“No. This is as far as I’ve got.”
“Me, too. Do you want me to come with you?”
“Of course not. You stay here and enjoy your success. I’ll look for Mathilde’s, too.”
“Come back as soon as you’ve found it. Promise?”
“I promise. Though it might take a while.” She flipped to the back of the catalog and held it open for his inspection. “There are more than thirty-five hundred paintings on display here. Wish me luck!”
She found Mathilde’s a quarter hour later, and to her relief it had been hung at eye level on a wall that was well lighted; her friend would be pleased. The painting, of children playing in a garden, was attracting some favorable attention, though nothing like the same level of excitement as Étienne’s.
Finally, after the longest twenty minutes of her life, Helena ran her painting to ground. It had been hung high on the wall in one of the final rooms of the Salon, in a dark corner with very little light, and in the time she spent hovering at the room’s entrance not one person took a second look or even seemed to notice it.
It was silly to stay, not when there were so many other works to see and admire, so she forced herself to turn around and leave the farmer’s wife behind. It came as a great relief when, only two rooms along, she found the Murphys, standing among a small crowd of admirers who had come to see Gerald’s latest painting. It was the one of clockworks that he’d begun in Antibes the summer before, and was so enormous that it took up an entire wall.
“Helena! Look, Gerald—Helena is here.”
“Wonderful! We were looking for your painting, but no luck yet. Have you come across it?”
“Yes. It’s back that way, the second room on. It’s rather hidden, though. Luck of the draw, I suppose.”
“You should be very proud all the same,” Sara said loyally.
“Thank you. And congratulations, Gerald—I should have said so right away. I love the painting.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you later, won’t we? At the party?”
“Of course. I suppose I had better try to find my aunt. Until later, then.”
Not in any particular rush, she wandered back through the exhibition hall, trying to absorb what she saw, although the sheer volume of work made it difficult to take everything in. Helena was standing in front of a small canvas, a still life that combined pointillist techniques with Cubist perspectives, when she heard the familiar accent of Maître Czerny.
She looked around, mentally preparing herself for a brief conversation with her teacher, but he was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she had been mistaken. But then he spoke again, and it really was his voice, only it was coming from the other side of the wall. A wall that was made of air and stretched burlap.
He was speaking in English, with a man who had a vaguely Australian accent, and they were commiserating with one another over the general laziness and ineptitude of art students. It was nothing she hadn’t already heard a hundred times. And then—
“Of course this year’s crop of students was the worst yet. Nearly all of them hopeless—apart from Étienne Moreau. Did you see his work when you came in? Striking, very striking.”
“One out of how many?”
“Thirty to begin with, then a dozen or so by the end. I have to watch myself—can’t scare off all of them.”
“Understood, my dear Fabritius.”
“The monied and hopeless are there to support the poor and talented—we know it, even if they don’t.”
“As it has always been. One in a thousand, if that, has the talent to make a life of it. And yet we persevere.”
“If it hadn’t been for Moreau I’d have gone mad, I tell you. Impossible to manage, like the best ones, but I think he’ll go far.”
“And his fellow students?”
“I’ve forgotten their names already.”
They walked away, laughing gaily over Maître Czerny’s last remark, and she simply stood and stared at the odd little still life before her until all she could see were meaningless, formless dots, and still the words turned and turned in her head.
Monied and hopeless. One in a thousand. Forgotten their names already.
It was far too hot inside. She would faint if she stayed where she was. So she walked to the nearest exit, skirting the main rooms, praying to escape before anyone she knew found her.
She burst through the first door she came across, gulping in great breaths of cooling air, and when she felt a little steadier she walked to a nearby bench and sat down.
All along, she had been wrong. When she had believed she was progressing, improving, she had been wrong. When she had thought she might, possibly, have some small amount of talent, she had been wrong.
When her friends had told her that her work was good, they had been wrong. They had been lying to her, out of kindness no doubt, but still—it had all been a lie.
And the year she had begged for? The year in Paris she’d been so certain would transform her life? It had been a twelvemonth of delusions, nothing more.
“There you are.”
She didn’t look up, couldn’t look up. Not him.
Not Sam, not now.
“Why are you here?” she asked dully.
“Why am I here? How can you ask such a thing? I’m here because of you.”
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Something’s the matter. Did something happen in there?”
“Nothing happened,” she lied, and tried to remember what it felt like to smile. It was impossible, so she conjured up an approximation and pasted it to her face before turning to face him. “It was too warm inside.”
“I saw your painting. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ve all been looking for you—it’s nearly time to go to the Murphys’.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s just gone eight o’clock.”
She had been sitting on the bench for an hour and a half. The sun had nearly set, and she hadn’t noticed.
He led her inside, where she endured the embraces and compliments of her aunt and friends, and then they were in the car and on the way to the Murphys’ flat, and Sam would not leave off watching her, his concern impossible to ignore.
She would not speak of it with him, or with anyone else. She had made a fool of herself, but it wasn’t a killing blow. It wasn’t the sort of thing a person could die from, not unless they were very silly and self-involved.
Tomorrow she would figure out what she was meant to do—but tonight she would set it all aside, all of the heartache and disappointment, and she would be happy for her friends. For a few hours she would be happy, and then, in the morning, she would begin again.
Chapter 27
The Murphys’ pied-à-terre occupied the top two floors of an ancient building at the corner of the quai des Grands Augustins and rue Gît-le-Coeur. Although the staircase and corridors of the building were shabby in the extreme, Sara and Gerald’s apartment was a marvel of modern décor. Its floors were painted a glossy black and its walls a bright white, and the only touch of color in the sitting room came from red brocade curtains that hung at the floor-to-ceiling windows and framed a marvelous view of the Seine and the Sainte Chapelle. Unusual flower arrangements further brightened the rooms—one was nothing more than stalks of celery, their leafy tops intact—and on top of the grand piano was an enormous metal sphere that most guests took to be a piece of sculpture but was, Sara confided, actually an industrial ball bearing. Altogether it wasn’t Helena’s idea of homey comfort, but it was the perfect venue for a cocktail party.
It had been hours since she’d eaten, but rather than help herself to any of the food in the dining room she went straight to Gerald and ordered up one of his near-lethal cocktails. Its effects were gratifyingly numbing, and after following it with three glasses of champagne Helena decided that she was quite happy with the world and her place in it after all.
For a while she hovered at Agnes�
�s elbow, not trying to insert herself in any of the conversations that ebbed and flowed around her, and then, suddenly, her head was pounding and she’d had enough. One of the sitting room windows was open, so she stood before it and gulped in deep breaths of night air, clearing her lungs of the fug of cigarette smoke and too-strong perfume.
Someone came to stand behind her, and without turning she knew it was Sam.
“Ellie. Something’s wrong. Don’t say there isn’t.”
“It’s nothing. I made the mistake of drinking one of Gerald’s cocktails on an empty stomach. That’s all.”
“You aren’t happy, not even close to it, but you should be. Just look at what you’ve achieved.”
This angered her so much that she whirled around to face him, but her head started to spin and she had to clutch at his shirtfront to steady herself. “I learned today that I was wrong,” she said when her vision finally cleared. “I was wrong to think I had a future as an artist.”
“What happened?” he asked, his expression a curious mixture of anger and disbelief.
“I overheard Maître Czerny talking to someone, I don’t know who. He didn’t use my name but he was talking about me. He said I was monied and hopeless and I was there only to support the students who are poor and talented. He said he’d forgotten my name already.”
“That bastard. I could kill him.”
“But he was right. I’ve always had a feeling I wasn’t good enough. That I was fooling myself to think I had any real talent. And now I know for certain . . . oh, Sam. What will I do now?”
Her eyes filled with tears, too many to blink away, and when she tried to hide her face he held her fast and wiped them dry with his thumbs.
“Sorry. I never seem to have a handkerchief. Right—this is what we’re going to do. You’re not having fun, and I don’t think you should have anything more to drink. I’ll walk you home and we’ll talk, and everything will be all right. Sit here while I get your coat and tell Sara and Agnes where we’re going.”
Seconds later he was back at her side, guiding her downstairs and across the bridge and past the cathedral. He kept her close by, his arm supporting her, making sure she didn’t stumble on the cobbles, and when Vincent opened the door Sam did all the talking.
“Good evening, Vincent. Lady Helena isn’t feeling well, so I brought her home early. Could you have a pot of tea and some plain toast brought to her room, please? I’ll take her up now.”
“Mr. Howard, I hope you understand that—”
“On my honor, Vincent, I swear you have nothing to worry about. I would never do anything that might upset Lady Helena or her aunt.”
Suitably mollified, Vincent went off to sort out Helena’s tea and toast while Sam steered her in the direction of the stairs. When she stumbled at the first step he simply lifted her in his arms and, cradling her close, walked up the steep staircase with no apparent difficulty.
“Is your room here on the second floor?”
It was hard to talk, for she was so very tired, but she had to correct him. “This is the first floor. Silly American.”
“Fine,” he said, and kissed her hair. “If you say so. Which one of these doors is your room?”
“Far end . . . left side.”
The door was ajar, so he shouldered it open and carried her across the room to her bed. He set her down and then, stooping a little, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch, whisper-soft, was the nicest thing she had ever felt.
“I had better go, otherwise Vincent is going to have a heart attack.”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
She struggled to her knees, set her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him before he could stop her. At first he didn’t respond, his mouth refusing to soften under hers, so she wrapped her arms around his neck, as she’d once seen Theda Bara do in a movie, and, opening her mouth just a little, let her tongue dart out to touch at his lips.
This had the effect of melting his reserve, and he pulled her close and kissed her so fiercely that she felt certain he had changed his mind and did desire her after all. But it only lasted a few seconds before he pulled away, gently but firmly, unwound her arms from around his neck, and took her hands in his.
“Ellie, no. You’re in no fit state—”
She clutched at his arms, trying to draw him into an embrace, but Sam evaded her grasp and took another step back.
“I said no. You’re not—”
“But I love it when you kiss me. I would seduce you if I knew how . . .”
“Are you trying to kill me? Listen—you’re upset, you’re three sheets to the wind, and Vincent has probably got his ear to the door right now. And we both know he wouldn’t think twice about chopping me into little pieces if he thought it might please your aunt.”
This struck Helena as one of the funniest things she had ever heard, and it was some time before she was able to stop giggling and catch her breath. She started to talk, but her tongue suddenly felt swollen, and her mouth wouldn’t behave, and on top of everything else she discovered she had a frightful case of the hiccups.
“Si—hic—silly man. Was Auntie A—hic—who gave me th’ idea. She said we should be lo—hic—lovers. So she won’ care.”
Sam was shaking his head, but she knew she had to explain, had to make him understand. “Auntie A says I’m in love with you.”
“Are you?”
“I don’ know. Never fell in love be—hic—before. Would be silly to love you.”
“Why, Ellie? Why would it be silly? Because I—”
“Because you’re jus’ like Edward. You’re Edward in an Amer—hic—American suit. Thas’ wha’ you are, an’ it makes me sad. So, so sad . . .”
She looked up at him, and of course he was so tall she had to tilt her head right back, and everything around her started to spin and shift. Her stomach turned over once, twice, and her throat seemed to close up—and then, before she could warn Sam or turn away, she vomited all over his front, and it went on forever, and in that instant she really, truly, wished she could die and never have to look him in the eye again.
He didn’t turn away, which was very surprising, but instead stayed where he was and rubbed her back, even as she was throwing up all over his shoes. He said, “oh, honey,” once or twice, and when it was over and she had stopped that awful empty retching, he fetched a towel from her washstand so she might wipe her face.
Even after the maid had arrived he only went as far as the hall, and when she and her room were clean, and she had been dressed in a fresh nightgown and dosed with bicarbonate, he came in again to say good night. He had changed into a clean shirt and trousers, though neither fit him very well.
“Vincent lent me some of his clothes,” Sam explained. “Do you feel any better?”
“A little,” she whispered.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll talk then. Try to get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead, and then he was gone.
THE NEXT DAY found Helena feeling thoroughly wretched in both body and spirit. She woke at dawn, her head aching so badly that the slightest movement pained her, and immediately resolved that she would never, ever, ever let a sip of alcohol pass her lips again.
She staggered to her washstand, the distance between it and her bed stretching near to infinity, and met the sorry gaze of her reflection in the mirror above. She had never looked worse. Her face was smeared with rouge and mascara, her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair stood on end and smelled horribly of smoke.
Somehow she stayed upright long enough to wash her face and brush her teeth, which made her feel fractionally less disgusting. Back at her bedside, she swallowed two tablets of aspirin and, thoroughly exhausted, burrowed under her eiderdown and shut her eyes against the coming day.
If only she could shut her mind to the memories of her mortifying behavior. Sam had been so understanding, and she had rewarded his kindness by acting in the most shameless fashion—and then, when he had declined her pathetic overtures,
she had vomited all over him.
That was all she could think about, her mind’s eye replaying it again and again, and even once she fell asleep again the memory of those moments haunted her, chasing her through galleries of paintings by other artists, talented artists, and whenever she stopped to look for her own work Maître Czerny would spring up like a crazed Guignol puppet, shouting, “Useless! Hopeless!” and no matter where she searched, she couldn’t find her Sam, for he had left her, too, and would never return . . .
“Helena? Helena, darling, it’s Auntie A. May I come in? Helena?”
How long had her aunt been knocking? She sat up, untangled the sheets from around her legs, and rubbed the sleep from her still-swollen eyes. “Come in,” she called.
“There you are. Oh, heavens—Sam wasn’t exaggerating. Are you feeling better?”
“Not really. What time is it?”
“Nearly two in the afternoon. I thought it best to let you sleep. Sam is downstairs.”
“He’s what—he’s here? Why is he here?”
“I expect to see how you’re feeling. The poor man looks very tired, so you mustn’t keep him waiting. Should I ask him to come up?”
“No, I’ll come downstairs. I just need a few minutes to dress.”
Once out of bed, she had to admit she felt a little steadier, and her head had ceased pounding quite so relentlessly. She dressed hurriedly, in an old frock that had seen better days, and, after brushing her teeth again and smoothing her hair, gingerly made her way downstairs.
Sam was in the petit salon, sitting on a ridiculous little fauteuil that was far too fragile for his large frame, and for some reason he was wearing his best shirt and coat, the ones he reserved for important interviews at the Élysée Palace. To her relief, his smile was wide and genuine, and when he greeted her it was with a heart-stopping kiss on her mouth, not her cheek.
“How are you?” he asked, guiding her to a nearby chair.
“Better. I felt like death warmed over this morning, but I went back to bed and that helped. Sam—I’m so sorry for last night. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You were right to be upset, given what you overheard at the Salon. And you’d had a long day, with hardly anything to eat. No wonder the drink went to your head.”
Moonlight Over Paris Page 23
