by Pema Donyo
She placed her novel face down in her lap. “What is it? I’ve reached the good part of this story. This better be life or death, Matthews.”
He lifted the book he held in his hand. “Wanted to return this to you.”
“Oh, is that the Sherwood I let you borrow? Set it on the mantel.” She waited for him to put the book down. “Now, why are you really here?”
He straightened his shoulders. “I wanted to return it.”
“Don’t lie to me. If you wanted to do that, you would have done it a year ago.”
A year? Guess she really hadn’t cared about it.
“I wanted to get some air.”
Alice wheeled in a tray with three cups of tea, and Gertrude’s eyes lit up.
“Thank you.”
Alice nodded and walked over to the other armchair that sat across from Gertrude’s. Without looking up, she resumed her knitting.
“Is this about the actress?” Gertrude said actress as if even the sound of it pained her. She had little patience for the profession. To her, movies were a mindless source of entertainment. “I was surprised to see her the other day.”
“I don’t think you’ll be seeing her again.”
“And will you be seeing her?”
He stared at the fire. He couldn’t outrun Iris at the wrap party. It was far too late to cancel his acceptance. Besides, he believed in honoring his word. If he’d told Pierre he would attend, then he would.
“I liked how she looked at you.”
“You must have imagined it. She’s chosen someone else.”
“Is that what she said?”
“Not in so many words.”
“It’s never wise to place words in someone else’s mouth, I’ve found. We have a habit of choosing the wrong ones.” She dangled her hands over her armrests and clucked her tongue. “No matter. Say, Ezra told me about your rejection.”
More salt to rub in his wounds. “Which one?”
“Good art always finds a home. It’s not your writing to blame. I gave him your sketch because I liked it. It’s a good story. A little too simple for my tastes, but fine for others.”
He appreciated her support. His father’s friend had introduced him to her when he’d known barely anyone in the city. Attending the parties and discussions at her apartment alone had expanded his literary circle. When his father’s friend decided to move back to the States, she had stepped in as his mentor.
“Any improvement in my writing is thanks to your revisions.”
“Nonsense. The words came from you, didn’t they? Anyhow, Ezra wasn’t the only one I showed it to. I sent it off to Max.”
“Max who?”
“Perkins. Maxwell Perkins. He’s an editor for Scribner’s.”
The name rang a bell. The man published Scott, if he wasn’t mistaken. Scribner’s was a reputable publisher, one of the best in America. He steeled himself for another rejection. Forget the best, his manuscripts couldn’t even find a home at the mediocre.
“He’s interested in meeting you,” she continued.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I wouldn’t be so cruel as to joke about that. Yes, Max is interested in meeting you at his office.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
The city was a world away. Tickets for a passage back home hardly littered the streets. He would have to buy one in advance and make plans for accommodations in the city. It wasn’t cheap. He did have his earnings from the screenplay. Then again, using his check wouldn’t leave much in the way of savings. He could be buying a ticket to hear another rejection, for all he knew.
She picked up her teacup and took a sip. She made a satisfied sound, closing her eyes. “Excellent tea, Alice.” When she opened them, she looked surprised to see Owen still standing there. “You act as if I’ve given you another rejection.”
“No, that’s not it. Thank you for showing him my work.” The wheels in his mind turned. “But I’m not in New York.”
“Then be there. Right now, writing novels is a hobby for you.”
He cringed.
“Meaning: you can’t support yourself through the earnings from your books.”
Given that they were nonexistent, he supposed so. Still, it sounded callous to hear it from Gertrude’s mouth.
“Your hobby will never turn into a career unless you invest in it. Let me know when you want to contact him.”
“You think I should go to New York?”
She picked up her novel and began reading.
“Do you think I should or not?”
She didn’t look up from her page. All he wanted was actionable advice, and all she offered were pithy statements like a modern Merlin.
Alice set her knitting aside and offered him the tea.
“Thank you. That’s kind of you, but I think I’ll show myself out.” He had enough to think about for one visit. She called out a good-bye as he left their flat.
New York. It could be another adventure, he mulled to himself as he changed a few hours later for Pierre’s party. It was his best shot at a major publication. If Perkins wanted to meet with him, it was an opportunity waiting. There was always the possibility of a familiar outcome: he would show Perkins his manuscripts and Perkins would reject them. But his work would stay rejected regardless of whether he talked to the editor. Perhaps it was worth it to take the risk.
The lapels of his jacket lay smooth against his wool suit. He didn’t have time to consider more rejections; he had to attend the wrap party. He slicked his hair back with pomade so that it parted on the side. After a few minutes of digging through his wardrobe, he found a vest. The material was a stark black, contrasting against the grey wool. Still, it was as good as it was going to get for the evening.
The party was at a club off a side street of the Champs-Élysées. During most days, swarms of people surrounded the place. None of them could be seen tonight; it looked like Pierre had rented out the whole venue. A guard stood at the front of the club, making sure everyone was on a specific list for the movie. A red carpet extended down a flight of stairs that led into the main foyer. The dim lighting and smoky air reminded Owen of a jazz club half a block down from his flat. Other than that, the club’s interior belonged to a different time. The intricate detailing along the stairwell recalled the Rococo period, and stone pilasters standing at equal intervals against the walls appeared Greco-Roman.
He tried to keep his mind occupied with New York instead of Iris. Easier as an intention than a practice. A small part of him had accepted Pierre’s invitation to see her. She had asked if he would be attending, after all. He could even pitch another screenplay to Pierre. A new story idea had been swimming around his head over the past few days. It was a story about a second chance.
He scanned the crowd as he walked into the club, searching for a glimpse of her black hair. A woman dressed in a suit with a top hat held a long cigarette holder, men donned every shade of bowtie in existence, and rows of tables stood covered in both full and empty champagne bottles.
No sight of her or Pierre.
An unmistakable laugh broke out from across the room. He turned his head in its direction. And then he saw Pierre. Iris held a glass of champagne as he filled it. An easy smile lit up her features. She wore a floor-length dress, half covered in sequins and the other half covered in black velvet. Her hair was wrapped in a bun, and her lips were a cherry red. She looked stunning.
He could walk up to Pierre and pitch his story idea. He knew the basic plot in his head. The characters were all laid out for him to bring to life. Yet he stayed frozen, watching them. The tendrils of the plot wilted in his mind. Pierre had something else to occupy him.
He glanced away as soon as she made eye contact with him. Other guests, either supporting actresses or crew members, came up to talk to him. He chatted with the ones he had met before and pretended to know the ones he didn’t. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Iris and Pierre together. It made hi
m sick. He wanted to apologize for everything, apologize for all of it. She didn’t deserve the words he’d thrown at her. But he couldn’t say it in front of Pierre.
The din of the night grew rowdier. The champagne started to hit the guests, and some attempted to dance on stage alongside the band. Others dispersed from the party as they took their favorite cast or crew member away for the night. The world under the influence seemed brighter somehow, like every joke was funnier and every gaze more sensuous. Maybe that was how life was supposed to be enjoyed. But did they see the world from a filtered perspective, or did he see it from a muted one?
The woman next to him nudged his arm. Her name was either Adrienne or Agathe; he couldn’t remember which. She smelled like she had bathed in perfume right before the party.
When he acknowledged her, she inclined her head in Pierre and Iris’s direction. “Have you heard the rumors?”
He feigned ignorance. “I haven’t.”
Another woman, older than the first, leaned forward. “I heard they were engaged. He’s quite a catch. No wonder she lets him hang on to her arm.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
The woman’s husband shook his head. “She doesn’t want to be engaged, someone told me. I’ve heard she’s simply staying with him in the States. A risqué arrangement, if you ask me, but then again, it was her idea.”
Owen wanted to shut out all their nonsense. He didn’t know the difference between gossip and fact anymore. That was the worst part of her silence. Against his better judgment, his gaze drifted back to Iris. Pierre remained attached to her side, his hand resting on the inside of her elbow. Her attention looked wrapped up in whatever he told her. When Pierre slid his hand toward hers, Owen looked away. Enough torture for the night.
He excused himself from the group. Coming to the party had been a mistake. Her choice was clear. He had ascended a few steps of the staircase before someone called out his name. He pretended not to hear and continued up the steps. But a dash of footsteps followed his pace.
A hand settled on his shoulder. He looked behind him to see Iris standing on the step beneath his.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
“Look, I’m very tired and I’m going home.”
“You just got here. Do you have to leave now?”
“I can’t stand here and watch.”
“The party? I can introduce you to anyone you want.”
“No, watch you flirting with him. Watch you . . . Forget it.” He started to turn around. Nothing he said would change anything.
“Pierre? Wait, Owen, just wait a second.”
He kept his back to her. His legs itched toward the exit, but he waited for her to continue.
“I really didn’t mean what I said the other day.”
When he looked over his shoulder, her face looked stricken. He felt an urge to take her into his arms. “I think we both said things we didn’t mean.”
“You’re not angry with me?”
“If he’s what you need, I understand.”
“But he’s not. And if you think I’ve chosen him over you, you’re wrong.”
His chest lifted.
“Because the truth is that I will always . . . ”
A gloved hand rested on the inside of her elbow. Her mouth clamped shut. The owner of the glove, Pierre, stood beside her. He looked back and forth between Owen and Iris with a quizzical expression. Owen couldn’t even bring himself to hate the man. There was nothing to fault him for other than loving Iris.
“Leaving so soon?” Pierre clapped his free hand on Owen’s back. “The party’s just begun.”
He locked eyes with her. “Would you like me to stay?”
Her lips opened, as if about to say something. He waited. He wanted her to speak. If she asked him to stay, he would. But her gaze averted to her elbow and her lips closed again. Pierre’s grip remained firm.
So this was how it would end. No reason to prolong anything. He nodded to both, wished them good night, and ascended the stairwell.
Chapter Nine
Iris commanded her legs to follow him. His frame began to disappear behind the shadows of the stairwell.
“Is there something you would like to tell me?” Pierre asked.
The room started to spin. Owen was gone.
“Be honest with me.”
Better to deny it. “It’s nothing.”
“Do you have feelings for Owen?”
She pressed her lips together.
His voice became low. “Do you or do you not care for him?”
Her attention flickered back to the party. The guests flittered about, throwing back their heads and laughing at someone’s joke or leaning onto each other in a drunken stupor. All actors, crew members, producers. The kind of people that, a few years ago, she would have wanted nothing more than to spend the night mingling with. Now it all had a dull sheen.
She had started her career with so much faith in her own capabilities as an actress. When had she started depending on others to make her career for her? It wasn’t up to Pierre to make her career; it was up to her. She could achieve success without him propping her up. He could offer her all the leading roles the studios could dole out, connect her with every major director in town, and set her up at the nicest apartment in the hills. He could do all of that, and she would still feel nothing.
“I do. I do have feelings for Owen.”
What was holding her back? She didn’t need Pierre to hand her what she wanted.
“And I’m going to go to him.”
Pierre sighed. “Then go.”
Her eyes widened. She couldn’t tell if he was joking. She had expected anger. Instead, he looked calm. His shoulders drooped, but no trace of fury lined his voice.
“Go, Iris. I have no desire to keep you here any longer.”
Her legs burned to follow his advice. She shifted a look back and forth between the door and Pierre.
He managed a half-smile. “I’ve enjoyed having you as my lead actress.”
“And I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.”
“There will be others in your future. Now please, go.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Her speed picked up as she exited the club and emerged onto the street. Rain pattered onto her skin in tiny flecks. She would be drenched if she didn’t find Owen soon. She ran toward the main street and along the Champs-Élysées. Those walking around her began to unfold black umbrellas like a field of dark flowers blooming. It both shielded their clothes from the rain and made it harder for her to see who they were. Could one of them be Owen?
The grey buildings began to give way to a garden. A gazebo at the end of it provided shelter to a group of huddled pedestrians. She squinted at the crowd. No sign of him. She continued along the sidewalk and into the park. A concrete arch and several steps separated the lower park from the upper part, and she descended these steps to cross into the main square. Tall hedges cut into a labyrinth shape greeted her. Despite the empty garden, she kept up her quick pace on the paved path. A growing sense of dread pooled in her stomach. He could have sought shelter in any one of the buildings along the road. She might never find him.
Her dress yanked her back. Its fabric caught in the panels of a grate along the sidewalk, and the ground beneath her feet gave way. She stuck out her arms to try to block her fall. Instead, she landed with a hard thump and a rip of her skirt. Her shins pulsed with a dull pain as she examined the damage. She had scratched the sides of her arms, and a thin line of blood ran down her right forearm.
Someone held out a hand to her.
“It’s fine, thank you . . . ” She looked up from the hand to the face of the man extending it to her.
Owen.
It was warm and familiar and safe. It was the face of the boy who had stolen her heart as a teenager, older and roughened now, but still identical to the one in her memories. Still the same boy giving her the same feeling. Her heart slammed against her rib
cage.
She took his hand and stood. The fabric stuck in the grate ripped away from her dress, tearing out a chunk. No doubt the bottom of her dress now formed a zigzag edge. It didn’t matter. He was here.
“We need to find shelter,” he said.
He tried to usher her away and toward the upper floor of the garden, but she resisted. She was tired of waiting. If she didn’t say what she needed to say now, there might never be another chance. The rain fell with steadier strokes around them, flattening damp strands to his head.
“Were you planning to not speak to me at all tonight?” she asked. “If I hadn’t stopped you, would you have left without saying good-bye?”
He shook his head. “This is how it has to be. You said that once, didn’t you?”
He still remembered. “I didn’t know how much you meant to me back then. All I saw was my own dream.”
“You should be at the party.”
“No, I should be here. With you.”
“Jesus, Iris, we’ve tried this before.”
“No, we haven’t. Not properly. I’m done with us running away from each other. All I need is someone to believe in me as much as I believe in myself. I don’t want his connections or film roles. None of that makes my life any better. You do.”
“I can’t offer you nice restaurants or fancy hotels . . . ”
“I don’t care about any of that; I can have that on my own.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that I’m here now. I’m here for good.”
“I’m sure he’s still waiting for you.”
“He’s not. He knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I love you.”
“You love me.” He spoke slowly. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, I do.”
She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he gulped. His piercing blue eyes searched hers. She met them with a look of what she hoped was courage. Her knees felt weaker the longer he stared at her. Now she’d done it. There was no going back to being simply past acquaintances. They would either be something or nothing at all. She had handed him the power to respond, good Lord. He could leave her hanging, with either a word of rejection or, worse, no words at all.