Anna remained looking over the book of letters trying to focus on Luc's life, not on hers, and certainly not on François. She revisited the gallery and looked at the two paintings for a long time. Gazing at Hélène's fresh faced beauty, she softened. Maybe she'd thought of him purely as an artist, forgetting he was human, with everything that encompasses. And who knows precisely what goes on between a husband and a wife? There are many ways to inflict suffering on those to whom you're tightly bound.
She looked at her watch. It was getting late. She'd better get back to the hotel. Doubtless François had left. Should she try to get out of the evening meal? Plead a headache? But then she'd miss the last evening in Paris with Ingrid. Her daughter was growing up too fast and developing interests which lay elsewhere. And when the summer ended… she swallowed hard. Soon she would have to face an empty nest. And as for François, well, she would show him.
She stepped out of the museum, bolstered by a life of carefully cultivated habits to find François waiting for her.
"I'm so sorry. Please," he looked distressed. "I don't know what came over me."
"Well it's obvious to me." She was composed. "You thought you were Luc, and I was Hélène." She saw a spark of amusement on his face for a second, but then it was gone, and he was full of apologies once more.
"What can I say? We were investigating a sweet sad love story. You, you…," he trailed off.
"Yes," she prompted, assuming the role of inquisitor. "What about me?"
He shrugged.
"Stop shrugging!" She exaggerated his gesture. "What is it with everyone over here and the shrugging?" She mimicked him a second time.
He narrowed his eyes as if ready to challenge her but thought better of it. Blinking a few times, he took a deep breath and looked straight at her. "I have to be totally honest with you. I find you desirable. And I refuse to say I'm sorry."
She looked away unable to bear the frankness of his look, and glad he didn't trot out an excuse to do with being alone since his wife died. That she wouldn't accept. She was flattered though she certainly wasn't going to tell him. He considered her attractive enough to do more than think about it. He'd actually kissed her!
Anna remembered little Billy Preston grabbing her in Class 1, plonking a kiss on her mouth and telling her he wanted to marry her. Thrilled to be the chosen one, she had said nothing to the teacher. The following week he picked another wife.
"I apologize for my action but not for the reason I acted."
She ignored him, afraid that whatever she said would be misconstrued, and set off for the hotel.
Anna dressed with extra care that evening. She rejected the persistent thoughts of François and the kiss. When the memory stole into her mind, the touch of his lips on hers, firm, pliable, his hand on her back pulling her close, she distracted herself with plans of what she would do in Biarritz, or of the paintings she would do when she returned home. Perhaps she could redecorate? Not Jeremy's room, not yet, if ever. She recognized that today, for the first time in a long time, she had lived in the present, caught up so strongly in the now that there had been no room for the past. And she had let it go. That was important.
"Ooh, Mum! Who do you want to impress?" exclaimed Ingrid coming out of the bathroom and stopping at the sight of her mother.
Anna looked stunning. She'd swept her hair up into a smooth French coil, and kept it in place with an antique jeweled comb, applied her make-up with a subtle hand to eyes and lips, and dressed in a jade green silk suit, bought a number of years ago, but which didn't often get an outing. The below the knee pencil skirt and flared short jacket made the most of her long legs and slim figure. She looked, and felt elegant, when wearing it.
"Don't be silly, Ingrid. We're merely having dinner with Jean Paul and François." She turned away and started fishing in her purse to hide the sudden heat in her cheeks.
"Exactly, Mum. Exactly!"
"Chérie—"
"Ooh! Français pour François?”
"Listen, darling. Tonight is our last night in this wonderful city, and I'm not letting anyone spoil it."
Ingrid watched her mother's face in the mirror. "You know, Mum, you seem more the way the old you used to be before…before Jeremy died." She became solemn, the teasing gone. "In fact, I think you're more like your old self than you've been for a long time. Does that sound absurd?"
Anna hesitated, lipstick in hand. "Of course," she applied the final coat of lipstick, blotted her mouth with a tissue, and turned around, a wide grin spreading across her face, "but it's entirely possible that it's you who are seeing everything from a new viewpoint."
"Okay, okay." Ingrid laughed, blushing bright red. "Let's both enjoy tonight, eh?"
During dinner Ingrid and Jean Paul spent most of the meal absorbed in each other, coming up for air and sporadically contributing to the general conversation. Anna and François made polite noises, the chill between them unnoticed by the younger couple.
Anna avoided looking at him. She didn't want eye contact. The kiss and his stated interest in her that afternoon had cut through her defenses more than she was prepared to admit. She was moving on from the overwhelming grief of Jeremy's loss but where was she going? This wasn't a crossroad, it was more a perception that different paths were opening up; and she had other choices. Normally she was a cautious decision maker—coming here to research Luc Marteille had been an unusually impulsive act. She wasn't sure she knew what she was capable of anymore.
"Ah," said François as they finished dinner. "More deliciously different ways to be a vegetarian in France. You've almost persuaded me, and I'm a hundred percent sure Jean Paul is a convert."
Ingrid's eyes sparkled at him. Everyone, except Jean Paul, recognized his fountain of new sentiment concerning animals was solely aimed at impressing Ingrid.
The two youngsters had plans. Jean Paul wanted to take Ingrid to a club. "Oh no, it's not a nightclub," he added as Anna prepared to object, "it's a dance club."
"All right, but you must be back by midnight. Or else, you will find," François left no doubt as to the intent behind his words, "there shall be consequences." He looked at Anna who nodded her assent.
The young couple agreed with enthusiasm, and Ingrid planted a loud kiss on her mother's cheek. "Don't worry, Mum. I'll be back before the coach turns into a pumpkin."
Anna watched as the two departed. The look on Ingrid's face said everything. Love, lust, infatuation, whatever you called it, Anna knew how magical it was to be so delighted by, and filled with desire for, another person. The sweetness of loving exchanges, the hurt when disagreements occurred, the aching want and need to be with that other dominated your thoughts and emotions during your waking moments. She didn't envy Ingrid; she was pleased her daughter was experiencing one of life's gifts.
"Pumpkin? Why a pumpkin?" François's amused voice broke her reverie.
"A child's fairy tale. Are you familiar with the story of Cinderella?"
"Ah, yes. But Ingrid is no Cinderella. She's a princess already. Yes?"
"Oh, yes. That she is. But she has a kind heart."
Despite his earlier action, Anna was unable to hold her grudge throughout the whole meal, and she relaxed as they sipped the last of the wine. And if she was honest, she'd admit she had dressed for him this evening. Her peace of mind had vanished when her son died, and she should have been able to find solace with Greg, but they'd built walls, creating barriers that were easier to keep in place than dismantle. Accepting how comfortable she felt with François was another matter. That he wanted her, and had told her so, made him dangerous. It was good she was leaving tomorrow.
"Tell me about the first time you fell in love?" François's voice, subdued, neutral, broke the silence. He waited, saying nothing when she didn't answer straight away.
"Why on earth do you want to talk about that?" Why did he have to throw that into the conversation, just when she thought she was at ease with him? Her first love? It had been half a lifetime since s
he'd shared that memory with anyone but close friends at the time. Why should she reveal her past mistakes to him?
"Why not? Tomorrow you leave. We won't be meeting any more. On occasion it is easier to share with a stranger, n'est pas?"
She'd already shared more with him than she had with anyone else, and he was right, airing an old memory couldn't do any harm. "Anthony Cowlen." The name came out in a rush. "And you?"
He smiled. "That's easy. A very beautiful nightclub singer called Francine. What was your Anthony like?" The way he pronounced Anthony, with his strong French accent, made the name exotic and fascinating.
"Oh, Anthony was very handsome. Do you think glamour lasts? I doubt we'd think the same if we saw them today."
"I'm intrigued."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I was in my first year at university; he was an art student in my year and we shared a few classes. He was an Adonis and most of the girls in my year had crushes on him. And when he asked me out, there was only one answer." What an innocent view she'd had of life back then. "That's enough for a start. Okay, your turn." Anna studied François picturing him as a young, naïve student. He must have been incredibly good looking.
The corners of his lips curled in a small smile. "When I came to Paris, like most students away from home for the first time, we were desperate to do something our parents disapproved of. We thought it daring to visit nightclubs. And Francine sang at a club we often visited. As you can imagine, she had many fans—mostly students. We were in heaven if she bothered to glance our way." He laughed. "We didn't care if she was tone deaf. So what happened with this Adonis?"
She tried to picture Anthony's face but she could barely dredge up any memories, just a few frozen images. He had taken her virginity one week after they'd become a couple. At the time‒drunk after a party‒it hadn't been a conscious decision. Other memories rose: of rolling around naked in bed laughing hysterically after making love; walking through the campus his arm around her waist, the envy of her friends.
"We were together for roughly eight months, till after the summer break and the next batch of students joined. He dropped me for a stunning blonde. I watched him swan around with her on his arm, and whenever he saw me, he'd smile and ask how I was, as if we'd never shared anything."
"Life can be cruel," François empathized.
"I was devastated. The public aspect—everybody knew. It did take time but you move on fast when you're young. I fell in and out of love a number of times before I met my husband. And, by that time, I was over Anthony's rejection." She gave the smallest of sighs as the memories washed over her. She was enjoying this. Time had made these events, so life changing when they happened, feel as if they'd taken place to someone else. Opening up to François, who had no part in her normal life, meant there were no judgments. "And la belle Francine? Do tell."
"To start with, she was a mixture of Brigitte Bardot and Marylyn Monroe." François smiled at the memory, "You can understand, as an impressionable young man, I didn't stand a chance. One night she came and sat at our table. Next to me." He made a fanning motion with his hand. "The memory of that night stayed with me for many years. Such passionate madness! And everyone assumed I was making it up."
"So why did she dump you?"
"You are so sure I didn't dump her?" he joked, "but, you're right, there was certainly no question of my ending it. It lasted ten days. One evening before it was her turn to sing, she came over and told me we were finished because her fiancé had returned."
Anna laughed out loud.
"Please, don't mock my youthful passions." François pretended to be offended. "I thought my life was ruined. My friends laughed at how stupid I'd been. I was young and thought she'd broken my heart." He paused re-living that moment. "I'm sure it'll be no surprise to hear I never had the courage to return to the nightclub."
"Oh, I think you got off lightly," she bantered. "It's a good job we've become mature adults who can laugh at these encounters."
She thought of Jean Paul and Ingrid. Long-distance relationships took a lot of work, and they would part after having had no more than a couple of days together, though that was enough if you believed in Romeo and Juliet. And at university, a whole new community awaited exploration.
"But falling in love doesn't end because you get older, Anna." He leaned towards her.
She stiffened. Oh, no! He certainly knew how to spoil the mood. She'd enjoyed this looking back at her youthful indiscretions with the benefits granted by age. Jeremy would never enjoy this gift. He'd been too young to want a serious relationship; he'd wanted to do so many things—finish uni, travel the world and have adventures before he settled down to marriage and children.
She remembered one holiday at her parents in Kent; as often happened, Greg was working and hadn't accompanied them. Ingrid was with her grandmother learning how to make gooseberry preserve. Anna, her father and Jeremy sat out in the back garden chatting, enjoying the weather and the company.
"So, what do you want to be when you grow up, Jeremy?" Anna's father, John had asked the question.
Jeremy, with the gangly awkwardness of a 15-year-old stretching into his adult body was five foot nine, thin as a rake, his dark hair‒grown longer over the summer and falling into his eyes‒replied without a second's hesitation. "A pilot."
Her father smiled, pleased at Jeremy's choice but Anna had been surprised. This was the first time she'd heard Jeremy express any particular ambition.
The next morning over breakfast, Jeremy announced, "Granddad, I've been thinking. I'm not going to be a pilot. I want to be a doctor."
She and her father had exchanged glances. "That's an excellent choice too, Jeremy," her father said.
For the rest of the week they nodded patiently as Jeremy changed his mind, listing in progression every profession from explorer through to scientist. Each time Jeremy's face lit up when his grandfather had shown his approval. She'd never known her father to be so patient.
When Jeremy left for university, he chose to follow in his father's footstep and study law—the one profession he'd not named in his list that week at her parents.
"It's Jeremy isn't it? You're thinking of him?"
She wondered how it was possible for François to read her moods when they barely knew each other. Greg would either not have noticed or ignored it and attributed it to her depression.
"It pains me that he won't experience the joy and suffering that love brings." She choked back her emotions, pushing them down, struggling to contain them.
François topped up their glasses with more of the sweet red liquid.
She didn't want any more wine because she would start bawling if she continued drinking. Nevertheless, she kept sipping; she needed something to occupy her, to help her get a grip.
François waited as if he had all the time in the world. "But life remains an adventure for you? Yes?"
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. She couldn't say, no, my life feels empty despite having a faithful husband who works hard, and a beautiful, intelligent daughter who has a great future ahead of her. From the outside it looks as if I lack nothing; my material needs are taken care of. I think of people who have so much less and, in spite of difficulties, struggle on. But my son, a part of me, died and things aren't fine anymore.
"Are you satisfied with what you've uncovered about your impressionist artist?"
She was thankful to him for changing the subject. Greg would have…. Why did she keep comparing him to Greg? For goodness sake, she told herself, stop it because nothing is going to happen between you and this man sitting here just because he's giving you the attention and support you've been looking for. He has his motives, the same as everyone else.
"Anna?"
"Sorry. My research? Yes, I think I am content. No one can ever know the complete inside story. What was the real reason Hélène left? Did he have any other mistresses? Yet seeing Hélène's portrait and reading his letters have given me some perspective on how
my letter fits into his life. Yes, considering what I've learned about him since finding the letter, I do have more insight into him."
"Maybe you should write his biography someday?" François smiled, his gaze moving from her eyes to her mouth.
"Yes, that's a proposition I might consider." she replied, "I'm finding this research very satisfying." It was an idea and her letter did have new information. There was the possibility that Luc, and maybe Hélène, might be mentioned in other artists' letters of the time. Or was getting involved in another's life a way for her to escape her own?
"You'd have to come to Paris, wouldn't you?"
"François, stop flirting!" Had she said that? She couldn't believe they'd become so casual that she had tossed a comment like that at him. It was a throwaway remark, but this thing, whatever it was between them, didn't feel light any more.
"Why?" He challenged her.
"We've been polite and friendly, more or less, since circumstances threw us together. Please, I'd prefer to keep it that way." She lifted her chin but refused to look at him. This was new, alien territory.
"And what of tonight?" He reached for her hand. "We can make what we want of this time. We have that choice." He held her hand, his thumb lightly stroking her palm.
She wanted to scream let go of my hand because I'm vulnerable and you're taking advantage. But she didn't answer because underneath everything, an awareness surfaced that she more than liked him; she might actually want him. And not as a platonic friend. François's touch had woken her to the fact Greg never initiated physical contact with her in any way. No coming up behind her, putting his arms around her waist and squeezing tight till she laughingly begged for breath as he'd done in the early days of their relationship; no hugs, or pecks on the cheek. Except for when they had sex—these days she refused to call it making love. They lived parallel lives with Ingrid as the one link gluing them together.
"I can't," she told him. "I want to be honest with you, François. Meeting and spending time with you has been, well, different, unusual, for me. But that's not who I am. I'm not a person who has sex outside marriage." She was intensely conscious of the pressure of his fingers as they moved up her wrist and pressed on her pulse.
One Summer in Montmartre Page 16
