by Lisa Barr
Barely catching my breath, I stare at the hunched muscular torso—Dante in deep thought. Olivier watches my struck-by-lightning reaction with amused interest in the way that an opera aficionado eyes the mesmerized face of a newbie hearing Verdi’s La Traviata for the very first time. The last time I felt this affected by a sculpture is when I stood in front of Michelangelo’s David.
It was four summers ago when Gabe and all of our friends had rented a villa in Tuscany for five days, and then spent two days touring Florence to celebrate Eric’s fortieth birthday. After visiting myriad churches and boutiques, I dragged everyone to see the David.
Eyeing the daunting seventeen-foot marble nude up close left me immobile and speechless. I stood at David’s feet and did not budge for more than a half hour. My friends all made fun of me and my new “boyfriend” at dinner later that night—especially Eric and Matt. Needless to say, the “David dick jokes” flew back and forth all evening. I laughed with them, but I also remember much later that same night going out onto our hotel balcony while Gabe slept, crying as I stared at my broken hands. I would never sculpt again. I would never achieve a David of my own, and that was unbearable.
“What are you thinking?” Olivier asks, leading me toward a nearby garden bench. We sit a little too closely together as we look out onto the maze of ornamental shrubs and the numerous sculptures erected between them, so I inch away from him. “You are very deep in thought.”
“More like lost in thought,” I tell him with a heavy sigh. He appears willing to listen. “Not that it matters to you, but Ava’s father cheated on me. I found this out right before I came here to see Ava to deal with . . .” Does Jake cheating with Monica even matter at this point? “Anyway, all of this—the infidelity, the likely pregnancy, and yes, meeting you—has been beyond overwhelming. And now seeing all that Rodin created reminds me that I haven’t sculpted in years.” Why am I even telling him this? He is the enemy, not a friend. He’s a cheater too. My eyes well up. But I have no friends. And I’m not myself. Averting my gaze, I cup my eyes with my hand. I don’t want him to see me cry or, worse, to pity me. Olivier is definitely not the shoulder I want to lean on.
Observing me closely, he starts to rest his palm on my back to console me, and then changes his mind when he sees me flinch at the approaching hand. I wipe my eyes and move farther away. Please don’t touch me. I don’t know why I opened up to you.
He places his hand back on his lap and releases a full-scale tension-filled breath. “I get how this all appears to you, so . . .” He makes a tap to the side of his head gesture. “So cliché. The married professor and the beautiful student. La muse. This was an affair—it was wrong, I know—but a lovely affair that has perhaps become complicated,” he admits.
“What about your wife?” I ask, thinking about Gabe, thinking of me. “Where does she fit into the equation?”
“Look, I’ve known Sabine since we were kids . . .” His voice becomes distant. “We have an understanding. She lives her life, and I live mine. Our boys are our priority.”
I groan, and don’t try to shield it. An understanding. Code for an open marriage. How convenient. And there it is—the French version of Sophie and Gabe. Puppy love once again that has no chance of survival in the grown-up world. As Olivier goes on about Sabine, a prominent architect, and his two young sons, about their so-called arrangement, I listen but not really. Instead, I see only the breezy sway of the beautiful trees around us and I think about the carved Sophie & Gabe, TLF tree. I can still see the tender look on Gabe’s face like it was yesterday when he carved it, and I loved it, loved him, loved us. How naïve I was. There was no ‘understanding’—there would never be one. It’s not me. I will never understand how he did this to us.
“I can see that this has all been a great burden on you.”
“And what about you?” I challenge. “What if Ava is pregnant? Does this ‘arrangement’ of yours have a clause for that?”
Olivier’s face falls hard. “No.”
He reaches over and places his hand on mine—for him, for me?—and for one frozen second, I stare at it. His slender hands are smooth on top with proud protruding veins, serrated fingernails lined with permanent paint, palms callused—artist’s hands. And then I remember who he is, who I am, and I quickly yank my hand away, locking it protectively between my thighs.
He tilts his head slightly, looks at me, then stands. “Come, Sophie. You must see more of the gardens and of course the room dedicated to Rodin’s muse and partner, Camille Claudel. It will be okay. It will get better. It always does.”
AND OLIVIER WAS RIGHT. IT DID GET A LITTLE BETTER. MY MOOD SHIFTED AS WE spent the next hour immersed in the spectacular gardens. We perused the rose garden first and then the large rocky garden—the “Garden of Orpheus”—and finally we ended up in the “Garden of Springs.” Each turn presented its own unique gift. Rodin had created his very own Garden of Eden and, as Olivier led me around, I couldn’t help but let my guard down, push aside my troubles, and revel in the exquisite beauty surrounding me.
“Before we go, you must see Le Baiser,” he says, pointing inside the museum.
“Yes,” I say excitedly—I can’t help it. Le Baiser—The Kiss—is considered by many to be Rodin’s most erotic sculpture, and I’ve been dying to see it up close my whole life. It represents Paolo and Francesca, two star-crossed Italian lovers who had been condemned to wander eternally through Hell for their crime of passion, but not before they shared the most sensual of all unrequited lip-locks—suggesting that they were interrupted and met their deaths without their lips ever having touched. It is a forbidden embrace immortalized by Rodin.
We walk through the museum for another half hour or so, and decide to head toward the hôtel terrace for a quick coffee before we leave. Once we are seated under the shade of lovely linden trees, Olivier insists once again that he accompany me to the gynecologist appointment, and that he had promised Ava he’d be there, to please allow him to do that—for her, he emphasized.
“Fine.” I finally give in. “But then, whatever happens, your relationship with Ava must end immediately—are we clear?”
He nods, and although I have warmed up to him, I have no illusions who this man is, and don’t trust him at all.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sipping his third espresso of the day, he leans forward. “Sophie, please, you’re making this so difficult. I care a great deal for Ava. But I will end it, okay, I promise. For you.”
“For her, damn it, for her.” My voice rises threateningly.
Olivier looks around the café. “Fine, yes, for her.”
We sit in silence for a few more minutes. I down my cappuccino as if it’s a flaming lemon drop. “This is not who I am, you know.” Why do I feel an urge to explain my behavior? I owe him nothing. “You have to understand my life has blown up completely.”
“I really do understand,” he says as the waitress hands us the bill. I reach for it but he grabs it first.
“Thank you for . . .” I begin and then stop myself. What am I thanking him for? Taking me to the Rodin Museum so I can beg him to stop seeing my daughter? For listening to me open up about my cheating husband? That’s like asking for sympathy from the devil. I am really losing it.
“I’m glad we came here, talked, and spent time together,” he says, his voice lingering as he moves in closer to me. A little too close. His musky scent mixed with espresso fills my nostrils.
Is he fucking serious? I lean back, reestablishing the appropriate boundary, while internally scolding myself. You’re not some young, carefree woman enjoying an afternoon tryst under shady trees. You’re you—Hester Prynne’s mother. There’s no dropping your guard. No opening up to him. No thanking him. No ‘let’s discuss art and find a common bond.’ And definitely no need to apologize about anything. Olivier is Gabe in French drag. Pull yourself together.
“Let’s go,” I say abruptly and stand. Smoothing out my shirt, I turn in the direction
of the exit with Olivier following a few sheepish steps behind me. I don’t even want to know what he’s thinking. Unlike the rest of my impulsive family, at the very least, I know the difference between wrong and really wrong.
Chapter Ten
THE TAXI PULLS UP IN FRONT OF THE BUILDING ON 29 AVENUE RAPP IN THE Seventh, along the left bank of the Seine with the Eiffel Tower in full view. I stare out the open window in awe. I have never seen a doctor’s office that looks anything like this. It’s a sculpture not a building.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I ask the driver, who responds with some sort of thrusted bottom lip and chin lift gesture that must mean yes.
“It’s the Lavirotte Building,” Olivier explains, letting out a low whistle as he pays the driver. “The doctor must be quite successful to have an office here. It is a well-known historic apartment building, one of the best examples of art nouveau architecture in Paris.”
We get out of the cab and stand together in front of the outrageous multicolored structure, faced with ceramic tiles, lavish sculptural decor depicting animals and vegetables, curvy windows, embellished balconies, and curling wrought-iron railings. Most shocking are the erotic stone sculptures of Adam and Eve surrounded by beasts and phallic symbols flanking the arched entrance, which looks like a supersized vagina.
“Welcome to French gynecology,” I say under my breath. Olivier laughs.
“I haven’t been inside this building in a few years,” he tells me. “It’s had quite the history. It caused a major scandal when it was erected at the turn of the century and then won the Paris competition for new façades in 1901.” He smiles mischievously.
Yet another scandal, I think wryly, gauging Olivier, and scolding myself again for even thinking about him with anything other than disgust. Olivier leads me toward the creepy-looking wooden entrance ornamented with wrought-iron lizards. He turns slightly before opening the door. “Sophie, are you—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Not okay. Just really nervous.”
“Me too,” he says, slowly running his hands through his dark wavy hair like a lawn mower through tall grass. Yet another sexy gesture to add to his repertoire.
Tears fill my eyes as I stare at him. And I miss my husband.
OLIVIER AND I ARRIVE ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF THE BUILDING. THE ENTIRE FLOOR seems to belong to Dr. Vivienne Goldberg. We enter the waiting room and I quickly look around and let out a small sigh of relief that Ava is not here yet. At least I have a few minutes to get situated. And it’s not a waiting room at all—it’s more like a reception hall. The ceilings are vaulted and the flooring is black and white marble partially covered with an oriental rug—not your typical cadet-gray just vacuumed carpet. Not to mention the large chandelier. Yes—an actual ballroom-sized chandelier dripping with crystals. Unbelievable. I laugh to myself, imagining the fourteen-karat gold stirrups on the examination table.
If only Samantha and Lauren were here to see this. Stop thinking about them—they betrayed you, remember? But I can’t help it. They would be enamored by this place. We always brag that our gynecologists have the hands-down best waiting room around because every single magazine is up-to-date. No exaggeration. If you visit Drs. Miranda Kelly or Emily Stein in May—all the magazines on the coffee table and on the wall display are May/June issues. And we’re not talking typical parenting/pregnancy/vaginal health magazines—Kelly and Stein have all the top fashion mags, as well as O, People, Us Weekly, Vanity Fair—and even W. What doctor’s office has a subscription to W? Most people go to K and S (as they are known in the burbs) because they are the best, but I go for the magazines. It is the only doctor’s office in which I’m actually thrilled when they tell me there’s a wait.
As I scan Dr. Goldberg’s elaborate waiting-area-cum-salon, I notice there’s not even a single magazine on site, rather a filled floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcase. Who reads a book at the gynecologist’s office? I glance around and take inventory. One elderly woman is accompanied by a young aide and three pregnant women are reading their phones. No one even looks up. Olivier sits down on the Louis XIV–style canapé—where does Goldberg do her furniture shopping, Versailles? The office is so over-the-top, I’m beginning to feel underdressed. Squaring my shoulders, I walk up to the receptionist, who is sitting behind a large antique vintage writing desk. No glass partitions in this place.
“Bonjour, I’m Sophie Bloom. For Ava Bloom,” I say slowly. “My daughter will be here any minute with her passport and international insurance information.”
The woman, who looks like she just jumped out of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video with her sleek blonde chignon and pursed crimson lips, says without smiling, “The American, oui? You called this morning.”
“Oui, c’est moi, the American.” I continue to respond in French-lish, a kind of half and half.
The woman nods with no affect. “Very good. Please, madame. Have a seat and we will call you shortly.”
I take a seat across from Olivier. “Books not magazines,” I point out. “Not even a Paris Match.”
“Sophie, why are you acting so strange?” he asks as though he’s known me for years and could possibly know what my strange looks like.
But he’s right. I’m anxious about everything. Ava. Him. A potential pregnancy. Most of all, I can’t believe Gabe is not here with us. We’ve never missed a single big moment together in our daughter’s life. Our motto has always been Ava first, Ava last . . . and now that it’s Ava in the middle of a crisis, to be here without him feels like I’m missing an arm or a leg.
The door flings open, and of course, it’s Ava on cue. She walks in, cheeks flushed, hair loose and wild around her face, as though she’s been running. “Sorry I’m late. Don’t ask.”
She acknowledges me but barely, clearly still upset at how I handled myself at Café de Flore, then breaks out into a wide smile when she sees Olivier. Yes, he came, I yearn to scream at my idiot daughter.
But she sits next to me.
“So, how did it go?” I ask, as if she just got off the school bus and is ready for her snack. Her presentation is the last damn thing on my mind. In fact, it doesn’t even make the top ten or bottom twenty.
“Intense but over,” she says, her eyes resting on Olivier. “How was your time together?”
Over, which I don’t say. “Fine.”
Olivier leans forward, grinning. “Nice actually. We went to the Rodin.”
She turns to me. “You must have loved that.”
Loved it? What is this? Let’s play pretend? None of this is “nice actually.” None of this is normal. Not you, Ava. Not him, not this gilded gynecologist’s office, which looks like it could be rented out for bar mitzvahs and weddings. I don’t speak, because I’m afraid of what wretched thing may come out. I smile with tight lips and throw in a nod—that’s the best I can do.
“Ava Bloom,” the receptionist calls out loudly, pronouncing our last name as though it were “Plume.” The three of us stand and walk toward her. The receptionist shakes her head. “Non. Just Mlle. Bloom and her . . .” She looks at Olivier and clearly cannot decide who the players are here. She settles on me. “Mother.”
Ava glances at Olivier longingly. Puh-lease. I inwardly roll my eyes, more than grateful that he is stuck out in the waiting room. Ava hands the receptionist her documents to copy, then I follow her through the door leading to the examination rooms. Ava turns and whispers, “What’s going on with you and Daddy, by the way? Something’s wrong and I know it.”
Not this too. I can’t deal with that right now. “We had a fight, honey,” I semi-lie, then fake-clear my throat, buying myself a few extra seconds to pull an alibi together. “Before I came to Paris. Not a big deal. We will work it out. Obviously, I have had bigger things on my mind. Don’t worry about us.”
She scrutinizes my face, searching for clues, and then relaxes. My lame explanation is enough to hold her over for now. “Okay . . . so did you really have a nice time with Olivier, or was th
at just a cover?”
I avert my gaze, because the truth is, I’m not sure what I feel about what we had at the Rodin. I can see what she sees in him. He’s handsome, sophisticated, makes you feel like you are the only one . . . that is, until the next one comes along. I’ve seen his type in just about every chick flick. He’s Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones’s Diary—an irresistible asshole, the guy we fall for head over heels, but never the one who stops long enough to pick us up.
“Olivier is intelligent.” I give him that. “He showed me around the Rodin Museum. But . . .”
I never get to finish my sentence as to why he’s not trustworthy because a nurse says something to Ava in French and directs us into Room 3 with her. Like the no-nonsense receptionist, she immediately gets down to business and asks Ava the standard questions about her medical history, then weighs her and takes all of her vitals. When she’s finished, she instructs Ava to undress, put on a gown, and that the doctor will be in shortly. All the usual stuff.
Ava sits up on the examination table, her long, tanned legs dangling over the side. She swings them like she did when she was a little girl on the playground. This is killing me. She is too young for all of this.
“Mom, I’m really nervous,” she says finally, when the nurse walks out.
Me too, baby. I stand, give her a hug, and she accepts it.
The door opens slowly, and Dr. Goldberg enters the room. She is tall and regal-looking with medium-length coiffed honey-streaked hair and bright blue wide-set eyes. A handsome boxy woman, she wears a cream-colored Chanel suit with black piping, accompanied by layers of chunky gold chains around her neck and wrist—no shapeless white doctor jacket with an embroidered pocket bearing Dr. V. Goldberg for her. She matches the décor of her office.
Dr. Goldberg addresses me first. “Madame Bloom, please extend my regards to Emily Stein. We met at a convention in New York several years back. Truly lovely and talented.”
In contrast to her commanding appearance, Vivienne Goldberg’s voice is surprisingly kittenish, suggesting sensuality beneath all that Chanel. I can only imagine that she must be a hit with the ladies.