"Mum, answer me. Are you okay?" Ingrid repeated. "You're not behaving like your usual self."
"I'm more myself than I've been for a long time," Anna replied as she pressed the button for their floor.
As Ingrid finished in the bathroom, Anna sat up in bed waiting to talk with her daughter, but it was hard to stay focused. She longed to close her eyes and relive the night's experience. Did she have any regrets? At this moment, the answer was no. But tomorrow? She'd have to wait and see.
As Ingrid emerged with her make-up scrubbed off, hair brushed and glowing with health, Anna was aware the ties of attachment were stretching, loosening. She knew this was natural, but it tore at her because one child had been ripped from her so abruptly, and her remaining child strained for release from the restrictive bonds of maternal love.
Ingrid sat on the end of Anna's bed and tucked her knees up under her chin. "I'm sorry, mum."
Anna didn't want a confrontation. Coming to Paris had transformed her, allowing her to acknowledge the changes in her daughter.
"Are you?" Her eyebrows rose. She pushed aside the memory of François's lips on her skin: she'd never betrayed her husband before.
"Look at this." Ingrid was off the bed and retrieving her mobile from her bag. She tapped a couple of times, and thrust the phone at her mother. "It's a drawing Jean Paul made of me."
Anna took the phone and studied the photo. Jean Paul had captured Ingrid's vivacity with a few deft lines.
"Here, press this button. There's more."
Jean Paul had made half a dozen sketches of Ingrid from different angles. Some were, like the first, merely a few lines, others he'd taken more time over, shading and delineating Ingrid's eyes and eyebrows, her hair corkscrew wild.
"Wow! They're really, really good, Ingrid."
"He's going to use them for a portrait. He says it'll make him feel as if he's with me."
"Can you send them to my phone?"
Ingrid looked askance at her mother. "Ooo! Who's thoroughly modern now? Of course I can. But should I?" Ingrid arched an eyebrow. She took back her phone and pressed a few buttons. "There, sent you the photos." said Ingrid gazing at the sketches. "I think of him constantly. Sometimes it feels as if we're one person." Ingrid gazed at her mother with the earnest honesty of youth.
"And in the first flush of love, you'll feel that way, whether it's your first or fiftieth love." Anna replied.
"I love everything about him: the way he squints when he's focusing on something in the distance; the way he runs his hands through his hair before he asks me what do I think of his work. Does that sound stupid?"
"No, it doesn't." Anna's voice was quiet. "But people do change, Ingrid. And if love seems a bed of sweet roses, remember, roses have thorns."
"I know," Ingrid sighed. "It hasn't been easy for you and dad since Jeremy died has it?"
"No." Anna considered how it wasn't her and Greg alone who'd suffered; Ingrid had also paid a price for their inability to cope with Jeremy's loss. Had Jeremy's death exposed the gaps in their marriage previously hidden behind the habits of daily life? But she couldn't, she wouldn't, be sad. Jeremy would have wanted their lives to be filled with loving and giving: and François was showing her that she could live in this world and move past her pain. "I'm sorry if that made things more difficult for you."
But Ingrid had already returned to the present. "And since arriving in Paris, I have two new loves in my life."
"Two?" Anna thought of Greg and François. She thought of Émilie and Hélène. Paris had a lot to answer for.
Ingrid held up her fingers and counted. "Yes." She ticked off one finger. "First, Jean Paul, and two," she ticked the second finger, "Paris. I've fallen in love with Paris. I might come back after Biarritz. I do have a few weeks before starting uni." She let the statement dangle, but Anna refused to take the bait.
The battle to control Ingrid was lost, indeed had been for a while. Anna just hadn't known it. From here on she had to trust Ingrid's choices.
Anna's phone rang silencing her retort but as she stretched over to pick it up from the bedside table, she grabbed one of her pillows, throwing it at Ingrid. The pillow caught Ingrid by surprise, smacking her lightly in the chest.
"Mum!" Ingrid pretended outrage. She laughed and raised the pillow to throw it back.
Anna checked her mobile. Five messages from Greg.
"Give me a minute, I'd better read these, they're from your father." Anna flicked through the texts. The first one confirmed the time his plane would arrive at Charles de Gaul airport the following day. Next he asked her to confirm she'd received the first. The third, fourth and fifth messages repeated the second one, but each time an increasingly desperate comment was added. The fifth message ended with 'please, please answer no matter what time. I'm genuinely worried.' This was followed by an uncharacteristically long row of x's. Most unlike Greg. Another ring delivered the photos of Jean Paul's sketches of Ingrid.
"What did Dad say? You look like you've seen a ghost. It'll be good to see dad, won't it mum?"
"Of course it will."
Ingrid picked up a pillow. "Lean forward," she instructed, plumping the pillow and propping it behind Anna. "There. You answer dad. I need my beauty sleep. I don't want Jean Paul to remember me with bags under my eyes!" She kissed Anna on the cheek and gave her a quick tight hug. "I love you, mum."
"I love you too, darling."
As Anna texted a reassuring reply to Greg, she remembered François. He'd given her the gift of living in the present once more. Maybe it's not the first or second love that truly counts she reflected, pressing the send button, it's the current one. Nonetheless, her bonds with Greg were tied tight.
Tomorrow, as far as external appearances went, her life would resume its normal rhythms; the annual holiday, sleeping beside her husband, talking with him. He'd mentioned some spectacular subterranean caves up in the Pyrenees he wanted them to visit. Greg was attentive in ways like that. He was a good man and a good husband.
Till the death of their son, they had travelled a very smooth path in life together, and she wasn't sure if it was possible to find the exact moment she'd fallen out of love with him. The few days apart had revealed a fresh perspective on their relationship. She wondered if they could find their way back. Or was the love they'd had gone forever? She didn't know, despite tonight, if she could picture life without him. Would it take more courage to continue in her marriage or if there was nothing retrievable between them, separate and be on her own? Had she betrayed him tonight or had she been betraying herself for years?
Chapter Twenty
Success is a validation; a confirmation that you have opened the eyes of others to a new way of looking at the world, and people appreciate your vision. Artists of all varieties seek this reciprocation, which is why they put their work into the public arena.
Paris, April 1874
Luc waited outside the front gate by the carriage, tapping his foot, checking his watch and constantly glancing at the house.
Émilie stood by the front door. "Vite, Vite! Come on, children."
Giselle and Guy bounded down the stairs, followed by a flustered Marie waving a sailor's hat.
"Guy, wait. Put your hat on," she called, her hand outstretched without a hope of catching the silver quick child.
"Guy," Émilie's quiet voice brought him up short.
As Émilie and Marie finished the final adjustments to Guy's hat, completing his crisp blue and white sailor outfit, Giselle skipped out the door, turning and sticking out her tongue at her brother before running ahead.
Today was the opening of the first independent exhibition of the Société Anonyme des Peintures, Artistes et Graveurs, and three of Luc's submissions had been accepted by the committee. He was proud and terrified to have his art on show alongside that of Monet, Renoir, and others whom he considered to be the greatest artists of his day. His nerves were stretched to breaking point. At last, with the four of them seated in the carriage, É
milie by his side and the children sitting opposite, they were ready to leave.
"Are you all right?" Luc glanced at his wife's swollen belly.
"I'm fine. And I wouldn't miss this for the world." She patted her stomach. "This one is as stubborn as you, and won't arrive till after the exhibition is over."
Luc stuck his head out of the window. "Let's go," he shouted at the driver.
The children waved madly, shouting their goodbyes as they departed.
"Bon chance!" Marie's voice floated after them.
The carriage rolled along at a smart pace, the clip clop of the horse's hooves accompanying the creaking of the carriage. As they left Rue Murillo and turned onto the more major roads leading to their destination, the carriage slowed, merging into the traffic. The children were agog at the trams, horseless carriages and the pedestrians on the streets. They pointed and exclaimed over the sights with breathless excitement.
"I'm hot, Maman!" Guy tugged at his collar and took off his hat.
"Guy, do as your mother tells you." Luc was rarely, if ever, harsh with his children, but today he was unable to control his temper.
Guy sulkily obeyed Luc's reprimand
Émilie placed her lavender gloved hand on Luc's arm, letting it rest there for a minute. She understood today could be a pivotal moment in Luc's career. Whether those who had important positions in the Paris art world came or not, the critics would put in an appearance to view the exhibition. A lambasting in a prestigious newspaper could leave an artist the laughingstock of the nation.
Nadar, a prominent photographer who supported the artists, had given his studio over to the group. Many promises of help had been given, but no one else turned up yesterday evening, and Luc had spent half the night in the gallery helping Renoir hang the pictures in their allocated spaces. The more established artists had first choice of placement for their pieces, and the newer, younger artists, like Luc, had to be content with hanging theirs in the less prominent positions. Luc had selected one larger painting, plus two smaller ones, and his work hung in the middle of the left wall. Although not the first ones that drew the attention as visitors entered the room, they were well positioned.
He'd slept little when he finally arrived home in the early hours of the morning, and now he had the strangest sense of being both too wound up, and at the same time exhausted and disconnected from himself. As they approached Boulevard des Capucins, Luc's eyes glittered as he searched for familiar faces. His fingers jerked, and he tapped his knees non-stop until Émilie reached out a second time.
"Everything will be fine. You'll see," she told him, stilling his twitching fingers.
He blew his lips out with a loud sigh. "This is important for me."
Guy copied his father, blowing his lips out and making a louder sound.
The tension broke as Luc and Émilie burst out laughing.
Luc pulled off his son's cap, ruffling his hair before plonking it back on sideways.
"Papa!" Guy was indignant.
Émilie leant forward, fixing her son's hat as the carriage came to a stop. The crush of carriages and new-fangled motor vehicles parked outside Nadar's meant they had to leave the carriage and walk two blocks to the gallery.
Luc tucked Émilie's hand under his arm and they joined the steady crowd, moving along the busy promenade. Giselle clasped his other hand, while Guy walked by his mother's side, for once sedate and behaving in the manner expected by his parents.
Outside Nadar's a queue had formed waiting to enter the exhibition.
"Follow me, children. Stay close." Luc led the way up the stairs to the second floor muttering apologies as they squeezed past the queue.
When they finally reached the studio at the top, the door attendant, Renoir's half brother, greeted him with a smile motioning for Luc and his family to enter.
"Over there," Luc spoke in an undertone, "see the man with the straw hat and cane?"
Émilie turned casually in the direction he indicated.
"That's the critic Louis Leroy." Luc's eyes narrowed as he noticed the man evaluating one of Monet's exhibits and scribbling notes on a small writing pad.
The large room was packed with people, and the loud conversations indicated the paintings on show were eliciting a definite response.
Luc had the feeling the reactions weren't necessarily going to be ones the artists appreciated. "Oh, no!" Luc muttered under his breath.
"What is it?" Émilie asked.
"There's another one. Cardon. Emile Cardon. He hates us."
"Well, you know there are always people who hate change. And this," she waved her arm indicating the whole room, "is change. Art won't be the same after this exhibition. Try to relax, Luc. You know I'm right."
"Which ones are yours, Papa?" Giselle tugged on her father's hand.
"Yes," echoed Émilie. "These are the first paintings you're exhibiting that I've never seen—not one sketch did you show me. So I want to view yours first, and after that I'll see the others."
Luc guided them through the throng of people crowding the room. Émilie followed him keeping a firm grip on Giselle's hand on one side, and Guy's on the other. They could hear voices raised in argument as they passed. The old guard faces down the new, thought Luc, hearing derogatory comments about Pissarro's painting of Pontoise.
He stopped and spoke quietly in Émilie's ear. "Be honest. Examine all three before you make your judgment." His mouth thinned to a line as he stared at her. "The truth. I need to know the truth." She was his biggest supporter and he trusted her to be frank with him.
As soon as she saw them, she knew which three were his. She stopped, standing a little distance away before moving into scrutinize them.
Luc looked, not at his artwork, but at Émilie's face. Her expression would tell him her real opinion.
The first, and largest, was a rural scene painted on a summer day with cotton clouds wisping across a blue sky. Two women holding parasols sat opposite each other with a baby lying on a blanket between them, and various picnic items on the side. One woman, dark hair and lively eyes, leaned in towards the baby full of maternal softness as she gazed at her child. In response, the baby stared back up at its mother, looking almost alive as it appeared to wave its arms and legs. The second woman, younger, complexion and hair more golden, smiled at the other two. Effective brush strokes gave the impression of leaves and grass rippling in a light breeze. The title was Les femmes et le bébé.
Émilie studied the large painting for several moments.
Luc paced back and forth behind them, frowning, waiting to hear his wife's opinion.
Giselle imitated her mother and stared with fixed attention at her father's accomplishments "Who's the pretty girl, Papa?"
Luc stopped pacing and looked intently at his daughter.
Émilie moved along to join Giselle surveying the second painting. This was the portrait of Hélène. Émilie could see it was one of the young women from the picnic but here she sat nearer to the artist, with her features shown more clearly than in the first picture.
Luc had captured the woman's frank appraisal as she stared out at the viewer. He'd painted her with her head tilted back a fraction, making her look as if she challenged whoever had the temerity to observe her. She gleamed with youth and in contrast to her pose, her eyes had a humorous expression, and her lips were full, curling up at the corners, making it seem as if she was enjoying a private joke.
Émilie moved closer, scrutinizing details. "She's lovely. You've captured her freshness and innocence. Hélène, a simple title, suits the painting. I take it that's her name? Is she going to be here today?"
Artists' models often came to openings, keen to see themselves immortalized on canvas.
"Will we meet her?" She turned but Luc had vanished. "Where's Papa?" she asked Guy who stood with his hands behind his back, imitating his father's pose.
"He left." Guy pointed in the general direction of the entrance.
Émilie searched the crowd in
time to catch sight of Luc's head as he disappeared out the door.
"The flowers, Maman! The flowers!" Giselle was eager to look at the last painting and tugged her mother's hand. "Maman!"
The last, and smallest, of Luc's exhibits showed a still life of a vase of flowers with a background of fields fading into the distance. He'd used strong colors on the flowers as most were in full bloom, and the painting epitomized summer.
"Of course, chérie." Émilie allowed her daughter to drag her in front of the third picture, but her gaze kept returning to the image of Hélène.
Luc stood on the Boulevard des Capucins. The spring leaves gifted the street with a lushness lacking through the winter months. Ladies out shopping mingled with business men, and hawkers' cries echoed along the road. In the distance Luc heard the sound of a musician playing an accordion. He breathed deep.
After returning from Bordeaux the previous summer, he'd put Hélène's portrait at the back of the studio hoping to lessen the ache of her absence. He'd tackled his next painting, the flowers from Hélène's hotel room, in an agitated, maniacal frenzy. After completing it to his satisfaction, he lay in a despondent smog of absinth during which his mood alternated between self-loathing, guilt, wretchedness, and endless resolutions to be satisfied with his life. He was doing the one thing he was born for, fulfilling his one purpose in life—painting. He adored his family. He lived in an elegant home. What did he lack? Nothing.
For months afterwards, Hélène had remained a dull ache on the edge of his consciousness, but eventually his passion for her had diminished. Hélène had married and lived with her husband in her new life. He accepted it was a life that did not and could not ever include him.
One question which disturbed him greatly, and to which he had no answer, was if he truly loved Émilie, his wife, the mother of his children and intellectual companion to boot, how had these feelings for Hélène arisen? How had his desire for her flared with such suddenness? And what if this problem resurfaced at some time in the future?
One Summer in Montmartre Page 20
