by Lisa Barr
The truth is, Ava never sees me like this, so undone, so clawing. But I am undone, clawed by life, and ready to pounce on this Playboy Professor. I hate him. I hate Gabe. I hate all men like him. Thinking they can cheat, that they can get away with it, that they can meet the mother of their teen mistress and casually order a double espresso, that they can sleep with your best friend, that they can do anything they damn please and still come home and have sex with you in your closet on your birthday. That it’s all somehow okay. I glare back at my daughter—so young, beautiful, talented—so goddamned enamored. I can’t stand it.
Olivier makes some sort of French dismissive hand-flicking gesture accompanied by a tsk sound, which I interpret as policy schmolicy. “Madame, I truly understand how you must feel. Believe me.”
Did he just Madame me? “Honestly, I am out of my league here. Olivier, you seem completely comfortable with this . . . what exactly are your intentions?” I demand, crossing my arms tightly.
“My intentions are perfectly clear.” He pauses, as if trying to find the right words. “Ava is—”
“Too young,” I interject. “Too damn young. And what if she is pregnant—what then?”
Ava is clearly not happy being discussed in third person by the only two adults at the table, and that, instead of the lovely discussion she stupidly envisioned, this is happening. Her lips tighten as she holds her head high. “For the record, it’s my body, my decision, Mom,” she says predictably. I refrain from rolling my eyes.
Olivier reaches over and tenderly touches her hand. The supportive cheater. I pick up my fork, gripping it tightly, picturing myself bludgeoning him right here at the table and all the waiters having to use their forearm towels to clean up the mess. How can he do that in front of me? And isn’t he remotely worried that someone may see him touching her like that? The school is just blocks away. I turn to my stubborn daughter. If I say no, she says yes. If I say high, she goes low. Maybe I need to switch tactics here and tell them both I plan to be called Grandma Sophie if there’s a baby on board, and let’s all go baby furniture shopping together. Then, perhaps, she and the sexy professor will come to their senses. On the other hand, it is Ava’s body. While severely headstrong, she has always been extremely mature, the result perhaps of being an only child. I exhale deeply—experiencing no toxin relief. Everybody within a four-mile radius could see that my daughter is smitten by this man. Does he see how she looks at him?
Olivier meets my protective glare with warmth as if to counteract my anger. Close up, his eyes are a soft brown, and if I didn’t hate his guts right now I would admit that there is kindness inside them. You can’t hide that. But Gabe’s eyes are kind too. He is known throughout the hospital for his exceptional bedside manner. I laugh to myself, totally appreciating the irony.
“I take full responsibility here,” Olivier stresses. “I can only imagine everything you are feeling. Whatever Ava decides, please understand, I will fully support her.”
“And your wife—will she be supportive of your full support?” I ask bluntly as Ava’s eyes pop into a quelle horreur expression. Seriously, Ava? Yes, I am so going there. I’m done being nice, being accepting, not seeing what’s in front of my face.
“No,” he admits. “This will be a shock. It will . . .” His voice fades out just as a car honks over it.
“Is this your first time sleeping with a student?” I continue my interrogation and I think Ava is about to throw something at me. I ignore her.
“No.” He sips his espresso. “But it is the first time that I’m in love.”
Christ. Yet another cheesy line from The Bold and the Beautiful—just the schmaltzy Euro version. I glance at my awestruck daughter, who after that one-liner is no longer looking at me venomously. She is all in, drunk on the syrupy Kool-Aid this guy is pouring out.
“We need a plan,” I say adamantly. “I’m taking Ava to the gynecologist this afternoon—alone—and then we will meet again and discuss options together.”
Ava’s cell phone rings before Olivier responds. She looks up at me, startled. “It’s Dad.”
Bam. Could this be any more Theater of the Absurd?
“Hi, Dad,” she says nervously. “Yes, Mom’s here. Yeah, the hotel is really nice. Way nicer than my apartment. We are just having . . . umm, brunch. No . . . really, you don’t need to come here. I’m doing okay now. Do you want to talk to Mom?” She extends her phone to me.
Come here? I will kill him. I shake my head no. Ava looks at me with surprise. I gesture with my eyes toward Don Juan next to me, not intending to give Gabe the time of day.
“I will call you back later, okay, Daddy . . . Love you too.” Ava hangs up the phone and stares at me. “What’s going on with Dad? You always take his call.”
“Nothing,” I lie, thinking everything. It’s probably a good thing Gabe is not here. I glare at Professor Olivier Messier (yes, his name rhymes), who suddenly doesn’t look so cool now that Ava’s father weighed in. Yes, this shit just got real. And if Gabe were sitting here, you wouldn’t know what hit you, buddy. Gabe would definitely not be seduced by your wily charms and impeccable manners, your lingering double-cheeked kisses. You thought you could just drop by and say hello . . . Well, absolument pas—as in Hell to the No. I’m not buying any of it.
Ava glances at her phone, exhales deeply. “I have to go now.”
Olivier wipes the sweat off his brow, puts back on his sunglasses to hide the visible alarm in his eyes, but I catch it anyway just before the Ray-Bans land. The pregnancy news and the father calling to check in clearly threw him off his game. “I will walk you there. I was on my way to pick up something in my office anyway,” he says, signaling for the bill.
Ava stands, gathers her things. “Mom, can you just call Dad back and deal with him, please?” She eyes me with tight lips, flared nostrils, clearly still pissed off, as if I owe her.
And there it is. Ava’s independence and defiance disappears when she’s uncomfortable with something and defers to me to clean it up. And usually, in this exact scenario, the deal-with-Dad situation, I’d feel like a hero, ride in and save the day. I shake my head. Not this time. I’ve coddled her, coddled him, coddled all of them, and where did that get me? An unfaithful husband, a promiscuous daughter, and best friends who betrayed me.
The new bruised, broken me stands up and throws down a bunch of dollar bills. “No way. This is on you, hon. Deal with your dad after school. See you at the gynecologist at three p.m.” I turn to Professor Olivier Messier and, surprising myself, I say, “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Nine
AVA REFUSES TO LEAVE THE CAFÉ. SHE’S CLEARLY FURIOUS WITH ME. OLIVIER takes her off to the side, and to his credit, and by his body language—lots of arm flails—I can tell he convinces her that it’s okay for him to talk to me alone. Finally satisfied, she reluctantly turns to go, waves hesitantly in my direction, and I’m left standing with my daughter’s lover, who smells unnervingly good, at the intersection of the most celebrated establishments in twentieth-century Parisian history: Les Deux Magots, Café de Flore, and the Brasserie Lipp.
I step away from Olivier, making sure our shoulders do not brush as we walk down Boulevard Saint-Germain. “Let’s get this straight,” I say, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. “I appreciate that you are taking the time to talk to me, but you’re not coming to the gynecologist.”
“Ava wants me to be there. I promised her.”
I flick my wrist dismissively. “She’s nineteen. She doesn’t know what she wants and you know that.” The threatening tone in my voice is at a solid number seven.
Olivier appears nervous, as if I’m a woman on the verge who has just taken him hostage, and he’s half right about that. He peers at me sideways. “Sophie, I know this is—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You have no idea what this is like. This has to end.”
“I don’t run away from things,” he says heroically.
Just your marriage, yo
u coward, which I don’t say. And he looks like a runner, the type who bolts the second an affair becomes a complication. And this is not just a thing—if Ava is pregnant, it could blow up his career, his marriage, his all too libre lifestyle. And this guy, mark my words, will sprint like an Olympian.
“Can we at least talk this through? I presume that’s why you wanted to meet me alone?” he implores, clearly seeing the anguish all this is causing me. “Do you want to go somewhere private? Inside? Outside?”
I pause, having no plan at all. I want to go home. But there is no home.
He lifts up his sunglasses halfway, and this close, I catch a glimpse of his sparkling nut-brown pupils with lashes that are unfairly long for a guy. A man, I remind myself. My daughter is sleeping with my peer.
“How about the Rodin Museum?” he suggests. “It’s nearby. There’s a lovely garden. We can sit and talk this through privately.”
Rodin. This guy doesn’t miss a beat. I surrender slightly. “Yes, that works.”
“Okay then, this way.” Relieved, he leads me down a side street. “Ava spoke about you quite often. She showed me photos of your sculptures that she kept on her phone. Your exhibit, ‘Mermaids and Madmen,’ was breathtaking. Truly magnificent.” Turning sideways, he smiles broadly—a dazzling smile that I imagine has gotten him laid on more than a few occasions. “A sculptor cannot come to Paris without seeing Rodin.”
I blush. I can’t help it. I haven’t been called a sculptor in years. Don’t let him charm you, I warn myself. He’s a snake, and an extremely attractive one at that. And the last thing I want to discuss with Olivier is my has-been talent of the past. “Thank you,” I say politely. “But that was a hundred years ago, another life ago.”
“Art never leaves you . . . even when you leave it,” says the Jean-Paul Sartre impersonator. “Believe me I know.”
I don’t believe him. I don’t believe anyone these days.
“My first love was sculpting but I wasn’t very good,” Olivier explains as if I care, as we stride in the direction of the museum. “I had the inclination but not the talent. Yet I could paint. I was considered more than acceptable. But sculpting . . .” He gazes into the distance. “There is no comparison, is there? The feel of clay, wood, plaster, stone, the chisel against marble.”
I close my eyes briefly. No comparison. He is right. The muscle memory is still there, never leaves. I think about all the twisting sensations, the turning, the bending into shape, the hammering, the carving, the varying textures inside my hands. God, I miss it.
“Why did you stop?” he asks, seeing my reaction.
I glance down at my hands, once considered gifts. “I didn’t have a choice. Medical reasons.”
He waits for a more elaborate explanation but I offer none. “I see . . . and now you represent other artists?” He either is interested in getting to know me better or is extremely adept at trying to avoid the pink elephant between us—my daughter.
“Yes. I run a small museum and gallery in my town. We promote local artists and organize the annual art fair in our community. It’s lovely actually.” I think about my cadre of artists, how they depend on me, and that I need to call my assistant later today and explain why I’m in Paris and not in the office. Our big art festival is coming up, and knowing Rachel, her anxiety level is probably through the roof. “It’s just that . . .” Let it go. Don’t go there. Especially with him.
“You miss it.” He finishes my sentence anyway.
I nod honestly. “Every single day.”
We continue walking, pick up speed, immersed in our own thoughts. We turn left along Rue du Bac, a lovely street lined with art galleries and pastry shops. Ava loves macarons. She must have come here often. Of course, I don’t mention that to Olivier but I wonder if he’s thinking that too. Does he even know that about her?
Once we turn onto the ritzy Rue de Varenne with its majestic homes, my attention is drawn immediately to a convoy of black town cars at the end of the street. I point. “Mafia? Funeral? Government?”
Olivier laughs hard and the sound is rich, the kind of infectious laugh that takes center stage at a cocktail party. “Yes, on all three. Actually, that’s the prime minister’s house, called Hôtel Matignon.” He gestures across the street. “See that walled garden on the other side of the street up ahead? That’s the museum, a refurbished mansion called the Hôtel Biron—it is where Rodin worked and collected.”
I look across the street with dismay. A long line of visitors is wrapped around the wall. It’s the height of tourist season. “Damn,” I say, visibly disappointed. “There’s no way we can get in. We don’t have enough time.”
“You could say there are some small benefits to being with me.” Olivier chuckles and taps his chest. “Given my position at the Beaux-Arts, I have free access. No lines. I often go to the sculpture garden to think or to paint. Come with me—this way.” He lightly touches my arm, and his hand on my skin sends a slight tremor through me, an unexpected electrical jolt. I stop in my tracks. So does he.
He appears uncomfortable. “Look, Sophie, I know this has all been a shock for you.” He eyes me squarely. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to wreck your family or disrespect you. It just happened.”
Nothing just happens. You pursued her. I bite down on my bottom lip and don’t respond. Wrecked our family. That’s the understatement of the century. I wonder if there is a double-jeopardy clause: Can an already wrecked family be rewrecked? I stare back at him, sunglasses-to-sunglasses.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. His voice is sincere, not assholey at all.
Aside from the obvious, I can see why Ava is drawn to him. But I can no longer hold back. “How could you have been so totally careless that she may actually be pregnant? You’re an adult. You know better, damn it.” My voice when it scolds becomes shrill and I’ve always hated the sound of it. People start to look. Olivier is embarrassed, but I don’t care.
He exhales deeply, croaks out his words. “I am very careful. Ava, as we both know, forgot to take her pill. I’m not blaming her, but whatever this may be—and it may all be okay—it was truly an accident. But I’m on board with whatever needs to be done.”
Done, as in get rid of it. What if . . . Ava doesn’t want that? I can’t even go there right now until we have an answer. I feel a ripple of unease move up my spine. “See, I don’t believe that you’re on board. I don’t believe you when you say you don’t run . . .” My voice trails off, and the lines become blurred—is it him I’m speaking to, or is it Gabe?
People are circumventing us on the sidewalk. Olivier clearly wants to move to a more secluded spot, making it obvious with his eyes that this open discussion may be very American but it is certainly not the French way. My feet are grounded.
“Why her?” I press on angrily. “My guess is that you know damn well your effect on women, particularly impressionable young female students. Why was Ava this semester’s target?” I know I sound mean and accusatory, and I’m basically calling him a lecher, a cheater, and a pedophile.
“Aucune idée.” He raises his shoulders, holds up his arms at the elbows with palms facing out, raises his eyebrows, and sticks out his lower lip—clearly some kind of full-bodied French gesture meaning No idea. His voice loses its calm demeanor, his forehead furrows, and he appears to change his mind.
“Actually, I do know.” He corrects himself. “Have you not seen Ava paint? Her incredible ability? There are many pretty girls who rotate in and out of my classes but she stood out. Yes, she’s lovely, and there was the obvious physical attraction. But then it became something more . . .” His shoulders lower, the jutting lip retracts, and his gaze is now direct and uncompromising. “Teaching can be exhausting, but every once in a while, a student comes along who reminds me why I love what I do. Have you never felt inspired by someone and it surprised you, moved you to the point of immobility or perhaps even caused you to make a reckless decision? Tell me, Sophie . . . never?” His eyes search m
ine.
I look away, refusing to comply with his I-showed-you-mine-now-you-show-me-yours game. I should never have come here with him. I should have just gone my own way while Ava was at school. “I’m not here to discuss my reckless decisions, Olivier. And I certainly don’t need you to tell me that my daughter is exceptional.” My tone is brusque bordering on rude, but I’m too emotionally wiped out for niceties. “Ava’s teachers recognized her artistic ability early on. She got accepted into every top art school that she applied to, but she wanted the full college experience, and her dad and I pushed her in that direction. I knew that no one could take away Ava’s natural ability, but I didn’t want her talent to steal her youth. I wanted her to have it all—to experience a full life outside of art—but certainly not this.” I point to him. “Definitely not this.”
“Oui.” Olivier’s cheeks turn red. “I understand.”
There is an awkward silence between us. I pivot slightly in the direction of the museum. “Let’s go see the master’s work, shall we?” I say. My eyes bore into his uneasily, not knowing what else to do.
He nods, clearly relieved to get off the hot seat for a while. “Rodin also slept with his students, by the way,” he says with a lopsided grin, hoping to lighten the situation. “Another imperfect man.”
I laugh despite myself. My emotional palette seems to be changing by the nanosecond. “Yes, another imperfect man. I feel surrounded by them.”
GIVEN OUR TIME CONSTRAINTS, WE DECIDE TO BYPASS THE MAIN MUSEUM WITH its vast collection of bronzes, marbles, and plasters, and instead, head straight to the sculpture garden. We pass through fragrant rosebushes along the front and sides of the Hôtel Biron, toward the expansive gardens behind the building.
Greeting us at the garden entrance is the “gatekeeper”—perhaps the most famous of all Rodin sculptures, known as Le Penseur—The Thinker. I freeze at the foot of the imposing bronze sculpture. I have studied and analyzed this statue for years, but only on paper. To see it in real time is nothing short of spectacular.