The First Time

by Joy Fielding

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “It’s what I really want.”

  Jake nodded, rose to his feet. “I guess the faster I go, the faster I can get back.”

  Mattie smiled up at him. “Don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere. Now go. Get out of here.”

  He leaned over, kissed her, the feel of his lips lingering on hers long after he’d left the room. Mattie sat alone for several minutes watching the other diners: a young couple arguing quietly in Spanish in a corner table; two elderly women chatting excitedly in German; an American couple trying unsuccessfully to keep their two young sons in their seats. What had happened, she wondered, to the woman she’d met in the courtyard? Cynthia something. Broome. Cynthia Broome. Yes, that was it. She hadn’t seen her since that first day.

  Mattie pushed herself to her feet, noting with a smile that while all the croissants had disappeared from the baskets in the center of the tables, most of the hard rolls remained. Who had the strength to chew those damn things anyway? she wondered, slowly making her way across the room. Certainly not her, she thought, as one of the American youngsters bolted out of his chair and crashed into her legs. Mattie felt her knees buckle. She stumbled, grabbed hold of a nearby chair, managed through sheer force of will to stay on her feet.

  “Will you sit down!” the boy’s mother hissed, forcibly returning the towheaded child to his chair, pushing it in as close to the table as possible. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said as Mattie walked past her toward the lobby, the woman’s New England accent bouncing off the echo of the outside rain.

  Chloe Dorleac, resplendent in a deep purple silk blouse and dark burgundy lipstick, nodded coolly in Mattie’s direction as Mattie headed for the tiny elevator. The dragon lady, Mattie thought with a chuckle. Abruptly, Mattie swiveled on her heel and approached the desk. “Can I help you?” Chloe Dorleac said without looking up.

  “I wanted to inquire about one of the guests,” Mattie said, continuing when no further questions were forthcoming. “Cynthia Broome. She’s American.”

  “Cynthia Broome,” the dragon lady repeated. “This name is not familiar.”

  “She was here when we arrived. She told me she was staying several weeks.”

  Chloe Dorleac made an elaborate show of looking through her register. “No. No one by that name has ever been here.”

  “Well, that can’t be,” Mattie persisted, eager to prove the dragon lady wrong, though she wasn’t sure why. She was exhausted, and her legs were beginning to ache. She needed to get upstairs and lie down before she collapsed. “Not too tall. Attractive. Red curly hair.”

  “Oh, yes.” The dragon lady’s violet eyes flashed recognition. “I know who you mean. But her name is not Cynthia Broome.” The phone rang, and Chloe Dorleac excused herself to answer it. “One minute,” she said, holding up her index finger. “Une minute.”

  Okay, Mattie thought, waiting as Mademoiselle Dorleac spoke animatedly in French to whomever was on the other end of the line. So she’d gotten the last name wrong. It wasn’t Broome. It was something else useful, although she was too tired to think what it might be. What difference did it make? Cynthia Not-Broome was obviously very busy seeing the sights of Paris and happy to be doing it all by her lonesome. Why was Mattie even thinking about her?

  “Never mind,” Mattie said to Chloe Dorleac, with an ineffectual wave of her hand. The dragon lady ignored her, laughing into the receiver, although her mouth barely moved. The sound of her laughter followed Mattie into the tiny wrought-iron cage and up the open elevator shaft to the third floor. It pursued Mattie into her room and into her bed, competing with the rain, as Mattie closed her eyes and surrendered her weary body to sleep.

  THIRTY

  In her dream, Mattie was rushing to meet Jake at the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Jake had warned her not to be late. Checking her watch, Mattie climbed into the backseat of an idling cab in the middle of the traffic-choked place de la Concorde.

  “Vite! Vite!” Mattie instructed the driver.

  “Chop! Chop!” came the reply from the front seat. “Did you know that King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were guillotined in this square during the French Revolution? In fact, between 1793 and 1795, a total of 1,300 people lost their heads in this very spot.”

  “My father lost his head when I was eight years old,” Mattie said. “My mother cut it off.”

  Suddenly Mattie was out of the cab and running along the crowded sidewalk of the Champs Elysées. She checked her watch again, noting she had only two minutes to make it to the top of the wide tree-lined avenue, whose name meant Elysian Fields, but which was now home to an unsightly number of fast-food outlets, car showrooms, and airline offices. “Excuse me,” she said, bumping into a woman in a floppy beige hat.

  “What’s the big rush?” the woman asked as Mattie flew by.

  “The Arc de Triomphe was commissioned by Napoleon in 1806, but not completed until thirty years later,” Mattie heard a tour guide shouting in English over the jostling crowd as she began her arduous climb to the top of the imposing structure. “Has anybody seen my husband?” she asked a group of tourists racing down the spiral stone staircase.

  “You just missed him,” said a woman with curly red hair. “He went to the Georges Pompidou Center.”

  A group of boisterous schoolboys hoisted Mattie over their shoulders and carried her back to the foot of the stairs, where they promptly disappeared, leaving Mattie alone in a small windowless room. “Somebody help me,” she shouted, banging her body futilely against a heavy metal door. But her voice grew weaker as her efforts increased, and soon all she heard was the echo of her body slapping against the cold stone walls.

  Knock, knock.

  Who’s there?

  Knock. Knock.

  Qui est là?

  Knock. Knock.

  Mattie opened her eyes, her breathing labored, her forehead covered in tiny beads of sweat. God, she hated dreams like that. She sat up and stared toward the window. Still raining, she thought, noting she’d slept barely an hour. Probably she should lie back down, try for another hour, make sure she was well rested for when Jake returned.

  Knock. Knock.

  Not her dream, Mattie realized. Someone was actually at the door. “Yes? Oui? Who is it? Qui est là?” Probably the cleaning lady, she thought, wondering why the woman didn’t just use her key. Or possibly Jake—maybe he’d forgotten his. Mattie swung her legs around the side of the bed.

  “Mattie?” the voice asked, as Mattie’s hand froze on the doorknob.

  Mattie opened the door to a vision of wet red curls.

  “Miserable morning,” the woman said, dusting some rain from the shoulders of her navy jacket and staring at Mattie through gold-flecked brown eyes. “I tried going out, but I had to come back. It’s unbelievable out there. It’s Cynthia,” she said, almost as if she were asking a question. “Cynthia Broome? The dragon lady said you were looking for me.”

  Mattie stood back, motioned the other woman inside the small room, nodded toward an unsteady wooden chair by the window. “I was asking about you, yes.” Mattie lowered herself carefully to the edge of the bed as Cynthia plopped her ample backside into the narrow seat and slipped out of her wet jacket. “Madame Dorleac said there was no one here by the name of Cynthia Broome.”

  The other woman looked momentarily caught off guard. She gathered a fistful of red curls into the palm of her right hand and shook them, several drops of water staining the thighs of her denim jeans. “Oh, of course. My passport,” she said. “It’s still in my married name. I should change it, I guess. I’ve been divorced almost four years.” Cynthia looked warily around the room. “Did you want to see me about anything in particular?”

  Mattie shook her head. “No, not really. I was just curious what happened to you. I hadn’t seen you since that morning in the courtyard.”

  “When you were looking for your husband.”

  “I found him.”

  Cynthia looked toward
the washroom. “Where’d you put him?”

  Mattie laughed. “He went to the Georges Pompidou Center. I was a little tired, so I came back upstairs to lie down.”

  “And I woke you up?” Concern fell across Cynthia’s face like a heavy blanket.

  “It’s all right,” Mattie assured her. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I was having a bad dream anyway. You rescued me.”

  Cynthia smiled, although the concern never left her round face. “What was the dream about?”

  “Just one of those stupid dreams where you’re trying to get somewhere and you can’t.”

  “Oh, I hate those,” Cynthia concurred. “They’re so frustrating.”

  “Can I offer you anything? Some biscuits, Evian water, chocolates?”

  “No, nothing. What kind of chocolates?” she asked, almost in the same breath.

  “Cream-filled, sticky, gooey things. Absolutely sinful.” Mattie stretched toward the open box of truffles sitting on the tiny table beside her pillow. But the box felt like a lead weight, and it tumbled from her hand, spilling its contents to the floor. “Oh, no.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll get them,” Cynthia offered quickly, on her knees and scooping up the chocolates with eager fingers. In seconds the truffles were safely ensconced in their brown paper wrappers. “There. No harm done.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Cynthia reached back into the box, selected the biggest of the truffles and popped it into her mouth. “Um, yummy. Champagne filling. My favorite.”

  “Even covered in dust?”

  “Yes, but it’s French dust, don’t forget. Makes a big difference.”

  Again, Mattie laughed, deciding she liked Cynthia Broome, wondering what man had been fool enough to let her get away.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “I don’t know. Jake picked them up at some little shop on the Right Bank.”

  “How long have you two been married?” Cynthia asked, eyes scanning the remaining chocolates in the box.

  “Sixteen years.”

  “Wow. You must have been a child bride.”

  “Actually, the bride was with child,” Mattie qualified, surprised to hear herself volunteer such personal information to a virtual stranger.

  “But you’re still together sixteen years later,” Cynthia said, a touch of muted envy in her voice. “You may have had to get married, but you didn’t have to stay together.”

  Mattie nodded. “I guess that’s true.” She laughed. But the laugh stuck in her throat, attaching itself to her larynx like a gooey piece of chocolate, preventing the outside air from reaching her lungs. Mattie jumped from the bed, the box of candies dropping from her lap to the floor as she waved her arms frantically in front of her face.

  “My God, what can I do?” Cynthia asked, immediately on her feet, her own arms flapping helplessly into the space between them.

  Mattie shook her head. There was nothing anyone could do, she realized, trying to calm herself down. She wasn’t actually suffocating, she told herself, beginning the familiar litany. It was just that her chest muscles were getting weaker, resulting in breathing that was shallower, which just made it feel as if she couldn’t breathe, but she was breathing fine. Stay calm. Stay calm.

  How could she stay calm when she was choking on what little air she could force into her lungs? She was going to die right here and now unless she got out of this room immediately. She had to get outside, get outside where there was fresh air. And raindrops the size of grapefruits to drown her fears. Better to drown than to suffocate, Mattie decided, propelling herself toward the door, tripping over her feet, losing her balance, tumbling toward the floor, her hands unable to break her fall, her cheek hitting the dark wood floor, her lip splitting open, blood sneaking into her open mouth as she lay there, staring at the wisps of dust beneath her bed and gasping for air. Like a fish flopping helplessly at the bottom of a fisherman’s boat, Mattie thought, feeling Cynthia Broome’s hands on her shoulders as the other woman gathered her into her arms and pressed her against the white silk of her blouse, rocking her gently, like a baby, until Mattie’s breathing returned to normal.

  “It’s okay,” Cynthia kept repeating. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  “Don’t get blood on your nice blouse,” Mattie warned the other woman a few minutes later, wiping the tears from her eyes, the blood from her lip.

  “No big deal.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Not really,” Cynthia replied cryptically. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” Mattie said. Then, softly, “I’m dying.”

  Cynthia Broome said nothing, although Mattie felt her body stiffen, her breathing grow still beneath her large breasts.

  “Something called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Mattie added, almost by rote.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cynthia said.

  “There’s some morphine in my purse.” Mattie indicated the brown canvas bag on the floor beside the armoire. “If you wouldn’t mind getting me one pill and a glass of Evian.”

  Cynthia was instantly on her feet, stepping gingerly around the scattered chocolates on the floor, rifling through Mattie’s purse, locating the small bottle of pills. “Just one?”

  Mattie smiled sadly. “For now,” she said. In the next second, Mattie felt the pill on the tip of her tongue and the glass of water at her lips, the Evian transporting the pill smoothly down her throat. “Thank you.” Cynthia resumed her seat beside Mattie on the floor, the two women leaning against the foot of the bed. “You don’t have to stay,” Mattie told her. “I’m okay now. My husband shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “Tell me about him.” The other woman settled in, clearly not going anywhere.

  Mattie pictured Jake’s dark blue eyes and handsome face, his strong hands and gentle mouth. “He’s a wonderful man,” Mattie said. “Kind. Good. Loving.”

  “Good-looking too, I’ll bet.”

  “Great-looking.”

  The two women laughed softly. “So, you got a good one,” Cynthia said.

  “Yes, I did,” Mattie agreed.

  “I had a good one once.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Circumstances,” Cynthia said vaguely.

  “Circumstances change.”

  Cynthia nodded, looked toward the floor. “Yes, they do.”

  “Are we talking about your ex-husband?” Mattie asked.

  “God, no.” Cynthia laughed. “Although, who knows? He didn’t stick around long enough for me to find out.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you missed anything.”

  “I don’t know. I always felt maybe I could have tried harder, you know.” Cynthia tapped the side of her head. “Never been too bright where men are concerned.” She glanced at Mattie. “Is there some reason we’re sitting on the floor?”

  “It’s not as far to fall,” Mattie said simply, as Cynthia helped her back onto the bed, propping some pillows behind Mattie’s head and stretching her legs across the top of the white comforter.

  “We’re not going to let you fall,” Cynthia said, examining Mattie’s face with a careful eye. “You know, I think maybe we should put some cold water on that cheek. It’s starting to swell up a bit.” She walked into the bathroom. “Oh, look,” she called out over the sound of running water. “You’ve got Renoir on your floor. I got Toulouse-Lautrec on mine. Jane Avril doing the can-can at the Moulin Rouge. Pretty neat, huh?”

  Between the rain hitting the window, the water running in the bathroom, and the sound of Cynthia’s voice, Mattie didn’t hear the key turning in the lock. She didn’t see the doorknob twist, didn’t realize Jake was back until he was closing the door behind him. “The damn gallery was closed for renovations,” he was saying, almost in slow motion, as he shucked off his jacket and smiled toward the bed, the smile immediately disappearing. And then suddenly, everything was happening very quickly, as if the who
le scene had been prerecorded and the action was being fast-forwarded. Even later, when Mattie tried to recall the precise order of events, she found it difficult to pin them down, to separate one development from the next, one sentence from another. “My God, what happened to you?”

  “I’m fine, Jake,” Mattie assured him. “I just had a little fall.”

  He was instantly on his knees beside her. “Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  “It’s okay, Jake. I wasn’t alone.”

  “What do you mean?” He looked toward the bathroom. “Is the water running?”

  “Cynthia’s here,” Mattie said. “She’s making me a cold compress.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “The woman from Chicago that I met in the courtyard when we first got here. You remember. I told you about her. Cynthia Broome.”

  The color drained from Jake’s face, like water rushing from a tap. First, his cheeks, then even his eyes, seemed to pale. “Cynthia Broome?”

  “Did I hear my name?” Cynthia stepped out of the bathroom and approached the bed as Jake rose clumsily to his feet. “You must be Jake,” she said, transferring the wet towel to her left hand and extending her right toward him.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, his hands stiffly at his sides. “What are you doing here?”

  “Jake!” Mattie said. “Isn’t that a little rude?”

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to laugh. “You just caught me off guard, I guess.” He cleared his throat, lifted his hands into the air. “I go away for an hour, and I come back to find my wife covered in bruises and a stranger in my bathroom.”

  Was it her imagination, Mattie wondered, or did Cynthia wince at the word stranger, almost as if she’d been struck? And what was the matter with Jake? It wasn’t like him to be so nonplussed, regardless of the situation.

  “It’s been a frustrating morning for you,” Mattie said, as Cynthia walked around the bed and sat down beside her, gently applying the compress to Mattie’s cheek.

  Jake stood frozen to the spot. “Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I had an attack,” Mattie explained. “I couldn’t breathe. I fell. Luckily, Cynthia was here. She helped me.”