“I’m not going to guess. Maybe you shouldn’t tell me. It might betray a confidence.”
Marla blows on her coffee and slurps it. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if Jesse had asked me not to tell anyone. Since I’m your mother, don’t you think he knows you’re the first person I’d tell?”
“You’re giving him a lot of credit. He’s gorgeous, but I don’t know that he thinks that deeply about things like this.”
“You’re wrong. That’s your problem, Hannah. You can be so judgmental. You form conclusions about people and then you brand them. No one’s allowed to make a mistake because in Miss Perfect’s eyes, they’ll carry that stigma forever.”
I cross my arms. “I’ve never claimed to be perfect. That’s pretty harsh.”
“No worse than you branding me an alcoholic tramp for the rest of my life when I’m working hard to change.”
And so goes the endless loop of illogic that is an argument with my mother.
I shake my head.
“At the risk of sounding judgmental, that’s the mother I’ve known all my life. You show up unannounced and you stay out all night. It’s optics, Marla. That’s what I see. It’s the only you I’ve ever known.”
“That’s what Gram made you see.”
“Leave Gram out of this. She and Granny Ivy were all I had. You were off doing your own thing, living your own life. Do not blame Gram.”
“I know Gram was good to you, but there’s more to the story than you know.”
“Stop. Okay? Just stop.”
I want to put my hands over my ears.
If she starts talking smack about my grandmother, I will get her bags and put them out on the curb. Gram was the only mother figure I had when I was growing up. Our life in Orlando may have been boring by Marla’s standards, but at least Gram was there for me. Not only did she put a roof over my head and food in my belly, but she also taught me to love literature. She sent me to college. She raised me with values.
Oh God, listen to me.
I guess I do sound judgmental.
But I’m not a bitch.
Judgmental bitches have no problem confronting people. I relegate the raging to the privacy of my mind.
Because when you speak your mind, people like Marla brand you judgmental. Full circle.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. I know Gram is off-limits. Even though she and I had our differences, I respect that she was good to you.”
I shrug.
We sit in silence for a moment.
As I sip my coffee, I ponder how Gram was so tender and warm toward me but so cold toward her own daughter. Marla was hard to love. She was a challenge. I witnessed that with my own eyes, but I can’t reconcile the grandmother I knew with the mother Marla claims to have known.
I don’t want to dissect the one safe spot of my childhood right now. Contrary to Marla’s dig, nobody’s perfect. I’m sure Gram had her flaws. But I don’t want Marla to smash Gram’s clay feet.
Marla’s surprise appearance, the did-she-or-didn’t-she question of her night with Jesse, and the Paris apartment that we need to sort out together—it’s all too much.
“Do you want to call Jesse and ask him about last night?” Marla’s inane suggestion pulls me out of my thoughts.
“No. I don’t want to talk to Jesse.”
“Then you believe me?”
“Okay, fine. Whatever.”
I really don’t care.
“So then guess who broke Jesse’s heart.” She leans forward, her brows arched. “I’ll give you a clue. You see her every day.”
At this point, the guessing game seems the best way back to stable ground.
“I can’t think of anyone else I see every day other than Cressida or Tallulah.”
Marla’s eyes light up and she purses her lips. “You’ve narrowed it down nicely.”
Tallulah had a fling with Jesse last year. It was one-sided on her part. She thought she could change him and wanted it to be more than it was. The tighter she hung on, the more he pulled away. Eventually, everything imploded. She was wrecked over it. I can’t imagine Jesse suddenly doing an about-face….
My mind flashes back to a night when we were at the Bull and Thorn pub and Cressida and Jesse seemed extra chummy. He was teaching her to throw darts. He had his arms around her and was helping her aim. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it.
“Is it Cressida?”
Marla’s face lights up like Camden High Street at Christmas. “I will neither confirm nor deny that.”
“Why? I thought you said you weren’t betraying Jesse’s confidence.”
“Yeah, but I’m realizing that I don’t know how Cressida would feel about me telling you. She’s been so nice to me. I don’t want to make her mad. I don’t want to rock the boat while I’m here.”
“But you just told me.”
Marla grimaces and puts her hand over her mouth.
“I guess I did. But you can’t say anything, okay?”
“I won’t. I mean, it’s no big deal. It was only a couple of times, right?”
“No, apparently it was going on for a while. Like most of last year.” She grimaces again. “Let’s not. I just… Let’s pretend like I didn’t say anything.”
Despite her black eye—or maybe because of it—she looks earnest. I want to believe her. I don’t want to judge her—or anyone, not even Cressida, for having a secret fling with Jesse.
Maybe I’m an idiot for softening up when a moment ago I was ready to boot Marla out.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
At this point we’d all be better off not to test her. The path of least resistance is to get to Paris.
“I was thinking,” I say. “Since the meter is ticking on my vacation, it’s better for us to go check out the apartment sooner rather than later.”
“Absolutely,” Marla says. “I’ll look into arrangements. Maybe we can leave tomorrow?”
April 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had a chance to write, but I have a good excuse: a lot has happened. Thanks to the guidance of Pablo’s friend Luc Fabron, we have found a new living arrangement. It’s a small apartment in Montparnasse. It’s not fancy, but at least it’s clean and free of smelly letches who change the rules at whim.
It turned out the painter Pablo Picasso, who seemed so smitten with Helen, had a young girlfriend… and a wife. He has yet to paint Helen. I think she hurt his feelings. That morning at Dingo Bar, he introduced Helen to Luc, another painter. Immediately, Helen threw over Pablo for Luc. It’s just as well, given Pablo’s reputation for collecting women. And the fact that Helen does not like to share.
Beyond her happiness, meeting Luc was a godsend because he knew of an inexpensive apartment that was available for immediate occupancy. We were able to move in that night. We did not have to risk Monsieur Arpin barging in as we slept.
Much to Luc’s delight, we are now his neighbors. He’s as smitten with Helen as she is with him. It’s too early to tell whether my friend’s infatuation will last. Even if it doesn’t, Helen has a way of converting tiresome romances into friendships—well, except for Pablo, who seemed full of resentment as he watched Luc take possession of Helen’s affections.
I hope Luc understands that if she gets an offer from the Ballets Russes, she will be gone from his arms faster than he can say, Helen, mon amour.
But for now, they are happy, and we are safe in our new abode.
The afternoon of our first visit to Dingo Bar, we decided to stay away from Monsieur Arpin’s place on rue du Cardinal Lemoine until night fell with the hopes that Monsieur Arpin had a nightly routine of drinking himself into an oblivion. Luc and other friends of his (but not Pablo) tagged along to protect us while we gathered our belongings.
I wondered if it was a good idea because by that late hour the men were drunk and seemed to be spoiling for a fight, saying things like, “Let him even look at
the two of you and we’ll knock him into next week.”
I didn’t want a scene. I wanted to collect our things and leave Monsieur Arpin and his slum garret in the past. I had bigger fish to fry, such as finding a job so I could earn enough money to cover my share of the rent, which, we discovered, was inexpensive by Paris standards, but cost decidedly more than the place on rue du Cardinal Lemoine. Considering we would no longer be forced to pay the high price of fighting for our dignity, it was worth the extra expense.
Not long after we were settled in the new apartment, I learned that Pauline and Ernest had left Paris before she could look at my designs and make the introductions she’d offered. Apparently they are to be married. After what happened with Hem, I’m not surprised she didn’t follow through. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised.
Adele, a woman I met at Dingo Bar, warned me that Hem had a wandering eye and fast hands. She said he had been married to a woman named Hadley when he met Pauline. According to Adele, it was love at first sight for Pauline, even though she and her sister, Jinny, met Ernest and Hadley together. Apparently, Pauline even went so far as to befriend Hadley to get close to Hem.
This is all to say that perhaps Pauline’s helpful demeanor at the bar was less a case of true self-confidence as it was a matter of keeping friends close and romantic rivals closer. She need not worry about me—I have no designs on her man—but it’s clear I can’t count on her for introductions. Now, I have no choice but to get out there and make the rounds at other fashion houses on my list.
There will be a job for me in this mecca, won’t there?
Seven
January 2, 2019—3:00 p.m.
Gare du Nord train station, 10th arrondissement
Paris, France
The next day, Marla and I board the train at St. Pancras station and make the two-hour-and-fifteen-minute trip through the Chunnel to the Gare du Nord in Paris.
“Let’s not take the Metro,” Marla says when we’re standing on the sidewalk paralleling rue de Dunkerque in front of the train station. She points to her phone where she’s entered the address of our hotel into Google Maps. “Let’s walk.”
We reserved a room at a small hotel in the first arrondissement near the Louvre, figuring it was the smart thing to do since we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Even though it was a bit far from the apartment, which is in the ninth, the price was right for a modest place with good ratings in a nice part of Paris.
Marla holds out her phone. “It says we’re only eleven minutes from the hotel. After being cooped up on that train, I could use some exercise. Want to walk?”
“Sure, I’m up for it.”
Before we set out this morning, we called the French law office and were happy to reach Monsieur Levesque’s assistant. We arranged to meet him at his office at 4:30. It’s 3:00 now, which gives us plenty of time to get to the hotel, check in, and make our way to his office in Montparnasse.
Plus, walking will allow us to see Paris. I’m surprised at how my heart leaps at the opportunity, as if it’s breaking free from the cell in which I’d caged my hopes that the apartment would be viable.
I turn in a slow circle, taking in everything: the honking horns of cars and motorcycles on the bustling rue de Dunkerque, shouts and laughs of pedestrians as they pass by on the wide sidewalks, the six-story Haussmann-style buildings that line the street across from the train station.
There’s an open window on the second floor of one of the proud stone structures. I can see the silhouette of someone passing in front of it. People live in those apartments nestled atop the shops and red-canopied cafés.
I wonder who they are and how they got there. Will that be me someday? Will I be the one in the apartment and someone else will be standing on the street looking up, wondering how I got there? The thought of living in Paris leaves me breathless. But I’m still cautious. I don’t want to get too carried away in case this turns out to be a big nothing.
I force myself to look away and my gaze lands on a small house in front of the Gare du Nord that appears to be tilting or melting into the sidewalk.
“What in the world is that?”
Marla follows my gaze and immediately starts walking toward the structure.
A brass sign stuck in the pavement next to the melting building says it’s a sculpture created by an Argentine artist named Leandro Erlich.
It’s called the Maison Fond.
I was right—it’s supposed to look as if it’s melting into the pavement. That’s exactly the point. It was created for the United Nations 2015 Climate Change Conference as a reminder that global warming has a profound effect on the earth and the lives of future generations.
It also hits me on a more personal level, like an omen of what could be in store for us with the apartment. I hope this trip doesn’t melt down into one giant disaster.
Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I turn to Marla. “What are we getting ourselves into?”
Marla fiddles with her phone. “What do you mean?”
“I wonder what the apartment will be like after all these years.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon,” she murmurs, but her attention is trained on her phone. “Okay, well… My battery is low. We’d better get a move on and get to the hotel.”
Wheeling our bags, Marla and I shoulder our way through the crowds coming and going from the Gare du Nord.
All I can think about is the fact that we’ve inherited an apartment in Paris. I’m smiling like an idiot.
Even when a burly man plows between Marla and me, shoulder checking me before I can get out of his way, I don’t care.
We round a corner from the rue de Dunkerque to boulevard de Rochechouart and in a few scant steps, I spy a thin slice of Sacré-Cœur perched high atop the hill in Montmartre. What I can see of its white dome glistens against the brilliant blue sky like a perfectly formed meringue. It takes my breath away.
I grab Marla’s arm. “Look.” I nod in the direction of the basilica.
Marla and I stop and stare reverently.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says. “Maybe we can go there before we leave?”
I nod. “Have you ever been to Paris?”
“I have.” She smiles, but there’s a faraway look in her eyes as we resume walking. “A long time ago.”
“Good memories?” I’m sensing this might elicit a glimpse into my mother’s past, the side of her that I know nothing about except through Gram and Granny Ivy’s hushed, disapproving whispers.
Does her dreamy look have something to do with my father? There’s so much about Marla’s life that’s a mystery; it could be anything.
“Yeah, it does bring back good memories,” she says. “I was seventeen and I’d run away to follow my favorite band on the road.”
“The Squelching Wellies,” I fill in. It’s my attempt at solidarity.
She slants a surprised glance at me. “Yeah. The Wellies. I caught up with them in London. Paris was the next stop on the tour.”
My heart leaps. She was seventeen when she got pregnant, eighteen when she had me. I need to play it cool so I don’t scare her off the topic. I decide to keep it conversational and not act too eager. It’s easy to do since we’re walking side by side, trailing our luggage behind us and dodging other pedestrians.
“How did that work?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you were so young. Did Gram come with you to Europe for the tour?”
She snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m curious—that’s all. Gram was so protective—”
“She was protective of you, Hannah. As far as she was concerned, if I wanted to squander the money I’d saved following a punk band for the summer, that was my business and good riddance.”
“So that’s what you did?”
“Mmmm…” She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and looks at her phone again. “We need to go left… somewhere. Wait… No, that’s n
ot right. Yeah, this is the way. We need to keep following this road.”
It’s a busy street, more congested than the rue de Dunkerque. This road has four lanes of traffic separated by a wide tree-lined median in the middle. We pass a crêperie with wooden tables and chairs out front. There are several shoe shops with carts of athletic footwear outside. There are hotels, tobacco stores, and more restaurants serving everything from sushi to kebabs to curry. I wonder what happened to the French food.
“Were you by yourself?” I ask, determined to resume the conversation.
“When?”
“When you were following The Squelching Wellies.”
“No, Hannah. I was adventurous, but I wasn’t stupid. My friend Callie came with me, but she only stayed two weeks.”
“She left you and went home?”
“Actually, we were only supposed to stay two weeks. That was the original plan, but I wanted to stay longer. What the hell is wrong with my phone?”
She shakes it and nearly drops it.
“I don’t know if shaking it like that is such a good idea, Marla.”
“The damn thing keeps freezing up on me.”
We walk a little farther and that’s when I notice that the landscape has changed to a decidedly seedier atmosphere. The storefronts we’re passing are shuttered by corrugated metal doors and covered with bright-red graffiti.
The family-friendly bistros have given way to tired-looking neoclassical buildings. I glimpse theaters clearly marked ADULTS ONLY and at least a half dozen sex and lingerie shops.
We are definitely not in postcard Paris anymore.
I wheel my suitcase closer to me and avoid making eye contact with a scantily clad woman who has draped herself along the threshold of an adults-only “bookstore” a few doors down.
“Isn’t our hotel in the first arrondissement?”
Marla nods absently.
“The first arrondissement is in the center of the city. Are you sure we’re heading the right way? I thought Sacré-Cœur was toward the outer edge of the city.”
“I’m just following what the GPS says. Do you want to navigate?”
“Not really. My phone battery is low.”
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