“What?” she asked. Noticing that he was staring at her, she looked down at herself as though trying to figure out if something was wrong.
“C’mere.”
She came to stand at the edge of the bed and Chris shoved aside the laptop, sitting on the edge and pulling Robyn to stand between his legs. He slid his hands over her hips and up to the waist of her pants until he could feel her skin.
“Have a good time tonight,” he said, reaching for his wallet. And don’t let him touch you.
“What’s this? Emergency cab money?” Robyn asked, smiling as he pressed some bills into her palm.
“And take this too.” He handed her his cell phone, because hers probably didn’t work outside the U.S.
Robyn shoved the money and phone into her clutch, shaking her head as though she thought he was being overly cautious.
“Staring at the monitor’s not good for you when you’re just getting over a migraine,” she said, glancing at the laptop he’d put aside.
Then she kissed him, and swept out of the room in a delicate cloud of fragrance.
Chris knew Etienne Ballard’s type. From the way he’d looked at Robyn, Chris figured he was one of those brown-sugar-loving Frenchmen who almost exclusively dated Black women, deifying their Blackness, glorifying in it. In his office, Chris noticed that Ballard had decorated his walls with posters of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, a young Quincy Jones during his Paris sojourn. For a true Afrophile, like Ballard, women like Robyn did not come along often. And that was who she was going to be gallivanting in the French countryside with for two days, staying at his “flat in Lyon.” Chris thought about objecting to the plan, but knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on—she was in France for the first time and wanted to see as much of it as she could, and that was all there was to it. She was an adult and a free agent. And back in New York, he still occasionally took another woman to an event—though his urge to touch any of them seemed to have disappeared—a fact of which Robyn was well aware.
Still, the idea of her in a nightclub tonight and then gallivanting across the French countryside with some smooth-talking Algerian made him uncomfortable.
By midnight, all traces of his headache were gone, and Chris spent the next two hours, watching soccer. By three-fifteen he was annoyed, and by four a.m., pissed. No more than twenty minutes after he’d shut off the lights and decided to sleep, he heard the door to the suite open and then Robyn’s delicate tread as she made her way up the stairs and into the bedroom. That he would be lying awake listening for the sound of someone coming home late from a night on the town . . . how the hell had that happened?
Robyn undressed in the dark without speaking and Chris turned over onto his back. He watched her in silhouette, backlit by the lights of the city, as she slid out of her clothing, removed her earrings and padded quietly to the bathroom. He listened to the water and she washed her face, brushed her teeth, eager to have her next to him. But soon enough, she was back, crawling on hands and knees across the covers toward him.
“Chris,” she whispered his name in the dark. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice tight and controlled.
Hell, two a.m. was understandable, but it was almost dawn. What the hell could she have been up to for all this time?
“Chris it was amazing,” she said, her voice hushed, tired, but still somehow excited. Robyn pulled back the covers and arranged herself against him, lifting his arm and putting her head on his shoulder. “The music, the energy? And the club was like a crush of all these people . . . just feeling it, y’know?”
He said nothing, his annoyance beginning to subside.
“And then we went to a café and Etienne introduced me to some of his friends, and all of us just talked for hours. I shouldn’t have, but I had a couple espressos so I’m like, wired right now.” She laughed and her minty breath warmed the side of Chris’ neck. “I know I probably stink, they all smoked like chimneys.”
“So you had a good time?”
“A good time?” she said. “An incredible time. One of the best times ever. Only . . .”
“Only?” he prompted.
“I wish you’d been there,” she said, pressing her lips against him and speaking into his skin. “Because you gave me this. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
And then despite saying she was wired, moments later Robyn relaxed against him and was fast asleep.
18
Frank Casey’s good humor about being in France had begun to wear thin. Even though they only had tonight before flying home, Robyn could tell from the tight purse of his lips as they climbed into the taxicab, leaving their meeting with local counsel that Frank had reached his absolute limit. The fact that the entire meeting necessitated a translator had clearly worn him out; and so when they left, Robyn was quite certain he would have no interest in going with her to the remaining hours of the listening session that Chris and Jamal had been in all morning.
But she wanted to go, if only to see what the recording process was like in France. In the States, she’d gone to a few studios to meet with clients, and once been invited to “spit a little sumpthin’” on the mike with one of the top rappers in the industry. But everything in France so far had been just short of magical, so even something as routine as a listening session held promise.
Though she wasn’t quite a hundred percent, her sore tailbone ached considerably less than when they’d arrived five days ago, and she was still on a high from the trip to Lyon. True, it would have been a lot better if Chris had come along, but Etienne was great company and a gracious host. For two days, he’d tirelessly walked her about the city, taking her during the day to the Musée des Beaux Arts, St Jean archaeological garden, and at night to dinner and then clubs in Presqu'île.The city reminded Robyn of how young the United States was as a nation, and it was difficult to fathom, as she and Etienne walked along rue Lucien Sportisse, overlooking the Amphithéâtre des Trois Gaules, that the theater was the very place where hundreds of years ago, the Christian martyrs of Gaul were killed.
The softly melodic French accents, the aromas of unfamiliar foods and the casually chic style of dress were all more than she could have hoped for, surpassing her wildest dreams of what she would be doing—and where she would have been—at this time in her life. And none of it would have happened but for Chris reaching into her life and changing it.
“I’m wiped out,” Frank said to her now. “You want to have lunch or something before I go crash?”
“That’d be great,” Robyn said. “I heard about this great place over on . . .”
Frank held up a hand. “I’m not sure I have the stamina to force another Frenchman at deign to speak English,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, let’s just grab a bite in the hotel.”
Robyn laughed. “Sure.”
When they alighted from the cab, Frank handed a few bills to the driver and shut the door, not waiting for change, probably not wanting to navigate yet another conversation. Robyn stifled a smile. No wonder they got called “ugly Americans”—some people were poor sports when put in a country where, for once, the stars and stripes did not automatically cause the locals to bow and scrape.
Robyn loved it. But of course she’d had the benefit of hanging out with Etienne for most of her adventures so far, and he was the perfect guide, keeping an arm about her shoulder when they were pressed from all sides by a crowd in the club, and holding her hand when they dodged cars crossing a busy boulevard. The first time he’d taken her hand, Robyn had tensed, just for a moment but he felt it immediately.
Ah, he said. What I suspect is true.
What’s that? she asked.
There is someone special in your life, ai-je droit?
Robyn had only smiled.
I know now that I cannot possibly attempt to kiss you, he said slyly. Because you took issue with me simply taking your hand.
Then because she didn’t deny it, he nodded and put her hand on his chest. Feel he
re. My heart is broken, he said, with comic earnestness.
And he was so charming that had Robyn not been thinking about Chris since the moment they left Paris, she might well have allowed Etienne Ballard to kiss her. Just so that one day she could say that she was kissed by a Frenchman on Boulevard des Canuts.But since she had been thinking about Chris—and not just thinking but worrying about him—kissing another man was out of the question. Lyon had been beautiful, a trip unlike any other she’d had the privilege to take before, but part of her remained eager to return to Paris just in case Chris had a migraine and needed her.
Needed her.
The thought gave Robyn pause. Of course he didn’t need her. Chris was the most self-reliant of men. Certainly the most self-reliant she had ever met, and though he would never say anything of the sort, there was still something, occasionally, that made her think he liked having her near. Chris wasn’t much of a talker, surprisingly. Taking his public persona at face value, one might think that he was, but nothing could be further from the truth. When they were alone together, he asked her questions, solicited her opinions and listened when she answered, as though in every conversation they had, he was learning something from, or about her.
With Curtis, there had always been an edge between them, a sense of competition. Conversations about the most mundane things could devolve into debates and even arguments. One of the worst fights of their marriage had been precipitated by six simple words. During a dinner with friends he’d claimed that a certain member of the President’s Cabinet had been a dean at Yale, she’d casually uttered the words: I think it was Harvard, actually. That alone had led to a screaming match on the drive home, with Curtis claiming she was constantly trying to “undermine and belittle” him. With Chris, so clearly accomplished, so imminently confident, Robyn relaxed into her intellect, and could challenge him all she wanted. Theirs was a relationship not of conflict, but a comfortable joust-and-parry.
In Lyon, quite honestly, she had missed that, and missed him. And it wasn’t just the things he did for her, it was the things he didn’t do. Anyone who knew Chris for twenty minutes would spot right away that he liked to control his environment, his circumstances and the direction of things. Robyn knew his impulse when she went alone to the club with Etienne that first night was to tell her not to, and that he’d likely felt the same about her going to Lyon. But instead he let her go, knowing what both excursions meant to her. Chris wasn’t afraid to let her spread her wings, he was man enough to stand aside and let her do it.
Funny thing was, if he’d asked her not to go to the club, not to go to Lyon, she would have acceded to his wishes. But Robyn was under no illusions; she would not allow her monogamy with him to lull her into the belief that Chris would do the same. There were still those pictures in the paper after all, of Chris on dates, Chris at benefits, and Chris out on the town, with other women. As long as she remembered that all this was, was an exciting affair that was destined at some point to end, she would be okay. No question, he was the most intriguing man she had ever been with, and he was showing and giving her so much.
It was what it was. And for now, what it was, was amazing.
___________________
Robyn and Frank ate at the hotel restaurant, which to Frank’s obvious relief had a burger selection on the lunch menu, though it did cost fifty Euro. Robyn chose every item that sounded most French, viewing it as a happy surprise, no matter what they brought out for her. When the meal was done, Frank charged it to his room and put her back into a cab so she could go over to the studio where she hoped Jamal and Chris were not yet done listening to artists.
Pouvoir Noir’s studio was located in a sketchy-looking building in Ménilmontant, a neighborhood of hills and narrow alleys, and buildings that looked ready to collapse though they housed cafés on the ground floor, and what looked like squalid little apartments above. But even ‘squalid’ was somehow transformed into ‘charming’ in Paris. Getting out of the cab, Robyn consulted the scribbled address to confirm that she was in the right place and after paying the cabbie, rang the bell outside a narrow door with chipping red paint. A buzzer sounded and she was admitted into a hallway where at one end stairs led up to the second floor.
Climbing the steps carefully, because they looked ready to cave in, Robyn finally saw signs that she was in the right place at the top—another door, bearing the Pouvoir Noir logo and name. Shoving it open, she entered an anteroom where about a dozen guys were lounging on sofas. For a moment she had a sense of displacement because they were almost all Black and looked exactly the same as she might expect rappers in the States to look.
One of them nodded at her but did not smile. Robyn smiled at him and was about to ask if anyone knew where to find Etienne Ballard or Chris Scaife when yet another door opened and Etienne stuck his head out, extending a hand to her, kissing her on both cheeks in greeting.
Robyn followed him into what turned out to be the control room, where Christien and Gaetan also were. Both nodded at her when she entered, but because they looked to be in the middle of work, Robyn took a seat well away from the control panels in the rear.
Through the glass barrier between the control and live rooms, Robyn saw that Jamal and Chris were talking to a skinny young man dressed in a khaki shirt and ripped jeans with a black knit cap pulled over what appeared to be an immense mass of hair. The young man was nodding while Chris explained something to him, pounding himself on the chest, and then gesturing with both hands. Somehow, without hearing what he was saying, Robyn knew Chris was encouraging the young man to project his voice, make it a little deeper. Then, Chris was pointing at Etienne and giving him a thumbs up. He flipped some switches and the music began. It was surprisingly slow and soulful, not the aggressive bass that Robyn was expecting.
The young man in the khaki shirt stepped up to the mike and put on the headphones, bopping his head, eyes closed, and waiting for his entry point. When he began rhyming his voice was slightly nasal, very deep and unexpectedly powerful. In the control room, Etienne and Christien got up and began moving to the music even as they manipulated the levels on the panels in front of them. Gaetan seemed more focused and did not so much as move a muscle. In the live room, Chris’ eyes were closed and he had a grimace on his face as though the music was almost too good to bear.
The session with the young man in khaki went on for another fifteen minutes and when it was done, he left Chris and Jamal in the live room. Both gave a thumbs up which Etienne returned with one of his own, speaking to his team in rapid-fire French, after which Gaetan went out to the room where Robyn had entered earlier. Moments later, another of the young men who’d been waiting joined Chris and Jamal in the live room.
This routine—with performers coming in and out, being coached by Chris and giving a brief performance—was repeated many times, until finally, Chris and Jamal came back to join the Pouvoir Noir trio. When he walked in, Chris looked surprised to see her, and smiled. A full-on, holding-nothing-back smile of a kind that rarely crossed his lips. Jamal, who was standing next to him looked at his boss, and then at Robyn, then back again, and the tiniest of smirks lifted the corner of his mouth.
“Didn’t know you were lurking around here,” Chris said to her. “What’d you think?”
Robyn sat forward and shrugged. “I liked them all.”
Chris looked her over, taking in her extremely professional hound’s-tooth blazer and black pants.
“You were at that meeting with Frank?” he asked. “How’d it go?”
Robyn shrugged. “It went. Frank’s ready to go home, I think.”
Chris laughed. “I thought he might be.”
Chris didn’t laugh often, but he was pumped up, and obviously hyped up from having been surrounded by music and musicians all day. Having never seen him quite like this, Robyn smiled back at him, and their eyes met and held. Before he became a big deal producer and eventually the owner of a music conglomerate, this was what he used to do, Robyn recalled.
Hang out in the studio, making music. She wondered if he even realized how much he missed it.
“Christophe!”
Chris looked away, but Jamal did not. He raised his dark eyebrows at Robyn, silently inquisitive. She shook her head, not in denial but in refusal to engage the question. Jamal grinned and came to sit next to her, patting her on the knee, as if in sympathy.
“I hear you are yourself a musician,” Etienne was saying to Chris.
“And where would you hear that?” Chris asked, his lips curling into an almost-smile.
“Ah, you know, a little bird that flew away,” Etienne said. “And we have a tradition at Pouvoir Noir. If you go into the live room, you must make music. It’s our rule.”
“That’s too bad. I only play one, very special instrument.” Chris confirmed.
At that Robyn looked up. Chris played an instrument?
“Spanish guitar, oui? Gaetan?”
Gaetan grinned, getting up and with a flourish producing a guitar from under a table while Chris shook his head, laughing. “You set me up.”
“You came here to raid my company,” Etienne said, his voice betraying that he was only half-joking. “So I thought it only equal that I repay you. Then you’ll play for us, oui?”
Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their collective breaths, waiting for Chris’ response and finally he nodded.
“Yeah, why not?”
As Chris took the guitar, and headed for the live room, Jamal leaned back into the sofa next to Robyn, arms folded behind his head.
“I’ll be damned,” he said almost to himself. “Is there anything this motherfucker can’t do?”
Although she didn’t much appreciate Chris being called a ‘motherfucker’, Robyn understood the sentiment.
When he was in the live room, Chris reached for the mike and pulled up a stool, beginning a few exploratory strums of the guitar, tuning it, and then licking the tips of his fingers. Finally, he looked up and nodded toward the lights. Etienne obliged, turning them down, but not off. Then he flipped another switch, training a soft spotlight on Chris who looked up and shook his head as though exasperated.
Afterwards Page 17