion, strumming softly, as a girl Caitlin didn’t recognize crooned along.
Véronique lay stretched across the couch, her head resting on the lap of Lucien Duval. Caitlin smiled to herself. Her roommate was a sucker for brooding, tortured artists, and Lucien filled the bill perfectly. A street photographer, known for his portrayal of modern life in Paris, he was very cool and extremely good looking. Tall, slender, and darkly dramatic, he was a well-known and distinctive figure among the Belleville crowd. Caitlin often saw him in the café, usually with at least one or two adoring females in tow.
Word had gotten out a couple of weeks earlier that he had broken up with his latest girlfriend, one of the models who worked at l’École des Beaux Arts. Véronique had immediately turned her attention to him. Looking at them now, Lucien stroking her hair, Caitlin guessed she was already halfway there.
Véronique stretched lazily, extending her long legs for Lucien’s benefit. “Grab a glass and come join us, Caitlin.”
Jules stopped playing and scrambled to his feet. “You can sit here, if you like.”
“Thanks,” Caitlin said. “Maybe in a bit. I’m going to get some food first.” Seeing the look of disappointment on Jules’s face, Caitlin felt bad. He seemed like a nice guy, but she simply wasn’t interested.
She disappeared into the tiny kitchen. It was Véronique’s week to shop, which meant there was nothing in the fridge—she lived on coffee and cigarettes, so why shouldn’t everyone else? However, after a quick rummage in the cupboards, Caitlin found some pasta and an open jar of pesto that didn’t smell too bad.
With the pasta simmering nicely, she pulled a chair up to the window and climbed out onto the roof. It wasn’t strictly designed to be a terrace, but it was the only outside space the apartment had, so the girls made use of it. Véronique sunbathed there whenever she could, while Caitlin often sat out in the evenings, making the most of the refreshing night breeze, drawing and reading in the half-light from the other buildings. Now, she took out her sketchpad to study what she’d been working on earlier that day.
She’d only been there for a little while when she heard a noise from inside. It was the chair creaking. She looked up and saw a man climbing out to join her. At first she thought it was Jules, but then he straightened up. In the half-light from the kitchen, she took in the dark clothes, deathly pale skin, and jet black curls falling over his shoulders. It was Lucien. She couldn’t help feeling relieved. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Jules again tonight.
“What’re you doing out here?” she asked.
He held up a pack of cigarettes, and she smiled a little. He was the only one of their friends who had the courtesy to come out here to smoke. In the grand scheme of things it made no difference—the place stank already. But Caitlin appreciated the gesture.
Lucien leaned against the wall and lit up. He smoked in silence. Not that there was anything unusual about that. He wasn’t exactly a big talker. Caitlin reckoned in the two years she’d known him he’d spoken a dozen words to her, if that. Which was why she was surprised when he gestured at her sketchbook. “May I see?”
Usually she hated people looking at her work, but she was so taken aback by the request that she found herself agreeing. “All right.”
Resting his cigarette on the wall, he took the book from Caitlin and began to flip through her sketches. Her current project was on the influence of film on fashion.
“I’m using Shoot as my inspiration,” she said, naming the latest Hollywood blockbuster. It revolved around a gangster living in Chicago in the 1930s, and the movie’s presence could be seen in her drawings, which included high-waisted, wide-legged zoot suits adapted into sharp office wear for women, as well as pretty evening dresses inspired by flapper girls.
“Your designs are very theatrical,” he observed. He looked up, seeming genuinely interested. “Is that what you want to do?”
“Yeah, I guess so. If I can.”
He finished looking through the sketchbook and handed it back to her. “I am sure you will. From what I have seen here, you have real talent and originality.”
“Thanks,” Caitlin mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed by the praise. But she was pleased, too. It was quite a compliment coming from someone who was acknowledged to be one of the foremost emerging artists in Paris.
Lucien picked up his cigarette, took one last drag, and stubbed the remains out on the wall.
“I’ll see you back in there,” he said, before disappearing inside.
Just after he’d gone, the timer on the stove went off. Caitlin finished preparing her dinner, then brought the plate in to join the others. She had a couple of drinks and slipped off to bed. As she left the room, Lucien had started to give Véronique a foot massage. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where the night was going to end.
But the next morning, when Véronique came into the kitchen looking for coffee, she was alone.
“Where’s Lucien?” Caitlin asked. “The way you two were together last night, I thought for sure he’d still be here.”
Véronique gave an unconcerned shrug. “Me, too. But he had to go. Next time, eh?”
Next time wasn’t long in coming. A few nights later, the
girls were working late together in the café. It was a Tuesday evening and the place was dead. Alain had gone home an hour earlier, leaving them to lock up. There were only two customers left, Lucien and Jules. Caitlin was sitting at the bar, sketching. Across the room, Véronique had joined the boys at their table. The three of them were drinking pastis, chatting, and flirting.
“Come and join us!” Jules called to her.
But Caitlin wouldn’t. “I’ve got too much to do,” she told them.
By eleven, she was thinking seriously about bed. When Véronique came over, Caitlin hoped she was going to offer to lock up, but her roommate had other ideas. The two men were heading over to La Flèche d’Or, a nearby club. They had invited her along, and she wanted Caitlin to come, too, as Jules’s date.
“Please say you’ll do it.” Véronique lowered her voice. “This might be my only chance with Lucien.”
Caitlin sincerely doubted that. In all the time they’d been living together, she’d never known Veronique not to get her man in the end.
“Please,” the girl wheedled. “Jules is a sweetheart, I promise.”
Caitlin glanced over at Jules, who smiled shyly back. A rather fresh-faced young man, he was far less intimidating than Lucien. Caitlin was sure she could handle him.
“Okay, I’ll come,” she sighed.
“Formidable!” Véronique gave her friend a warm embrace.
Laughing, Caitlin pushed her away. She took off her apron, shoved it under the counter, and ran a hand through her short, dark hair.
“Right. Allons-y! Let’s go.”
Véronique cast a doubtful look at Caitlin’s jeans and tank top, her face devoid of makeup. “Aren’t you going to at least change? I have a dress you can wear . . .”
Caitlin glowered at her roommate. “Veronique,” she said warningly. “Don’t push your luck.”
Three hours later, Caitlin wished she had followed her instincts and stayed home. The first part of the evening had been, for the most part, fine. She always liked La Flèche d’Or. Housed in an abandoned railway station, it had been converted into a club by some graduates of l’École des Beaux Arts. That meant it attracted many of their artistic brethren—mostly because the drinks were cheap and the live music always cutting edge, and it stayed open until five in the morning.
But while the band had been good, their little foursome had been less of a success. Véronique, used to relying on her looks to catch her man, was struggling to make conversation with Lucien.
She leaned over to him, running her hand along his arm. “I heard you’re opening a new exhibition, chéri,” she purred. “That must be really exciting.”
“Yes,” he said, shrugging off her hand.
Caitlin bit back a smile. This was typical of Véronique’s technique: listen attentively, compliment excessively, and make your guy feel like a king. Unfortunately, Lucien didn’t seem to be falling for it.
But the other girl wasn’t about to be put off that easily. “So where are you exhibiting?” she persisted.
“Le Nabi.”
Véronique looked blank, but Caitlin’s eyes sparked with interest. “Really?” she said without thinking. “Le Nabi? That’s fantastic!”
Lucien seemed impressed at her knowledge. “You know of it?” He had every reason to be surprised. Although rumored to be one of the most dynamic galleries in Paris at the moment, it certainly wasn’t in any guidebook—that was because Le Nabi was an illegal squat.
“I’ve been meaning to go there,” she said. “I’ve heard it’s excellent.”
Lucien looked amused. “I only hope you think the same once you have seen my work.”
Véronique glanced between Caitlin and Lucien.
“Let’s not talk about work,” she pouted. “It is very dull.”
Caitlin was about to ask Véronique what exactly she did want to talk about, but she managed to stop herself. Instead, she decided to leave her roommate and Lucien alone and try to get to know Jules a little better. But he was too tongue-tied to answer any of her questions. After a while, she gave up and concentrated on the band. Jules took the opportunity to get plastered. His confidence fueled by alcohol, he leaned over to put his arm around Caitlin, breathing beery fumes into her face.
“You know, I really like you, Caitlin,” he slurred.
“Thanks.” She pushed him away again. But it didn’t seem to have much impact. He was too far gone to notice her mounting irritation.
Jules turned glassy eyes onto Lucien. “Hey, isn’t it your round?”
Lucien nodded at the empty bottles on the table. “Maybe you have had enough, eh, Jules?”
“Hah! You’re just trying to get out of buying.”
Lucien gave a shrug. “Fine.” He looked over at Véronique and Caitlin. “Mesdemoiselles? Same again?”
“Nothing for me,” Caitlin said. “I’m going soon.”
“Mon dieu!” Véronique tutted. “You can’t want to leave already.” She turned to the guys, oblivious of her roommate’s discomfort. “Caitlin has been single her whole time in Paris, you know. No wonder, when she hardly ever goes out.”
In that moment, Caitlin could happily have throttled the other girl.
Jules was too out of it to process the information, but Lucien raised an eyebrow.
“And why is that, ma petite irlandaise? Don’t you like Frenchmen?”
She flushed, unsure if he was teasing her, and delivered her standard line. “No. I’m just too busy for a boyfriend.”
Lucien gave a gentle shake of his head. “No one should be too busy for romance.”
Again, she had no idea if he was joking or not. Before she could reply, Jules leaned across the table, knocking several bottles on the floor along the way. “What’s the holdup?” he slurred. “I want less talking and more beer!”
Lucien raised an eyebrow at Caitlin, as if to say, What can you do with him?
“Whatever you say, Jules.”
Lucien went to get more drinks. As soon as he was gone, Véronique left to go to the ladies’ room.
“So it’s just us?” Jules said. He reached out and gave Caitlin’s knee a squeeze. She resisted the urge to kick him. Deciding that if she was going to escape she needed to do it now, before Véronique got back, she stood up, saying, “I’ve just spotted some friends I want to say hi to. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Jules was too drunk to notice that she was taking her coat and bag with her.
She was almost at the exit when she bumped into Lucien, coming back from the bar with four beers. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty as he looked down at the belongings in her hands.
“Leaving already?” he asked.
“Before Jules gets any worse,” she admitted.
“Ah, I see.” Lucien nodded understandingly. “Although,” he said after a moment’s thought, “you should of course be flattered by his behavior.”
“How’s that?”
“He only drinks because he is nervous around you. He has been desperate to get you to go out with him, you know.”
Caitlin gave a wry smile. “Unfortunately for Jules, desperation isn’t attractive.”
Lucien laughed softly. “Yes, you are right about that.”
Caitlin wondered if he was referring to Véronique. For a second she felt pleased that, unlike most guys, he hadn’t fallen for her roommate’s routine. Then she felt bad for thinking something so uncharitable about her friend. And when had she started caring who Véronique hooked up with anyway? It was obviously time to get out of here.
“Please say good-bye to Jules for me,” she said quietly. And with that, she headed for the door.
Lucien stayed at the club a while longer after Caitlin left. He managed to offload Véronique onto Jules and then set about finding someone for himself, someone not so into him. He liked Véronique well enough, but he was wary of leading her on. Lucien might be a womanizer, but he wasn’t cruel—well, not intentionally so.
His eyes settled on a girl alone at the
bar. She was undoubtedly attractive. A true Gallic beauty: long dark hair, skin the color of warm nutmeg. She also turned out to be on his wavelength. No names, no life story. One drink and they were the best of friends. Two and she was happy to go home with him.
He woke early the following morning. Thankfully, the girl was still asleep. He slipped from the bed, taking care not to disturb her. Ten minutes later, he stood by the window, sipping his coffee, bathed in the glow of the pale early light. It was his favorite time of day, watching the city wake up from the comfort of his Bastille garret. He had just gotten out of the shower and was naked apart from the towel slung casually around his waist, his damp hair curling down over his shoulders into its trademark ringlets.
He heard a movement and turned to see the girl rolling over in bed, onto her back. The covers had fallen away to reveal one perfectly formed breast, the nipple hard and dark like a raisin. But his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the pictures he was going to use in his new exhibition. He had spent the previous day developing his latest rolls of film. Now, he walked over to where he had hung the prints to dry overnight, perusing his work, totally focused on the task at hand.
After a while, his eyes settled on one of the photographs. It was of Véronique’s friend, Caitlin. Unpegging the picture, he studied it closely. He remembered taking it the previous week. The café had been quiet that afternoon, and she had been sketching at the bar, so absorbed in her work that she hadn’t even noticed him until the flash went off. That was always the best way—to catch the subject off guard. And it had certainly worked this time. It was a perfect profile. She looked deep in concentration, her dark bangs falling across her face as she chewed on the end of her pencil. Her expression was veiled; her wide eyes thoughtful, mysterious.
“Who is she?”
The girl’s voice broke into his thoughts. He turned to see her standing behind him, wrapped in a sheet, a look of jealousy on her pretty face. He hadn’t noticed her waking, crossing the room to peer over his shoulder.
