That makes him smile. Not a cocky smile, but a small, welcoming one.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“It’s a nice neighborhood.”
“I thought I’d stop by…” I exhale and mumble, “You said I could.”
He nods and blinks. My fingers tighten around the handle of my satchel.
“Zach?” I hear coming from inside the apartment. “Zach?” Again and from a voice I unfortunately recognize.
He looks back over his shoulder with a frown, then returns his attention to me. I can’t read him.
“Sorry, I should’ve called before dropping in unannounced. I don’t want to intrude. You must be busy…” With Clara-the-Valkyrie. “I’ll go now—”
“Stay.” He sounds definitive. “It’s only a business meeting.” He steps aside to unblock the way into his apartment.
I enter with trepidation, but once inside it’s as though I’ve never left. I soon have to revise this as my gaze lands on Clara. In broad daylight, the sight of her is even more intimidating than under Le Duke’s lights. The girl has a clear addiction to gladiator shoes. She’s wearing a similar pair to those she had on the first time I met her and a stylish one-piece shorts and sweater combo that I could never pull off.
“Hi.” There’s nothing welcoming in her greeting.
“Hi,” I answer through pursed lips.
I wish I could take the moral highroad, but I fail. The word I have for her in the silence of my head spells: B-I-T-C-H! Pathetic, but sadly true.
“Bonjour Mademoiselle!” comes from behind me. I swivel round.
Ziggy is walking out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups on it. He has that warm and genuinely benevolent expression I noticed before, despite my drunken state.
“Will you care to join us for some tea?” His voice is rich and melodic. I get why Charlie is smitten.
“Thanks. No, I’m fine.”
Zach has come to stand between Ziggy and me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt,” I say
“We were brainstorming,” Zach explains.
“Our boss is a real team-player.” Ziggy pours the tea into three cups and sets it on the round table between the sofa and the lounger where Clara is spread out. She unfolds her endless limbs in a catlike manner that reminds me of my mother. I chase the comparison away.
“How so?” I ask.
“He wants everyone involved in the running of his business, down to his chauffeur.”
“I’ve heard you’re the creative type.”
Ziggy freezes in his pouring movement and looks up at me, surprise flashing through his almond-shaped eyes. “In my spare time.”
“Zach, we still need to talk about the private party for Adeline tomorrow night,” Clara cuts in. “It’s no problem for me to get on with the logistics but you’ll have to show up. Her publicist asked for you explicitly.”
Adeline, that new singer whose husky voice is playing non-stop on the French radio?
“I will, don’t worry,” Zach answers but I can hear he isn’t really paying attention. It’s impossible to ignore the restlessness now radiating from him. He keeps rolling back and forth on his heels. Curiously, that unties the knots in my stomach and my breathing loses its mad staccato.
The third cup of tea—Zach’s—is left untouched and an awkward silence stretches between the four of us.
“I’m actually running late, so if that’s fine with you, Zachary, I’ll leave now.” Ziggy’s voice could turn into an addiction. It’s like being enveloped in sweet honey.
He takes one last sip from his cup and stands, his eyes now attached expectantly on Clara. She still dominates the sofa with her curves and smooth limbs, taking teeny tiny sips from her own tea. She doesn’t seem to get Ziggy’s hint.
“I’ll drop you at your place. It’s on my way,” he adds.
Clara lays her cup down on the round table. “Thanks, Zig, but I have a couple more things to discuss with Zach.”
Of course, she does.
Zach moves closer to me and my skin tingles. It’s my turn to become all feline, although in a more modest, pussycat way. I just want to snuggle up against him.
“Can we talk about it tonight? I’ll come to the club early,” he suggests.
I wonder if he has even noticed how tightly Clara’s lips are now pressed together.
“If that’s what you want,” she answers.
I check on Zach. He shifts his gaze from me to Clara and settles on her. For once, I can read him and what I see now is kindness. He likes this girl and he cares for her. He really does.
“That’s what I want.” His voice sounds strangely solemn.
The air is taut between the two of them.
“I see.” Clara stands and swiftly grabs her bag from the floor. She passes by me without so much as a look.
Zach follows her with his eyes until she reaches the door Ziggy has opened for her. He waves at me with an apologetic smile as if he’s responsible for Clara’s behavior. The door is about to close behind them when I remember the official purpose of my visit.
“Ziggy!” I shout after him. I rush and stop the door from shutting. He studies me with his eyebrows arched.
“Can I help you?” he prompts.
“I need your number?”
He arches his eyebrows even higher. “Well, that’s unexpected...”
“It’s not for me and I think you know that.”
His expression freezes for a couple of seconds but he recovers. “I think I do.” He recites a French cellphone number and my fingers flow over my phone keyboard. I check I’ve gotten it right by calling him. Something buzzes in his back pocket.
He has a quick glance at it. “I have your number now too.”
“You said you were running late, Zig,” Clara points out.
“Oui, oui, Jolie Blonde, un peu de bonne humeur.” Yeah, yeah, Pretty Blonde, chill out.
Ziggy follows Clara into the elevator and parts with another one of his bright, toothy grins.
“I look forward to receiving that call,” he mutters before the elevator starts its descent.
I shut the door and make my way back into the apartment. The French windows are opened onto the balcony, letting the warm air of the late afternoon waft inside. Today is the first day of September. Zach sits at the foot of the Le Corbusier chair I admired during my first visit. His hands are joined together over his knees.
“Did you come to ask me for Ziggy’s number?”
“Yes––I mean, no,” I swallow hard,” It was supposed to be my cover.”
A crease appears between his eyes. Someone was desperate to get his number. I promised I’d get it for her.”
He nods and there, once again, is that now familiar curve at the corner of his lips. “Why do you need a cover?”
“I needed an excuse to see you again.”
He exhales and his shoulders slightly drop. “You don’t need an excuse to do that.”
I shrug and the silence that follows is interrupted only by the noise rising from the street below. A car alarm is drowning everything else out. I don’t mind because Zach’s eyes mute me anyway, but the alarm finally stops.
He gestures towards the armchair. I stride over and sit there, my legs all stiff. I carefully lay my satchel with my camera inside on the wooden floor, then place my hands on my lap, keeping my back straight. I’ve reverted to the default posture my mother drilled into me since I emerged from the womb.
Zach’s denim-clad thighs are on both sides of mine. “Please relax.” His fingertips brush along one of my wrists and I repress a warm shiver. He must have noticed his effect on me because he withdraws his hand and rests it on his knee.
I’ve not come here for a roll in the sack. If anything, Zach gently friend-zoned me right before I got into the taxi yesterday.
We both break into a ‘Zach’ and a ‘Lenor’ at the same time, then share an awkward chuckle.
“Ladies first,” he offers.<
br />
I inhale deeply. “I want to turn the page on you.”
I might as well have slapped him across the face: He shuts his eyes and his face gives a slight recoil. It doesn’t last and when he looks at me again, I’m expecting a full-force The Fridge appraisal. But he doesn’t turn polar. He doesn’t even straighten up to introduce some distance between us. No. He keeps leaning towards me, his stare now on my hands wriggling over my lap. I feel the warmth of his breath over my face.
“So why are you here, Duchess?”
“Umm, I— I—”
“Coming here isn’t the most logical way to turn the page, unless you want to say goodbye face-to-face.” His voice dries up on the last words.
“I don’t.”
“What do you want then?” He’s pushing me, but his tone remains patient.
“I don’t want to be angry with you anymore. If I cut off any ties with you now, I will never find closure and I’ll never fall in love again.”
“You managed to fall in love with that Joshua MacBride.”
I try to ignore the heat he’s put into my ex-fiancé’s name.
“I did love Josh but our relationship was doomed from the start. I realize that now. We were both in recovery from broken hearts. It just happened that the person who broke his heart came back into his—our—lives first.” With some serious leverage.
Zach tilts his head sideways. I see him swallow hard before he asks, “Would you have broken up with him… if I had shown up?”
“No,” bursts out of my mouth. “No,” I repeat. “I would have stayed with Josh, but I’d have to fight the temptation. Hard…” I’m taking candor to an insane level. “That would have been wrong, dishonest. I want to free my heart from you and then, maybe I’ll be able to start over. If I find someone, I want it to be about this man and him alone.”
Zach’s gaze flickers over mine. “I want the best for you.” He says that as if my best will be his worst. “How do you want to turn the page on me then?”
“I want us to be friends.”
He straightens up, frowns, and finally burst out laughing. When he stops, he cups my cheek and rubs the top of my cheekbone with his thumb. “You’ll have to explain this gem of feminine logic to me because I’m lost.”
I keep myself from resting my head against his palm and force my neck to stay rigid. “If I try to get to know the man you are now, I’ll realize the boy I’ve loved since I was six has gone. There’ll be nothing—no-one—for me to regret anymore. That’s how I want to turn the page on you.”
His hand slides down from my cheek, but his thumb and index finger gently tease my earlobe. I fight against how familiar that touch feels until his hand leaves my ear and he runs it through his copper-colored hair.
“That boy is gone, Eleanor. I still don’t understand why you liked him so much. He never understood it either, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t exist anymore. He’s with Renegade now.” He sounds as if he hated that boy even more than I loved him.
“Let me find out by myself.”
“I’m all yours to find out,” he finally answers.
I take a deep breath and let the air out of my lungs, which morphs into a brittle giggle. It sounds weird, even to my own ears, but Zach doesn’t look at me suspiciously.
“I was pretty nervous about coming here,” I explain.
“I was too when I saw you, but I’m just grateful you still want me in your life.” He squeezes my hand gently. “I’ll be the friend I failed to be five years ago.”
I nod, while an unexpected peace settles inside me.
Zach’s gaze shifts from my face to the half-open satchel at my feet. He extends his hand and grabs my camera. “May I?”
I nod again. He switches my camera on and looks at the display, clicking through the pictures I took this afternoon. He lingers on each image and I struggle with the unexpected exposure.
Finally Zach zeroes in on me and my lips form a feeble smile in response. “You’ve become very good at this.”
“This—that—I mean those pictures are nothing special. I needed to kill time while working up the courage to show up here.”
He shakes his head. “I can tell these are something special just by looking at them on the small screen. Can I see more?”
I chew on his question. “My photos aren’t all digital. I’ve set up a darkroom back at Mom’s house and I’ve been developing what I’ve shot in Paris so far. Do you want to see them?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“Are you free tomorrow evening?”
“I am.”
“I believe you know where I live.”
“I do.”
“Good.” My tone has a confidence I lack inside. I take the camera back from him and place it in my satchel, then stand. “I’ll cook something, so have a solid lunch just in case. Cooking isn’t really my forte.”
“I’ll stop at McDonald’s on my way to yours, so no pressure.”
“See you then.” I turn my back on him and head for the door.
I have my hand on the handle when he calls out, “Lenor?”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Yes.”
“I know this time it’s not about me, but thanks… thanks for giving our friendship a second chance. I won’t screw up.”
I answer with a smile and leave.
I hope I won’t be the one screwing up. There are so many different ways I can.
Chapter 13
I haven’t chosen Docteur Olivier.
Mom said he’d been recommended by a friend of hers. Now, I have the highest disregard for my mother’s so-called amis. They’re as untrustworthy and self-serving as can be. However, as far as the Freud-lookalike Dr. Olivier is concerned, I have to admit the recommendation is a valid one. Since she’s started her therapy with him, the changes in my mother are just short of a metamorphosis. At least, that was what I thought until she OD’d. But since then, Olivier has been ever more present—home-visits and all—and it’s like Mom decided to start from scratch, beginning with her relationship with me.
Until today, I haven’t stepped farther than the waiting room of the good doctor’s practice. His practice is pretty much the antithesis of what I imagined addicts were sent to in the last century. No clinical sanitarium perched on top of the Swiss Alps here, but instead a cozy apartment filled with art books and cushioned armchairs. It’s right next to la Place des Vosges in Le Marais on the Right Bank. With its labyrinth of cobblestone alleys, the area makes you step into the medieval times. Dr. Olivier’s practice is a couple of streets away from where Pierre lives and I fervently pray my path won’t cross his.
For the past two months, I’ve accompanied my mother to every single of her bi-weekly appointments with her psychiatrist. In the first couple of weeks I had to drag her there. A weight forms inside my chest just thinking back to those days, when I found out about her renewed love for all things Vicodin and Xanax.
“So, Eleanor, we’re here today to discuss how the last months have impacted you and your relationship with Louise.” Dr. Olivier has a low-pitched, almost guttural voice.
Today is the last day I’m taking my mom to her appointments. She’s decided that, from now on, she’s strong enough to go there on her own—chauffeur-and-Bentley-alone—and my services are no longer needed. To celebrate, I’ve been invited to join today’s session.
“Lenor, would you like to tell us about your parents’ divorce and how it’s affected you?” Dr. Olivier asks. I squirm on my armchair, ignoring my mother’s expectant gaze. “It’s fine to start with the facts. How did you hear about it?”
Facts I can do. “My father told me at the end of his visit to Oxford for the gala dinner at Rhodes House. He was a key speaker.” There, facts, facts, facts!
Dr. Olivier tilts his beardy head but doesn’t comment. Apparently he’s waiting for a tiny bit more data.
I clear my throat and indulge him. “He said Mom had left us and was starting a new life in Paris with
her latest boyfriend.”
My mother lets out a strangled gasp, but Olivier ignores it. “What was your reaction to that news?”
Shame makes me break eye-contact with the docteur. The truth is I didn’t react at all because I was too involved in my own life-drama. Cassandra had agreed to let Josh and I adopt Lucas, their son. My happy-ever-after was back on. My main state-of-mind had been…
“Relief.” But, looking back, I realize it had applied to my mom as well. “I was relieved she was finally stepping out of my father’s shadow.” Unlike her daughter. “I wish it had been for herself rather than because of another man. Of course, I had no idea her addiction had worsened.”
“How did you find out?”
“She called me. I was at Heathrow airport about to embark on a flight to Kansas City. She said she needed me, that she was lost. Things hadn’t turned out in Paris the way she thought they would. I had never heard her like that before.”
Dr. Olivier’s eyebrows curve and his forehead creases. He wants more.
“My mother had never given me the impression she needed me.” Or that I even existed for all it matters. “I knew she had to be at an all-time low. It… scared me.”
“So you your came to Paris instead.” I nod and stare down at my hands joined tightly on my lap. Revisiting that time of my life isn’t easy. “In essence, you let your fiancé down so that you could be there for your mother.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it then?”
I shuffle again. “I guess my mother had nobody else to turn to.”
“While your fiancé had?”
“I didn’t owe him anything,” I snap.
But Josh had been on its own to manage the whole secret-baby soap-opera. He isn’t close to his own parents. Not that I really know because he never introduced me to them.
“You didn’t owe me anything either.” My mother’s voice makes its way into my head and I shake off the tidal wave of memories.
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