I’m strutting towards the en-suite bathroom when I realize Zach is still standing in the doorway. He hasn’t yet stepped in but looks around like a detective for a clue in the Eleanor-Carrington mystery.
“You can come in you know,” I invite him.
He slowly enters the room, looking almost shy.
“To dispel any doubt in your mind, I’ll start by showing you the darkroom.” I open the bathroom door. Once he’s by my side, I close the door, pull aside the curtain protecting the room from any exterior light, then switch on the red lights. I’ve just finished developing my latest set of photos. They aren’t the ones I took yesterday, while I was working up the courage to show up at his place. Those ones were all digital and had to be printed.
He checks the developing tank and reel, the hanging clips and film squeegees. “So you really are old-school.”
“Not for everything, but I love the development process. I feel like I own each picture twice over. Watching the images gradually emerge on the paper is hypnotic too.” Zach does a slow tour of the bathroom. It’s all a bit messy—maybe I should have tidied it up before showing it off to a guest. “It’s also a good excuse to shut myself off from the outside world, a bit like my own form of meditation.”
He returns to where I stand and leans against the doorframe, mirroring my stance. “So you never shower then?”
“Rest easy. There are plenty of other bathrooms in this house.”
“Can I see some of the pictures you’ve developed? And the ones you took yesterday on your digital too if you’ve already printed them?”
After switching off the red lights and pulling back the curtain, I stride back to my bedroom and seize the A3-folders leaning against the wall by the window. The only place we can both sit and look at the photos is on my bed. I sit down cross-legged on the edge of it and open one of the folders in front of me.
I flick through the first stack of photos, ignoring the shuffling sound of Zach lowering himself onto the mattress beside me.
“Et voilà..” I extend the open folder to Zach. “That’s the one from yesterday. I printed them last night.”
He takes it and starts perusing the black-and-white images inside. In my head, the moment equals full-on nudity as if my soul is exposed through these photos. Still, I can’t help the tremor of excitement rushing through me.
Excitement soon morphs into apprehension. Zach’s only reaction is a tilt of his head as he gazes more intently at the photos. He examines each one in turn as if they’re X-rays, inspecting each bone and shadow.
Nervously, I flick my hair back over my shoulder and shift my position on the bed, fighting to keep my movements to a minimum.
Finally, finally, he closes the folder, taking care not to bend the edges of any pictures. I expect him to say something, to comment on my work if only to say they are utter rubbish, but instead he takes hold of the second folder and starts the same exercise again.
These photos were never meant to be as ‘artsy’ as the first stack. I took most of them right after my arrival in Paris. Mom was at the peak of her screwed-up-ness at that time and Josh had dumped me a week before back in D.C. In other words, I was swimming in happiness. The few hours I had for myself then, away from my bedridden mother, had been spent wandering aimlessly around Paris. Some of the places I ended up were featured in these pictures: the Fountain of the Four Bishops on the Place Saint-Sulpice, the arcades of the Place des Vosges, even two or three angles of the Arc de Triomphe. I wanted to transfer some of my melancholy to the photos as I developed them. That’s the reason they all have a sepia finish.
Zach has reached the last photo, not a place this time, or a body part, but a whole person. A little girl no more than six year old, playing hopscotch. I saw her in the tiny playground right behind Notre-Dame. She had a cheeky smile and messy piggy-tails.
He runs his fingertips over the image of the child. “This one looks a lot different from the others. Why is that?”
“She reminded me of something I had just lost.”
His expression dissolves and his voice is flat when he asks, “You were pregnant?”
“No, no, not that way.” My gaze passes over the familiar antique furniture and I force myself to swallow hard. “I’m sure you know that my fiancé found out he had a child. He found out about––about––” I stammer, “about Lucas last June when Cassie, the girl he’d failed to divorce, broke the news to him. It was all very messy, and even if I had reasons to be pissed off, I did some things and said some things I’m not proud of.” Like bribing poor Cassie to get her and her kid out of our lives. “Until…”
“Until what?”
“Until Cassie showed me what being truly selfless actually means. Despite all my mistakes, I loved Josh. I wanted to be his wife and share my life with him. We had so much in common and he was a good man, still is a good man, and I wanted to believe he loved me too. Cassie saw the good life Josh and I could have and give. She was ready to give up Lucas and have Josh and I adopt him.”
“Did you accept?”
I nod. I can’t look at Zach, so I keep staring through the window at the sun descending through the pink clouds. The room seems to have darkened, or perhaps it simply reflects the darkness inside me.
“You were ready to be the mother of his child?” I can’t miss his disbelief.
“I loved Josh and I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I’m one of those girls who dreams of how their babies will look like as soon as she falls for a guy.” Or even names those babies. “I guess some people find that pathetic.” I shrug and chuckle at the same time, but I still avoid looking directly at him.
“Were you already doing that at eighteen?” he whispers.
I meet his gaze. “Yes.”
He doesn’t look away. I should make a witty joke, but I’m speechless. I have told the truth and now I can’t say anything else. He must feel the same, as he silently stacks the photos in a neat pile and places them carefully in the folder. Once closed, he lays the folder on top of the first one.
The silence stretches on and on.
“What are you going to do about this?” He points at the folders on the bed next to us then indicates the direction of the dark room with his chin.
“What do you mean?”
“This gift you have.”
Saying I’m flattered by Zach referring to my hobby as a ‘gift’ is the understatement of the year. Still, I haven’t much of an answer to offer. I raise my eyebrows.
“What about trying to sell them?”
“Why?”
“To do something for yourself? Maybe make a living out of it? You could work for a magazine here or back in the States.”
I give a short chuckle. “We both know I don’t need money.”
“That’s not the point. Working, having a job, building a business, it’s the most rewarding thing I have done so far in my life.”
“Says the Trust-Fund Bad Boy.”
“I’m not gonna lie, Lenor. I would never have been able to buy my first club in Stockholm without my family’s money, but what I’ve done with it since is all me. My hard work. My vision. Every person I employ now, they are paid with the profits from Le Duke and the other clubs I own. Not the Murdoch money.” I must have shrunk because when he speaks next, his tone is far gentler. “And I’m damn proud of that fact.” A pause. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to chastise you. I don’t have any lessons to give.”
“I’ve never really considered having a real career. I mean, I went to Georgetown, I did well there, but it was more like proving to my parents I wasn’t totally dumb.”
“But you worked for Vogue in London, didn’t you?”
“Mom got me the job and it was only part-time to keep me busy while Josh was at Oxford.”
“So what next? Louise will get better. Once she can operate on her own, what will you do? Stay in Paris?”
I have no idea.
“Wherever you choose to go, you have a life to live. It’s your life, L
enor, not your parents, or your next boyfriend’s. Maybe it’s time for you to figure out what you want to do with it.”
I press my lips tightly together but ideas, questions—possibilities?—pound around my brain.
Then out of nowhere, “I’m hungry.” Zach leans forward and playfully pulls my hand that is resting on the silky bedcover. “Should we go back to the kitchen before you kick my ass out of your house for boring you senseless?”
“Yes,” then I repeat with more spirit, “Yes, let’s eat.”
The rest of the evening is positively light and breezy. I manage to keep the conversation focused on Zach instead of my blatant lack of accomplishments. The burgers and potato wedges are edible but I am the one with coleslaw stuck in my front teeth. Zach draws the fact to my attention by pointing at his own front teeth and pretending to brush them with his index finger. Absolutely mortifying.
By the end of dinner, I know everything about Zach’s business ventures and Le Duke’s success story. Not that he’s boasting or anything, but because I’m keen to know everything about what fills his life.
When we get to dessert, I jump down from the bar stool and take two Mars ice-creams from the freezer, a delicacy I enjoy when I’m over in France. I dangle one of them from the tips of my fingers in front of him. The icy wrapper is prickly against my skin.
“Of all things, Eleanor Carrington, I would never have figured you to be a fan of Mars ice creams.”
I get back onto the seat and hand the icy stick to him. “I’m not my mother. I haven’t yet managed to suppress all of my appetite.”
My attempt at a joke is met with his focus on unpeeling the ice-cream wrapper. He takes his first bite, I do the same. I let the toffee and chocolate melt on my tongue. When I’m sure every single one of my taste buds has been sufficiently overloaded with sugar, I swallow. I’m half-way through without Zach having muttered another word. I concentrate on the constant buzzing of the Sub-Zero fridge instead of the easy chatter we’ve shared so far.
Then I hear the clicking of what can only be my mother’s stilettos echoing in the hallway. I glance at the grandfather clock in the opposite corner of the kitchen. Nine-thirty p.m. She wasn’t due for another two hours.
“What a bore!” Yep, my darling mother has returned to the family nest. “Eleanor?”
“In the kitchen.” I flash a meek smile at Zach who looks deeply involved in savoring his last bite of ice cream.
“I swear all those opera singers should go on a diet.” My mom’s voice reaches us across the hallway to the kitchen. “Even for the gift of a Soprano voice, I could never accept carrying around that much extra weight.”
Right on the button yet again! I clear my throat and look at Zach’s blank expression. He has known Louise Carrington most of his life, so I hope whatever offensive and un-PC comments she’ll utter next won’t shock him. I’ve contemplated taping her lips together more than once in the past, but, given that she has only just emerged from hospital, I’m ready to display a tiny bit more tolerance.
“I figured we could maybe try another DVD-night as long as it’s not one of your black-and-white wartime movies.” The noise of the stilettos is closing in. “Give me time to get into something more comf—”
And here she is in all her Yves Saint-Laurent glory, draped in a midnight blue dress that reaches down to the top of her perfectly shaped calves.
For once though, she harbors an openly puzzled expression. “Oh!! I didn’t know you had a guest tonight.”
My cheeks tingle with embarrassment. I’ve kept Zach’s visit from her: I wasn’t ready to submit myself to the full-on interrogation the announcement of dinner with Zachary Murdoch will generate.
“Good evening, Louise.” Zach gets to his feet and places a gentle kiss on my Mom’s cheek.
Her gaze bounces back between Zach and me and I can almost hear the questions popping inside her head.
“So the two of you have decided to rekindle your friendship?”
Alarm makes the next words rush out my mouth. “I just wanted to thank Zach for having me and Charlie at Le Duke the other night.”
“I see.” She pats the perfect curls of her professionally blow-dried hair. There’s no need for any adjustments because, as always, every strand is exactly where it’s supposed to be. “I’ll let you finish then.”
She has started retreating when Zach chimes in. “I have to get to work anyway, so don’t inconvenience yourself.”
He seeks my gaze.
“Let me walk you out,” I offer.
We stride past my mother, who rewards us with a light wave of her hand. I grab his jacket from the cloakroom and open the door. The dark red of my nail-polished toes becomes my sole focus.
“Lenor?”
“Hmm?” I mumble still looking down.
“Lenor, please look at me.” I do. “I had a great time tonight. You don’t show your pictures to everybody, so I’m honored you did that with me.”
“Thanks for looking interested.”
Zach gives a furtive glance in the direction of the kitchen. “Now that we are rekindling our friendship, maybe I can give you a call and we can grab a bite somewhere soon?”
“I’d like that very much.” I step onto the porch. Outside, night has fallen but the sky has that bluish glow you only see in big cities. “Good luck with the party tonight.”
Zach stands opposite me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Charlie will be there, and once I have sorted out a couple of things, I can be all yours. I want to be.”
He could be all mine. Big mental shake. A simple figure of speech. “I think we both agree I need a break from partying. Plus, Charlie is meeting Ziggy there. I don’t want to be the third wheel.”
His hand seeks mine and I feel the circular caress of his thumb against my palm. “I’ll see you very soon, Duchess.”
He releases my hand and I follow him crossing la cour d’honneur and watch him disappear into the Parisian street. I stay there for several long minutes imagining what it’d be like to go to work day after day, earn my own money, and gain the respect of the people around me.
I make my way back inside and into the kitchen. The empty kitchen. Apparently Mom has opted out of our DVD-night. I roll onto my heels, then back on to my tiptoes, and bury my hands in the pockets of my jeans.
I’m alone again.
I’m half-way back from the Sub-Zero with another Mars ice-cream when my cell vibrates on top of the marble surface of the kitchen island.
“Good evening, Charlie! Have you made it to Le Duke yet?”
At the other end of the line, I can only hear white nose followed by the rasping sound of her breathing.
“Charlie?”
“Yeah, yeah! I’m here.”
“At Le Duke?”
“No, no, at la Concorde. My boss dragged me into that stupid cocktail party and I have just managed to wiggle my way out. She didn’t want to attend on her own, blah, blah, blah.”
“Poor darling.” I commiserate. Besides being a fixed feature of the Parisian nightlife, Charlotte de Launey is also a bright twenty-six-year-old Human Rights lawyer.
“I’ve been waiting for a taxi for twenty minutes. No way, I’m taking the Metro. Not with what I’m wearing right now.”
I can totally picture her nervously strutting back and forth along the sidewalk, her legs tanned and bare.
“Are you still due to meet up with Ziggy?”
“Yes, still planning to and for that I’m eternally indebted to you. Listen, Lenor—”
“I haven’t changed my mind, Charlie. I’m not going out tonight, even to Le Duke.” After removing the wrapper from the ice-cream—my cell sandwiched between my cheek and the top of my shoulder—I take the first bite at my second bar.
“I’m not calling about that. I’m calling about that cocktail party at the U.S. Embassy I’ve just managed to get out of. The guest of honor is this American Senator. Estevez? He’s on the Fo
reign Policy Commission. That’s why my firm was invited. Lenor, I’ve seen him. He is there too.”
The Mars bar lodges in my throat. I choke, I cough, cough some more and finally swallow the sticky chunk of food. After drinking water straight from the kitchen tap, I grab the cell again. Charlie has been screaming my name.
“I’m fine,” I answer in a rasp. “Sorry about that. Are you sure?”
“His surname is MacBride, isn’t it? You never mentioned he was so freakin’ hot.”
I let the news make its way to my brain. When it has, I confirm, “That’s his name.” And yes, he’s freakin’ hot.
Josh is in Paris.
Chapter 16
The U.S. Embassy in Paris stands next to l’Hôtel de Crillon, on the north side of la Place de la Concorde. You can’t miss it. In itself, the classical façade matches those of the surrounding buildings, but what marks it out are the thick layers of security on all sides.
My father took me to two official events held there. Both times, my mother bailed at the last minute, so I, as the ever dutiful daughter, stepped in. Despite this, there’s no way I can snake my way inside without an invitation. The party has to be almost finished now anyway.
I received the call from Charlie thirty minutes ago. Perhaps I should have taken the time to ponder, to weigh up the pros and cons, to take a step back and reflect. I didn’t. I grabbed my Burberry, slid my feet in my only pair of flats, and shot out of the house without even telling Mom I was leaving. The center of Paris covers a limited area and you can pretty much walk everywhere—with an eye on the sidewalk to circle around the ever-present dog poop. Funny how travel books never mention that fact about Paris and canine excrements. Anyway, I figured that I’d be better off relying on my feet than on a Parisian taxi.
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