by Mandy Baggot
‘You h-haven’t answered my question.’
‘No butler,’ Julien responded. ‘And it has three storeys. The top floor has the bedrooms, the middle floor the living areas and the bottom level for the maids.’
‘What?!’
‘I am joking with you,’ he teased. ‘It is just a simple town house.’
‘In a very nice area of P-Paris,’ she said.
‘And we do have another house in the countryside.’
Ava didn’t get time to respond before the door was whisked open and a beautiful woman with dark hair was standing there dressed elegantly in a black short evening dress, a diamante brooch of a cat on the front of it.
‘Julien,’ she exclaimed. She directed a smile at Ava. ‘Hello.’
‘Bonsoir,’ Ava responded, a hesitant smile at her lips.
‘Vivienne, I would like you to meet Ava Devlin,’ Julien introduced. ‘Ava, this is my step-mother, Vivienne.’
‘It’s very n-nice to meet you,’ Ava said, stepping forward and offering out her hand.
‘It is so wonderful to meet you,’ Vivienne greeted. The woman ignored the hand and instead kissed Ava first on one cheek and then the other. ‘And Ava is such a pretty name.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered, still shivering.
‘You are cold! And I am leaving you here on the doorstep. Come in,’ Vivienne ushered. ‘Julien, you know where the coats go, then bring Ava through to the drawing room, I have lit a fire.’
Julien took Ava’s hand in his and nudged her forward and into the house.
* * *
‘You would like some wine, Ava?’ Vivienne asked. ‘I have white open or some red.’
‘White please,’ Ava said, warming her hands in front of the fire.
For Julien it was strange being in his family home again. It had probably only been months but it all felt a little different. Nothing much had changed. The oil paintings on the wall bought for investment, the large ox-blood-coloured leather suite, the mahogany-coloured coffee table were all relics from his childhood but they seemed foreign to him. His eyes caught some photo frames on the mantelpiece he didn’t remember. He moved next to Ava, looking at the pictures inside them.
‘We just freshened up the photographs,’ Vivienne said, as if in explanation. He knew then why the change. His father, smashing the ones that were usually there.
‘Is that you?’ Ava asked, pointing at one of the photographs. He was dressed in dungarees riding a tyre attached to a metal bar in a play park.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I had a good sense of fashion, no?’
Ava laughed. ‘No, is the right answer.’ She picked up the photo. ‘And that’s Lauren with you.’
Julien looked at the photo. Lauren standing with her arms stretched up to the sky on the very top of the climbing frame.
‘Now, she is wearing a much better outfit,’ Ava remarked.
Julien smiled and looked at his sister wearing a tangerine playsuit and flip-flops on her feet, her blonde hair blowing in the summer breeze.
‘And this is her too,’ Ava said, indicating a photo in a silver frame a little further down the cream-coloured shelf.
‘Yes, just a few years ago,’ Vivienne said, coming over to them and plucking the picture up. ‘She was such a beautiful girl. This was from a photo shoot we had done together. We laughed so much that day.’
Julien could sense the emotion flooding from his step-mother and he gently took the picture out of her hands and set it back on the shelf. He turned to Ava. ‘Lauren was always laughing.’
‘And she had the most infectious laugh,’ Gerard answered.
Julien shifted around quickly, seeing that his father had entered the room. He offered Gerard a smile as he neared them, dressed casually for him in grey flannel trousers and a pale blue shirt, no tie. He looked tired, strung out, vulnerable.
‘I will get the wine,’ Vivienne said, taking steps towards the door.
‘Dad, this is Ava,’ Julien introduced. ‘Ava Devlin. Ava, this is my father, Gerard.’
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Fitoussi,’ Ava said. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’
Gerard nodded, then looked to the departing form of Vivienne almost as if she were abandoning him in unfamiliar territory.
‘So, Dad, how is business?’ Julien asked, trying to keep the conversation moving.
‘Excuse me for one moment,’ Gerard said, stepping back. ‘I will get the wine.’
‘But, Vivienne is—’ Julien began.
‘Please, excuse me,’ Gerard said, retreating fast.
Julien could do nothing more but watch his father leave.
54
Ava couldn’t eat another thing if she tried. She had said that after pudding but still managed to eat three different kinds of cheese and some biscuits. Now Vivienne was trying to encourage her to have tiny homemade chocolates from the bushy, very real, huge Christmas tree that almost dominated the dining room.
‘I really can’t eat anything else,’ Ava said, her hands on her stomach.
‘Ava, you really must taste these,’ Julien stated. ‘Vivienne makes the most wonderful chocolate.’
‘Julien, honestly, you remember how stuffed I was on falafels?’ She bulged her eyes at him. ‘I’m more stuffed than that.’
She watched Julien take a chocolate from Vivienne and sit back in his chair. ‘OK, Ava really has had enough,’ he said, biting into the sweet.
‘But could I maybe take a couple back to my hotel?’ Ava asked with a smile.
Vivienne laughed. ‘But of course.’
She chanced a glance at Julien’s father. He had barely said more than a few sentences throughout the whole dinner. He had eaten far less than any of them and he was on his second bottle of wine. She knew how much this dinner meant to Julien and how he wanted the fundraising evening to be a step forward for his family.
‘So, we’re going out to take some more photographs tomorrow,’ Ava stated.
‘Ava...’ Julien said, his cheeks reddening.
‘Before... well it seems like a lifetime ago really... I used to do a bit of modelling and I thought I knew everything there was to know about photography but watching Julien work... it’s so different to what I’ve been used to.’
‘He is a wonderful photographer,’ Vivienne responded, smiling. ‘Isn’t he, Gerard?’
‘There’s no need—’ Julien started.
‘And what he’s doing with the exhibition, for the Red Cross... it’s going to be an amazing night.’
Gerard shifted his chair back and got to his feet and Ava stopped talking, realising she wasn’t going to get the reaction she had hoped for.
‘Dad,’ Julien said, getting up too as his father headed out of the room.
‘Leave him, Julien,’ Vivienne urged, voice coated with anxiety as the door shut behind Gerard.
‘Not this time,’ Julien said decidedly. ‘Excuse me.’ He put his napkin down on the table and followed his father’s lead.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ava said as the door shut behind Julien.
‘It is not your fault, Ava,’ Vivienne insisted. ‘I do not know how much Julien has told you but...’
‘Pretty much everything I think,’ she answered. ‘Eventually.’
Vivienne shook her head, her fingers going to the brooch on her dress. ‘I am so worried about the whole family, Ava. Gerard, he has always been the strong head of the family. A leader... the foundation stone... he hates to be this way, feel how he is feeling. He believes that grief is just weakness and weakness is not in his nature.’ She sniffed back tears, screwing up her napkin in her hands. ‘He blames himself for Lauren’s death. For being too caught up with work. For her moving out to her own apartment. I mean, it is crazy, she was a grown woman, she was always going to make her own way, live in her own place... and it was an accident... it could have happened anywhere at any time.’
‘Julien misses her very much,’ Ava spoke softly.
‘And I worry about him too. Not opening up, not
accepting that this accident happened to him too. Living with the memories of the trauma and his injury.’
Ava swallowed. ‘His injury?’
Vivienne topped up Ava’s wine glass before filling her own. ‘He has not told you either.’ She shook her head. ‘It is not really my place to—’
‘Please,’ Ava said. ‘Please, Vivienne, he’s the best man I’ve ever known. I want to help him.’
* * *
When Julien reached the kitchen Gerard was leaning over the sink, weight on both hands, head hanging. He flicked on the light and his father moved, sinking his hands into the bowl of washing up and play-acting.
‘Dad, you don’t need to pretend for me,’ Julien said lightly. ‘You have never washed up.’
Gerard slammed a plate down onto the drainer. ‘What is going on, Julien?’ Gerard asked. ‘Who is she?’
‘Ava?’ he queried. ‘I told Vivienne on the phone. She’s—’
‘I know that she is not Monique,’ Gerard snapped.
His father’s words burned and it took every bit of self-control he had to not react.
‘No,’ he responded on a breath, ‘she is not Monique.’ He sighed. ‘And, if you like, we can have a conversation about Ava not being Monique. And then when you have finished telling me whatever it is you think you need to tell me maybe we can talk about the reasons I’m here for dinner. To help you. To hope that you will help me.’ Tension was performing rope tricks in his stomach now but all this needed to be said now, before it was too late.
‘I want you and Vivienne to be part of this exhibition. I don’t want it just to be about the best pictures I can take of the landmarks of Paris, I want it to be about real people, the real France, the best parts and the darkest moments but with an unending string of hope and beauty running right through the middle of it.’ He took a breath, his eyes not leaving his father’s. ‘I want all the loved ones who lost someone in the fire to contribute something. A photographic memory, about loss, recovery, beauty in life and life going on. I want this exhibition to mean something. To achieve something. I don’t want it to be about me and my photos. I want it to be about Lauren, about you and Vivienne, about resilience.’
His heart was drumming hard but he had to get this message across.
‘I need your help, Dad. Not the help of your business or your contacts, although that would be appreciated. I need you. I need you to do this for Lauren, to remember her not with pain but with joy in your heart.’ He let go of a breath, watching his father’s expression. ‘You don’t have to pick up all the pieces alone, Dad. We are in this together.’
Gerard shook his head. ‘Sometimes I feel like I am one of the missing pieces. The piece that has got lost under the sofa somehow. The one that longs to fit back in place but can never seem to be found.’
Julien reached forward and squeezed his father’s forearm. ‘The jigsaw will never be whole again until that piece is recovered.’
‘Even if the puzzle might be better off without the old, rough, sharp-cornered edge?’
‘Never,’ Julien replied.
Gerard sighed. ‘I do not know where to start.’
‘Well,’ Julien began. ‘I think we both need to start talking... to each other... to Vivienne... maybe to a professional.’
‘I do not like that idea,’ Gerard answered.
‘Neither do I,’ Julien agreed. ‘But the idea I like less is that we are never again how we used to be.’
Gerard nodded.
‘So, do you think you will be able to help me? With the exhibition?’ He swallowed. The whole night, if it was going to be as perfect as he wanted it, hinged on what Gerard was about to say. He could do it without him but it wouldn’t be right.
‘I think,’ Gerard began, ‘that perhaps I should have remembered I had a son as well as a daughter.’
Julien swallowed the poignancy as his father clasped hold of his hand, giving it a strong, reassuring squeeze.
‘I will help,’ he answered, nodding.
‘Thank you, Dad,’ Julien replied. ‘Thank you.’
Gerard cleared his throat of emotion, wiping a hand at his eyes before straightening his stance. ‘So, Ava...’
‘Who isn’t Monique.’
‘Yes. That has been established.’ Gerard waited a beat. ‘So?’
‘Well, if life was not so short I would possibly sit back and contemplate my feelings for her.’
‘But life is short,’ Gerard reminded.
‘Indeed,’ Julien agreed. ‘So, that being the case, I need to tell you now that I am in love with her.’
55
Julien Fitoussi’s apartment
‘Ah!’ Ava exclaimed, her eyes looking up from the screen of her phone as they walked along the snow-speckled streets. It was after midnight and she was following Julien’s lead, no idea which arrondissement they were now in.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘My mum,’ Ava said. ‘She reckons she’s had over eighty people respond to her emails about your exhibition saying they would like to come or send a representative from their company.’
‘This is a joke, no?’
‘No,’ Ava said, excitedly. ‘It’s not a joke. We need to design some proper fliers tomorrow but Mum hashed together a mailshot with your website link and reviews of your last exhibition and said it’s for the Red Cross and told them Lauren’s story and... they’re coming... eighty of them already.’
‘I... this cannot be real.’ He stopped walking and blew out a breath.
‘It is real and it’s going to get bigger and better and... we really need to think about another venue,’ Ava offered.
‘I just... I don’t know what to say.’
‘How about you start by telling me where we are?’ Ava asked, looking around the unfamiliar street, not another soul around.
He took her hands in his, gently caressing the skin and smiling at her. ‘We are at my apartment.’
Her eyes left him then and went to the building to her right. It was tall, wide and built in a lovely cream stonework with Juliette balconies at each front window. Black iron gates covered the door to the entrance.
‘Coffee?’ he asked her. ‘Or I can call you a taxi to...’
She turned back to him. ‘No. Coffee sounds good.’
* * *
Behind the iron gates and the door into the building there had been a communal entrance hall with gunmetal post boxes for all the apartments. Julien had told her he was number 34, which, to Ava, made it feel like there were far too many people living in one block. But this was Paris and Paris was known for making the most out of every available space.
Glass doors, a wooden surround in green and then a choice of an old-fashioned looking elevator or the stone stairs upwards. She had insisted on taking the stairs and when she’d arrived, puffing and panting and wishing she’d stepped inside the circa 1930s lift relic, Julien had no sympathy.
Now she was standing inside his apartment, marvelling at the minimalism and the view across the rooftops and an unobscured picture of the Seine.
‘Ava?’ Julien asked. ‘You would like some coffee?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I would like to open these windows.’ She stepped forward towards the folding doors and began to fiddle with the key in the lock.
‘It is minus temperature outside,’ he reminded her, coming close.
‘I know but I want to see the river and the moon and I think if I lean out far enough I might be able to see the Sacré-Coeur.’
‘I am afraid you will not,’ Julien told her.
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘Because I have tried this many times.’
She pressed her face against the glass, taking in the perfect solitude of Paris at this time of night. Here they were in the very midst of the city but somehow completely separate from it. There was something she had been thinking about since Julien had kissed her on the boat. Something that had been rolling through her mind all over dinner and when she had g
ot the text message from her mother. There was something she needed to do. For him and for her. Something she needed to let go of once and for all.
She turned away from the window and faced him. This gorgeous, intricate man who had literally picked her up from her lowest point and taught her how to be strong again. She sighed as pure passion ripped through her.
‘Julien,’ she whispered. ‘I want you to take my photo.’
She held his eyes, wanting to see just what that sentence was going to do to him. He did not disappoint. She watched his pupils dilate, confusion etched across his face, those full lips set to neutral. She watched the rise and fall of his chest and longed to just reach out and steady the motion. But she wanted the timing to be perfect.
‘Ava...’ he began.
‘Julien, I really want you to photograph me,’ she repeated. ‘And I want you to photograph all of me...’ She paused. ‘Apart from my clothes.’
Her breath was caught up in her chest as he looked back at her, his eyes unmoving. The air between them was charged and she was scared to move or to not move, afraid of breaking the intensity. Her cheeks were heating up and suddenly she felt both so alive and excited and yet so desperately vulnerable and terrified.
‘Ava, I know how you feel about being photographed,’ he spoke.
‘By other people... not by you,’ she answered. ‘Because I know that you’re not going to tell me my shoulders are uneven or my legs are too short or I should hold my breath and smile less.’
He shook his head.
‘Please,’ she begged, reaching for his hands and holding them in hers. ‘Please, Julien, I want you to take my photo. I want you to make me look as beautiful and as liberated as the woman of Rodin’s sculpture.’ She wet her lips. ‘No one has ever photographed me that way before.’
‘It is not usually the way’ – he paused – ‘for a photographer to take pictures... like that... of someone he cares about.’
‘Well,’ Ava began, ‘it would be unusual of me to want a photographer I don’t care about to take pictures like that.’