A French Affair

by Susan Lewis

  ‘I did. I do. I just had to ask. I mean, it makes everything easier, doesn’t it, if we know that you love Lilian and I love Charlie?’

  He almost laughed. ‘I don’t know about easier, but I suppose it makes it clearer.’ Then, turning to look at her for a moment, ‘We’re not going to hurt anyone,’ he said, ‘maybe apart from one another, and we’re going to try very hard not to do that.’

  Her eyes closed at the way she was already hurting, but after a while she found herself starting to smile. ‘What is it about you,’ she asked, trying to sound humorous, ‘that makes me think I can say anything?’

  Though he laughed, his reply was more serious than she’d expected. ‘Probably because you don’t have to tread so carefully around me. Everyone else in your life is suffering over what happened, so you’re always trying to protect them, not wanting to say anything that will make it worse, or leave them thinking you blame them in some way, or feel they’ve let you down . . .’

  ‘But I’m doing it all the time,’ she came in despondently, ‘especially with Charlie. Do you know, we hardly ever mention Natalie’s name unless we’re talking about what happened, and even then he tries not to. He’s taken it so hard he can’t even look at photographs or home videos or anything else to do with her, and sometimes I find that really difficult to deal with. It’s not that I don’t understand, because obviously I do – losing a child is like having part of yourself amputated with no anaesthetic, and nothing to hold onto . . .’ She stopped, embarrassed in case she’d run on too long.

  ‘I saw what Natalie’s death did to him during those early days,’ he told her. ‘You’ll remember I was with him through most of it. He gave me the impression that if he had a favourite amongst your children it might have been her.’

  Jessica nodded as her heart contracted. ‘It was,’ she said. ‘Maybe because we waited so long for our second, or because she just had that special twinkle for her daddy . . .’ She swallowed hard and turned to look at him. ‘Did he talk to you about her during that time?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. It was mostly official business we were having to deal with, and his French, as you know, is as good as yours, so he didn’t need me too much for that. I think it was more as a driver, and some moral support.’

  She reflected sombrely about that time, then almost without thinking she said, ‘So while Lilian took care of me, you took care of Charlie . . .’ She gave a sigh of confusion . . . ‘and now look where we are.’

  As she looked at him she saw he was smiling.

  ‘I guess the world is just a very strange place, with a highly capricious master,’ he commented.

  ‘You mean fate?’

  He nodded.

  She started to respond, but found her feelings too close to the surface, so trying to focus her mind elsewhere she said, ‘Can I choose some music?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, as she opened the glove compartment. ‘There is a very good recording of Claude conducting Il Trovatore at La Scala a couple of years ago. If you don’t already know it, I think you will like it.’

  ‘I do know it,’ she told him, ‘and I remember how well received it was at the time. Did you go to Milan, to see it?’

  ‘Mais bien sûr,’ he replied. ‘It was before I met Lilian, of course. I went with my father and Daniella – and Karin.’

  Since he’d never mentioned his ex to her before, she was unprepared for the jolt it gave her. She wondered if it was jealousy or curiosity, and decided it was probably both. She wanted to know everything about him, yet it was hard having to accept that unlike Karin – or Lilian – she would never be a real, or acknowledged part of his life.

  Slotting the CD into the player, she closed the glove compartment and sat back to let the captivating sounds of the overture fill the car. ‘Are you ever in touch with Karin?’ she asked after a while.

  Seeming surprised by the question, he said, ‘Rarely. She moved to Rome soon after we broke up. I think she and Daniella contact one another from time to time, though.’

  ‘Why did you break up?’ she asked. ‘Did you just stop loving her? Is that what happened?’

  He glanced at her curiously. ‘I suppose so. I still cared for her though, very deeply, which was why it took me so long to tell her.’

  She was thinking of Charlie now, and all the years they’d been together, how much they’d shared, everything they’d meant to one another – and how devastated either one of them would be if they suddenly woke up one day to discover they no longer felt the same way. ‘It’s frightening to think you can be in love with someone for so long, and then suddenly find that maybe you aren’t any more,’ she said, not really wanting to believe it could happen. ‘Was it gradual? Or did you suddenly look at her one day and realise it was all over for you?’

  He took a moment to consider it before saying, ‘I think it had been happening for a while without me knowing, but then yes, I suppose I did look at her one day and think, “This is wrong. I don’t love her the way she loves me.” It was a terrible moment, and I tried very hard to tell myself it was just a phase, but in the end I couldn’t get away from it.’ He shrugged, not unkindly, more helplessly. ‘Your feelings are what they are, whether you like them or not, and ultimately you seem to have very little control.’

  Knowing how true that was, particularly at this moment, she said, ‘When you met Lilian, did you know right away that she was the one?’

  He nodded. ‘More or less. Yes, I think I did.’

  At that she smiled. ‘It’s how she felt about you. Un coup de foudre.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Do you still feel that way about her?’ she asked. Then, before he could answer, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget I even mentioned it.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Mentioned what?’ he said by way of a tease.

  She swallowed hard and turned to look out of the window. Had she really wanted him to doubt his love for Lilian? Surely to God not, for what purpose would that serve, other than to break Lilian’s heart, and that was something she could never want. Nevertheless she couldn’t help wondering how she might have felt if he had admitted to being less certain now. Would it change anything for her? Maybe things were already changing, because she wasn’t sure it was possible to feel as strongly for him as she did and still love Charlie the way she always had. Yet she did love Charlie. She couldn’t imagine ever not loving him. So why was she here? What was it about this man that was making her long to be the most important and cherished part of his life, as though neither of them had anyone else in the world to consider but themselves?

  For a while she was foolish – and selfish – enough to let herself imagine how it might be if she were able to give herself to him completely the way she so desperately wanted to, even become a part of his life in Valennes . . . But then she forced herself to let it go, knowing that she was only going to make this time together so very much harder if she kept allowing her thoughts to run this way.

  It was after midday when they finally arrived in Paris, by which time the intensity inside her had abated, enabling her to laugh and tease him for taking a wrong turn in a city he knew so well. It meant that as soon as they arrived at the apartment block he had to give her the keys to Claude and Daniella’s flat so she could let herself in, while he left the car in its private space to go and hail a cab.

  Not wanting to stay indoors any longer than necessary on such a beautiful day, Jessica left the shutters closed in the apartment, quickly freshened up, then taking her notebook, camera and phone set off ready to explore. As she’d expected, Montmartre was swarming with tourists, and because of the hour all the bistros and cafés were packed. However, in spite of the crush, she managed to make a leisurely browse along the many rows of colourful street art, either parked on easels, propped against walls, or hanging from stalls, finding much that she liked and plenty she didn’t. Then she climbed and descended some of the steep stone staircases that zigzagged through the narrow, pale grey buildings, and
all the while she tried to imagine a young Jeanne Hébuterne taking the same steps. It was hard with so many people around, and so many bad copies of Picassos and van Goghs and even Modiglianis on just about every corner, but if she looked up to where small delicately carved balconies embraced the fading slats of old brown or blue shutters, it was much easier to get a feel of how it might have been almost a century ago.

  Soon she was lost in a reverie of Jeanne exchanging what few coins she had for fruit and bread before climbing back to the studio where her tempestuous and often sick Modi was working. She could see her watching him with anxious eyes, or gazing from a window, lost in thought. She even felt Jeanne’s happiness at sitting for the man she loved, watching him work and sharing his frustrations as well as his poverty and pride.

  She wasn’t sure when she first started to find the crowds claustrophobic, she only knew that everything around her was suddenly seeming blurred and discordant and disturbingly oppressive. She needed to find some shade to escape the heat, and fresh air so she could breathe again, but she appeared to have lost her way. She pushed on through the bustle, heading towards the Basilica, thinking of its cavernous, shadowy interior as a sanctuary, but just like in a dream, no matter how fast she walked towards it, it seemed to get further away.

  Finally realising that a strong cocktail of sun and hunger was making her delirious she sat down on an empty chair outside a café, and ordered a glass of water with a tuna-filled baguette. By the time she’d eaten and drunk she was feeling much steadier, and even faintly embarrassed by how close she’d come to fainting, but now she was ready to set off again. A few minutes later she was slipping quietly into the hallowed environs of one of the most beautiful churches in the world, the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur. For a while she merely stood gazing up at the dazzling colours of the stained-glass windows and magnificent cupola, then she went to admire the mosaic that she’d seen many times over the years – something that never failed to move her. She went to confront the statue of Christ with his arms outstretched, and as her eyes rose up to his she felt her heart contract, partly with anger, partly with shame, for since losing Natalie she’d lost any faith she might have had. However, before leaving, she found herself lighting a candle for Natalie’s soul and saying a quiet prayer.

  Once outside again she waited for her eyes to adjust to the new glare of the sunlight, then walking to the top of the wide marble steps in front of the Basilica, she gazed down at the spectacular view of Paris, unfolding out to the horizon. Such a haphazard arrangement of streets and boulevards, tree-lined avenues and lush green parks. She thought of the thousands of people going about their daily business down there, all strangers and yet somehow connected, if only because they were in the same city. She wondered where Luc was amongst it all, then she smiled warmly as her mobile rang and she saw it was him.

  ‘Hi, are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m already here, waiting for you,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m going to be about ten minutes late. Don’t leave without me.’

  Laughing, she said, ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Close to the Place Vendôme, trying to get a taxi. Have you bought me a Modigliani?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, pleased and intrigued.

  ‘It’s a surprise. Here’s a taxi. I should be there very soon.’

  After she’d rung off she wandered over to a nearby wall to sit and watch the world go by, but almost as soon as she got there her mobile rang again.

  Seeing it was Nikki she felt a pang of guilt for where she was, mixed with relief that Nikki didn’t know, and clicking on she said warmly, ‘Hi darling, how are you? Did you get my message? I tried to call you earlier . . .’

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m terrible,’ Nikki wailed, ‘I’ve just had a really, really big row with Freddy and I think it’s over.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re wrong,’ Jessica told her gently. ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean I do, but it was really stupid, because he said I should grow up and stop clinging onto you and Dad all the time, and I’m not! Am I? I mean, you’re not even here, so how can I be clinging onto you? And Dad’s hardly ever here either, because he’s working all the time . . . Oh Mum, I said some really horrible things to him too, but I was really mad, and now I don’t know what to do. If he finishes with me I’ll just want to die.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Jessica responded, more sharply than she’d intended, but Nikki should have known better.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I mean it, Mum. I really, really love him, and I just couldn’t bear it if he doesn’t want to see me any more.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. He was probably just in a bad mood and took it out on you.’

  ‘Yeah, like Dad does. Everyone’s doing it to me lately, and I hate it. I feel so miserable, and I miss you so much. Please come home, Mum. Please.’

  ‘Nikki, you’re going to Norfolk next Monday . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but what if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you can come here with Harry.’

  ‘I don’t want to come there. It’s where Natalie died so I don’t know why you want to be there either. It’s sick.’

  ‘Darling, how I deal with my grief is my business, and if it happens not to fit in with your ideas then I’m sorry, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t be nasty to me!’ Nikki cried. ‘I can’t stand everyone being mean to me all the time. I told you I just had a row with Freddy and now you’re making me feel even worse.’

  ‘Well, you’re not making me feel very good either,’ Jessica told her. ‘It’s time you understood that I’m a person too, Nikki. I have feelings and they can be hurt just as easily as yours.’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ Nikki sobbed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Everything I do is wrong. I’m just a waste of space . . .’

  ‘Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself, and though you might have cause it’ll be more helpful if you stop crying and go and try to sort things out with Freddy.’

  ‘I would if you were here, because you’d be able to tell me what to say.’

  ‘I can do that on the phone, but I won’t, because Freddy might have a point. Maybe you are too close to me and Dad, which I know is only to be expected after what we’ve been through, but you’re going to be eighteen in ten days, darling. You have to start thinking for yourself . . .’

  ‘Oh, like, so you don’t ever ask Lilian for advice,’ Nikki broke in hotly. ‘Any time anything happens to you, you’re straight on the phone to her, but when it comes to me needing a friend, you don’t want to know.’

  Wondering if it was the sun or her conscience that was making her feel light-headed now, Jessica said, ‘That is absolutely not true, Nikki, and you know it. I love you in a way you won’t even begin to understand until you have children yourself . . .’

  ‘Then come home, Mum. Please.’

  ‘No, darling. I’m sorry, but we both know that by the time I get there you’ll very probably have made up with Freddy, and you won’t need me any more. So I’m staying right where I am, and if you need to come here next week I’ll ask Dad to book you a flight.’

  ‘Well, thanks for nothing,’ Nikki snapped, and the line went dead.

  Clicking off her own phone Jessica put her hands to her flaming cheeks, still feeling shaken and angry, and unsure whether she’d been too harsh with Nikki. She knew it was the mention of Lilian that had made her lose touch with what she was saying, so maybe she should call Nikki back and try again. However, as she started to dial the number, she asked herself if it really wouldn’t be better to let Nikki deal with this alone. After all, she couldn’t keep stepping in to sort things out for her, whether it was with Freddy, or Charlie, or anyone else.

  Having made the decision to step back she promptly continued to struggle with her conscience, hoping Nikki might ring again, whilst resisting the urge to call Charlie, which she knew Nikki would p
robably find unforgivable. It wasn’t until she saw Luc coming up the steps towards her that she felt the tension starting to unravel at last, and by the time he was looking down into her eyes her own were soft with pleasure.

  The afternoon passed in a haze of heat and laughter as they sauntered about Montmartre, looking at the art, talking to the oldest people they could find, and then finally visiting what used to be the Bateau-Lavoir. She hadn’t really expected to find anything dramatic, or even very inspiring, for she knew the building where Picasso had given birth to Cubism, and where Jeanne and Modi had lived and worked for a while, had long ago been destroyed by fire. It disheartened her anyway to see that a small and unprepossessing plaque was all that now marked such an auspicious past. It left her with such a dispiriting sense of impermanence and irrelevance that Luc started to despair of breaking her out of it, until finally he suggested ice cream.

  ‘If I’d known you were going to eat it like this,’ he said, as she licked the spoon so suggestively, ‘I would have booked an orchestra and sold tickets.’

  She burst out laughing, and taking the spoon from him, she began to feed him, watching his mouth and wanting to kiss it so very, very much.

  Next stop should have been across the river at Montparnasse, where Jeanne and Modigliani had lived until their tragic and untimely deaths, but since Luc wasn’t prepared to risk another tumble into the bleakness of mortality, or to be cast as a poor, starving artist who suffered with typhoid, pleurisy and – on a good day – alcoholism, he insisted they return to the apartments because he hadn’t showered since that morning, and in this heat and street grime he was feeling sorely in need.

  ‘Besides which,’ he added, as they started back, ‘there should be something there for you by now, if the same-day delivery system is working.’

  An hour later Jessica was perched on the sofa in Daniella’s sitting room, a blaze of afternoon sunlight streaming in through the wide-open shutters along with the distant growl of traffic and chattering of passers-by three floors below. Luc had gone into his own apartment, leaving her alone to open the parcel they’d found with the concierge downstairs.