Someone cleared their throat behind her. Spinning, she caught sight of Yves Rousseau—tall, debonair and oh so alluring.
‘I did not expect to see you here, Lily Johansson. It is my great pleasure.’ His friendly blue eyes didn’t leave hers.
‘Oh, hi. Sorry, but I was just leaving.’ The familiar stirrings of attraction mixed with panic grew within and she moved to get past but he stepped in front of her.
‘What is your hurry? You were standing like a statue a moment ago.’ His gentle smile only made it harder to leave. She had to, though. Didn’t she? Getting caught up admiring a man wasn’t in her plans.
Lily pushed a piece of hair out of her eye.
Pointing at her shaking hand, he said, ‘I think you may need a coffee. There is a good café down the street.’
She had to give him points for persistence, that’s for sure. Letting her hand drop to her side, she tried to quell the trembling that started at her fingers and travelled up her arms.
‘It is very good coffee, I promise.’ His eyes met hers.
‘I don’t think so but thanks anyway,’ she said, her energy drained from the goings on with Natalie.
‘I will not talk of muses or ballet.’ Cheekiness flashed in his eyes.
‘Promise?’ Her lips twitched, his geniality charming. Maybe some company would be nice and a caffeine hit could work wonders. Perhaps a piece of cake. Or two.
‘You have my word.’ He gave a small bow.
‘Okay,’ she said, wondering if she’d regret this decision later.
‘Good! We shall leave now, oui?’
‘Don’t you have to finish doing whatever you were doing here?’ A quick trip to the bathroom to check for runny mascara would be a most excellent idea.
‘No. It is done. Let us go now.’ He moved towards the exit. ‘See you tomorrow, Bernard!’ Yves waved as his long legs carried him up the alleyway where he waited for her to catch up. ‘Sorry, I forget my legs take me quicker than most.’
‘It’s okay.’ Her heart beat faster than it probably should. Man, she needed to get some more exercise. ‘I tend to be slower than most.’
They walked in silence for a block and a half until they reached a café. The bright blue awning matched the sky above and the yellow tablecloths mirrored the bright sun. Taking a seat outside, they ordered coffees and macarons. Silence enveloped their little table. For years, all Lily had talked about was ballet, so when she’d quit, conversations became strained, even with people she knew. Now, in front of this gorgeous man with lovely eyes, her mouth and brain refused to find something interesting to say.
Yves said, ‘I thought I would see you again. I just did not expect it to be at the theatre. Are you stalking me?’
‘What? No!’ She rolled the serviette between her fingers.
‘I am making a joke!’ He laughed. ‘You are a very serious person.’
‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘I can see this.’ He took a sip then looked at her over the rim of the cup. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
Scrunching the serviette, she shook her head.
‘We shall try another topic, yes? How do you know Mademoiselle Natalie?’
Her head jerked up, her eyes wide. ‘What?’
He laughed. ‘That is a strange reaction. Is she a friend? Oh! Maybe she is a relation?’
‘Sort of.’ So much for coffee, cake and a peaceful chat.
‘What is this “sort of”? Are you cousins? Wicked stepsisters?’
‘No.’ She stifled a laugh despite her solemn mood.
‘Maybe you are sisters?’
Nodding, she let go of the serviette and stared at the creases.
‘But you do not look the same. She is blonde and you have dark hair. Her skin is olive and yours is fair. Ha!’ He slapped his knee. ‘What are the chances I would meet you in a park while I am composing a ballet your sister may dance in?’
‘What?’ The serviette fell to the stony ground.
‘She has not told you she is trying for the lead role?’ He sounded genuinely perplexed. ‘Do you two have a problem? I heard raised voices when I walked down the hall.’
She shifted in her chair and looked over his shoulder. Parisians hurried past, not a care in the world, totally oblivious to Yves Rousseau interrogating her. ‘We haven’t spoken for nearly two years.’
‘I am sorry for this.’ He sounded genuine.
They fell into silence and she was grateful for the chance to get her thoughts straight.
‘Let us talk about something nice. Is this your first time in my beautiful city?’
Lily closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I was here a while ago.’
‘Ah, I can understand why you would want to return. The parks, the monuments, theatres, museums…’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘I am a lucky man, living in Paris.’
‘Yes, you are.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘But I’m afraid the beauty is lost on me.’
‘Oh?’ He cocked an eyebrow.
‘It’s not Paris, don’t worry. It really is a gorgeous place, but my experiences here have been far from wonderful.’ He opened his mouth but she cut him off. ‘Please, don’t ask. As much as I enjoy your company, I just can’t talk about my previous time here.’
Yves nodded and his show of respect made her want to blurt out everything that had built up inside her since Aiden’s death.
‘Would you like to know about me?’ The glint in his eyes helped her quash the painful memories clawing to the surface.
‘Actually, yes, I would.’ Her genuine interest rattled her a little but she was grateful for the change of topic. Perhaps now was the time to get off the cloud of despair and bring herself back into the real world again. The only problem she could see was Yves’s connection to the ballet world. Why couldn’t she have met someone who hated the dance as passionately as she used to love it?
‘I am, how you say, an open book,’ said Yves. ‘My belief is that everything in life—good and bad—is a chance to learn. We should not be embarrassed about our pasts as usually our decisions are the best we can make at the time.’
‘That’s a nice philosophy, Yves, but I’m not so sure it’s that easy.’
‘Why not?’ He pushed the plate of macarons towards her. She shook her head, suddenly off food. ‘Most people try to do the right thing, even if our motives are misguided.’
‘I can tell you for a fact not everyone believes that.’
‘Ah. Your sister?’
Was she that transparent? Lily bit her bottom lip.
‘Is this why you don’t like ballet? Because your sister is a dancer?’
‘The relationship with my sister is complicated.’
‘She has more layers than an onion.’
Lily laughed, relieved to be speaking with someone who understood the workings of Natalie. ‘She’s not the easiest person to get along with.’
‘No, she is not.’ Yves popped another macaron in his mouth. As he chewed, his gaze rested on the bustling pedestrians. ‘You love her just the same, oui?’
‘She’s my sister,’ she said. It wasn’t really an answer. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not comfortable talking about her at the moment.’
‘I understand. Not everyone is like me and will talk about their life to strangers. Although, we have met more than twice so that makes us acquaintances now.’ He grinned and dabbed his mouth with a serviette. ‘Do you mind if I have one more thing to say about Natalie? Then we change the subject.’
‘Sure,’ she said, figuring Yves wouldn’t let up. And even though Lily hardly knew him, she enjoyed his warmth and friendliness.
‘I overheard Natalie say you are wasting your life and she does not want you in hers.’
Her fingers turned ice cold. ‘You heard that?’
‘I am sorry but it is impossible to switch off my ears, yes? Plus, you two were yelling.’
‘Was it really loud?’
That chunk of hair fell over his eye again and she resist
ed the urge to gently brush it away. ‘You were not too loud but using my ears is part of my job and I can hear even the softest sound.’
‘Your neighbours must hate you.’
His laugh spurred her to join in. ‘Luckily, they travel a lot. Back to you and your sister, though; why does she think you are wasting your time?’
‘Long story.’ Such a long, long story.
‘You are hard to get to know, Lily Johansson.’
‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve spent a lot of time alone recently and I’m not used to deep conversations.’ She placed her elbows on the table and her forehead on her hands. ‘God, that sounds pathetic. I’m not a social leper, I promise.’
‘You are having some troubles, that is all.’
‘Wish it was only some,’ she mumbled.
‘Do you want to be out of Natalie’s life?’
‘She’s always been melodramatic.’ Once more, Lily didn’t properly answer.
‘I understand your sister well enough to know that what is normal for most people is a big drama for Natalie.’ He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. ‘I believe I can help you.’
‘How?’ She leaned forward, trying to suppress the rising hope.
‘I am one of the few people Natalie will listen to. I don’t know why but it is so.’
Lily knew exactly why her sister would pay attention to what Yves said—his charm, openness and ridiculously good looks for starters.
‘She is dancing as understudy in the current ballet for Bohème but will be auditioning for Turning Pointe. This means my score must be completely finished very, very soon.’ She nodded for him to continue, not sure where he was headed. ‘So I have a proposal for you.’
‘Dare I ask?’ Heat flushed across her face.
‘I will smooth the way for Natalie to listen to you.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘I do not make a promise unless I can keep it. I will get your sister to listen but I cannot guarantee her reaction.’ He leaned back against the chair. ‘In return, I will have the pleasure of your company while I put the finishing touches on Turning Pointe.’
Lily’s mouth dropped open then she quickly closed it. Of course Yves Rousseau was too good to be true. For a moment he’d convinced her he wasn’t the peculiar composer she’d met in the park yet here he was, spouting ridiculous proposals once again.
‘I’m not your muse.’
‘Maybe we should not use that word.’
‘You were happy to call me that when you grabbed me the other day.’ She scraped her chair against the stones ready to make a hasty exit.
‘And I apologise.’ He held his hand over his heart. ‘I get carried away at times, just like your sister.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I’ll be honest and tell you I am desperate. The ballet company hired me in good faith to deliver this ballet but I am stuck. It is written but it is not to the point where I am fully happy. It does not have…’ He waved his hand in the air as if trying to grasp the right word. ‘Zest. Passion. Je ne sais quoi. But the two times I have seen you in the park the spark returned. And now that I have seen you today…’ he pushed out a long, low whistle, ‘I am inspired again.’
‘Muses don’t exist. They’re just used by artists as an excuse not to work.’
‘Are you always this cynical?’
‘No.’ At least, she hadn’t always been like this. She used to be a glass is half full kinda gal but since Aiden’s death, her demeanour and view on life had changed. She’d struggled with it every day but just couldn’t be the person she once was.
Yves said, ‘I shall call you my inspirationist.’
‘Your what?’
‘Inspirationist.’ His lips twitched then broke into a wide smile. ‘Deal?’
‘I don’t know.’ Although, she couldn’t see another way to achieve her goal. She had to get to the bottom of Natalie’s behaviour and if she had to sacrifice a few hours with an odd composer then so be it.
‘Fine.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Are you saying yes?’ His wide eyes sparkled.
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent! And so we begin Project Inspiration.’
CHAPTER
6
Lily moved from foot to foot, rubbing her hands along her arms as she stood in the deserted street in front of Yves’s apartment. Darkness snaked across the buildings as streetlights cast an eerie light through the cool haze. She checked her watch once more, in case time had miraculously swung backward and she was there too early. Nope. Yves was still late.
She shivered, her body not welcoming the early onset of winter. Sure, life on the farm could get cold at night but the Parisian cold was so very different. It bit through clothes, chilled the skin, and every breath felt like icicles were piercing her lungs.
A deep cough brought her attention to halfway down the block. Yves strode towards her, thick navy coat cocooning his large frame. He adjusted the red scarf he’d knotted stylishly and slid her a wink as he skipped up the steps to where she stood.
‘I am sorry for my lateness. I was at a meeting. I am afraid clocks and I are not very good friends.’
‘I figured as much.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Can we get out of this cold, please?’
‘Of course, mademoiselle.’ Yves jangled a set of keys. At the end of each one were filigrees that were the same as the intricate latticework on the front door.
‘I like old-fashioned keys,’ she said.
Yves stuck one in the keyhole and fiddled until the lock eventually clicked open. ‘These keys are nice and holding on to something old may be appealing, but sometimes we need to move with the times. Especially if the old isn’t serving us well anymore.’ He flicked the set of keys in the air and caught them.
How did a comment about keys morph into a philosophical observation about life? There seemed to be more to Yves Rousseau than she’d initially thought. Following him into the foyer, Lily stopped to marvel at the wood panelling lining the hall and the staircase that sported a plush red carpet that snaked up into the unknown.
‘We go to the third floor,’ he said.
Yves took off and Lily trailed behind, still not convinced this was one of the brightest things she’d ever done. But if she wanted Yves’s help, she had little choice.
They reached the apartment and Yves, jingling the keys again, opened the door to apartment 3B. He reached in to flick on a light and stood back to let her enter. A chandelier too big for the entrance sparkled above, its brilliance reflected in the heavy gold-plated mirrors. Paintings and photographs of ballet dancers took up much of the living room walls and in the corner stood a mannequin wearing what looked like a Ballets Russes costume.
She studied the bright red jacket with thick yellow stripes fanning out from the shoulders to the waist. In the middle of the jacket were a padded series of swirls, not unlike an artist’s impression of waves. Yellow and black baggy pants hung off the mannequin’s frame and on the head was a bizarre hat that looked part court jester although it held an element that hinted at Chinese origin. Her mouth went dry. In her old world, the Ballets Russes had been talked about in reverent voices, as if it was an ancient religion.
‘Is this…’ She could barely say it. Was she really standing in front of a one-hundred-year-old costume? ‘Is this the Chinese Conjurer from Parade that Picasso designed?’
‘Ah, I see your sister’s connection with ballet has rubbed off on you.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Why was it so hard to confess her prior career? Turning her attention to the costume, she asked, ‘It’s a copy, right?’
‘It is a good reproduction, oui? No one other than an expert of the Ballets Russes can tell the difference.’
‘I’m impressed.’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the masterpiece. Even though it was a reproduction, the rich detail, the hand stitching, and the vibrant colours meant it could easily pass as the original. She bit her lip, wishing she could get over herself and l
et him into her old world. But what was the point? She turned the conversation and said, ‘That must have been an intense era. Picasso really knew how to have an impact across many art forms.’
‘That he did.’ He gestured for her to take a seat on the overstuffed sofa. Lily shrugged off her coat and placed it with her bag on the gold brocade armchair. ‘I have something else to show you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But it is in my bedroom.’
Incredulity swept through her. ‘If you think—’
He held up his hand, his eyes wide. ‘No, no! It is not what you think. I have a dress.’ He lowered his head and shook it. ‘This is coming out all wrong.’
Yves ventured through the door off the lounge room and Lily eyed her handbag and coat. Maybe she should…
‘Here it is.’
She looked up to find Yves holding a mid-blue Grecian-style dress with large green and yellow circles that looked like bullseyes. Delicate gold beads cinched the waist and dull gold balls were sewn into the skirt.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed out slowly, forcing her fingers to remain at her side even though the costume screamed to be touched. To be admired. To be revered.
Yves said, ‘This is from the 1911 ballet Narcisse. It’s about Narcissus, a handsome young man who rejects the advances of the mountain-nymph Echo. Hurt and angry, Echo asks the goddess Pomona to make Narcissus fall in love in a way that will never be reciprocated. Narcissus sees a reflection of himself in the water, becomes besotted and stands gazing at himself for so long he sinks into the ground and in place of where he once stood grows the narcissus flower.’
‘Well that’s rather tragic,’ she said. ‘Replica?’
Beneath the Parisian Skies Page 5
