A Paris Apartment

by Michelle Gable

  April spat into the sink.

  “You know how I feel about counseling,” she said.

  “But it can’t hurt, right?”

  “Can’t it?”

  “I’m not sure why you’re so certain your dad doesn’t benefit from the person he sees. It’s taken a long time—”

  “That’s an understatement!”

  “But he’s gained an entirely new perspective on stuff with your mother.”

  “First of all, I’m not even going to ask how you know about my father’s perspectives, new or otherwise,” April said. “Second of all, do not bring up my mother when we’re in a middle of a thing, okay? It will end badly for you.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” Troy asked, forever pushing, forever needling the spot that hurt. “You’ve been though a lot in your life. This stuff with your mom, it’s intense. People see a counselor for far lesser reasons. Why are you so averse to the concept?”

  “Because therapy doesn’t work, and I don’t need it. We’ll get through this. One way or another, we’ll get through this.”

  In other words April’s life might be in shambles but she would not actually die from a broken heart. It was not physically possible. Her father was proof of that.

  April moved into the bedroom. She peeled back the comforter and slid between the sheets. Shivering, she looked at the clock, she looked at the lamp, she looked at the worn little nubs on the blanket. Troy said nothing. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

  “Sounds like you’re on your way out the door,” April said as a printer groaned in the background. She heard the clack of his computer and the muffled leather thump of his briefcase on the desk.

  “Yes. The car will be downstairs any minute. I love you, April.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “And I miss you. Already.”

  “Then come,” she blurted, surprised at herself. Damn wine. “Come to Paris. It’s so close. We’ll be so close! Even if only for dinner one night. A romantic rendezvous. It actually sounds kind of sexy.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said immediately. “But there won’t be any time. This is strictly an in-and-out kind of deal.”

  In-and-out. It was precisely the kind of transaction April feared, in more ways than one. Troy knew she was still upset, still insecure about where they stood with each other, but he didn’t even attempt to consider making the London-to-Paris trip. April tried to look forward, to envision how she’d feel in hindsight. Would this be the moment when she knew it was over?

  “Oh! Car’s out front. Okay, I need to go. I’ll call you from the road. I love you.”

  “Maybe I could pop over to London…” April started, but he’d already hung up.

  Sighing, April reached over and flicked off the lamp. It was too silent. Sad, almost. She threw off the covers and padded in bare feet to the windows, where she stood near-naked in the moonlight for the third time tonight. She bent over to unlock one of the paned frames, letting in the night air.

  Once back in bed, April pictured Marthe and Jeanne and bat guano magnates as she waited to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Paris through her open windows. She tried not to hear Troy’s words. “There won’t be any time.” It was the first time he’d rejected her outright. Then again, it was the first time April had given him the opportunity.

  Chapitre XXVII

  It was Friday.

  It was also April’s fifth day in Paris and Troy’s second in London. He was due home by Monday. As he said, it wasn’t a lot of time. Yet when April considered Willow Weintraub and all the things that could happen between now and then, it felt like forever.

  She spent the morning inventorying the pieces now transferred to the basement of the auction house. Despite Olivier’s initial pessimism, they’d been able to make room. April culled through the assets, inspecting stamps and signatures; tracing her fingers over polished finishes and wondering which items had been reveneered, all the while feeling Troy as if he lingered nearby.

  Their conversation left April restless for two straight nights, the rebuffed invitation pulling from her a desire she’d not felt in the last ninety days. She wanted him, goddammit. Every time April turned over in bed she expected to see him beside her. She swore she smelled Troy, that she could hear him, that he was laughing somewhere nearby.

  Go away, Troy, April thought. Or, rather, come here.

  Working in the basement should’ve been more productive than in the apartment. It took Marthe mostly out of the picture and thus removed a distraction the size of South America (bat guano, anyone?). There was no way to imagine Marthe in that cinder-block basement with its industrial carpeting and damp smell. Alas, it was still working in a basement—and April thought that perhaps Marthe’s presence was simply supplanted by Troy’s. Having accomplished little by midafternoon, April decided to call it a day, so disoriented and hunchbacked was she with lack of sleep and sunlight.

  Skipping up the stairs and into the building’s foyer, April decided that if she couldn’t rid herself of Troy’s ghost, she might as well seek out the real thing. With an “Au revoir” to the guard, April pulled out her phone and sucked in a gulp of air. “Meet me in Paris,” she texted her husband. “Please. I miss you.” Send. Before she could reconsider.

  Outside the weather was abnormally blustery and stark for that June day. As the wind whipped around her face, April buried both fists deep inside her trench. Halfway to her apartment, the phone buzzed. It buzzed again, each sound piled on top of the last. She hadn’t expected him to respond so quickly, much less with a call. Maybe things would work out in the end. April ducked into a patisserie and wiggled her mouth out of her scarf.

  “You’re coming?” she said, backing into the corner lest someone think she was a customer. “You’re coming to Paris. This will be good. We need this.”

  “Indeed we do! But I didn’t know I was invited. When do I leave?”

  Birdie. April should’ve known. Rather, she should’ve checked Caller ID like a normal person. What was she thinking? It was silly to expect Troy’s response in the middle of a European workday. April wondered how she could be so wrong so very much of the time.

  “Oh. Hi, Birds,” she said. “I thought you were Troy.”

  “Troy?” Rustling commenced, followed by a shower of swear words. “Crap! I spilled Greek yogurt into my bra.”

  “That’ll smell good later.”

  “You’re telling me,” Birdie said. “It’s like a hundred and fifty fucking degrees here. With a zillion percent humidity.”

  “I’m glad you never exaggerate.”

  “What’s this about Troy coming to Paris?” Birdie asked. “He’s coming to see you?”

  “We talked about it,” April said, which was not altogether untrue. “He’s actually across the Channel. In London. Closing a deal.” She’d only just texted him. Plans for a rendezvous could in fact be solidified within the hour. Troy wouldn’t say no a second time. He couldn’t.

  “Wow!” Birdie said. “I’m surprised he can pull himself away from the partying.”

  “Excuse me?”

  April pushed herself further into the corner, unconcerned that she was the only patron rudely jabbering on a mobile.

  “My best friend is in London right now too,” Birdie said. “You know—Hailey? I think you’ve met her?”

  “Sure.” April nodded, though she was not sure at all.

  “Hailey is the EA for a bigwig at Carlyle. They closed a deal in London this week too and since they all know each other—heck, half of them have worked at both places—well, anyway, they’ve all been partying it up. She saw Troy! Although I guess I’m not supposed to mention it…”

  “Saw Troy doing what?”

  All at once the bakery felt too hot. April yanked off her scarf and fanned her face with a napkin.

  “Partying,” Birdie said. “At the Beauchamp Club. The whole gang of them, Stanhope, Carlyle, everyone in between.”

  “‘Everyone in between,’”
April repeated. “In between” meant lawyers. It meant environmental consultants.

  “Yeah. Apparently it’s all hard core. Up all night, straight to business meetings in the morning. Hailey has mastered going to work while still drunk, and it’s all too much for even her.”

  And all too much for April. There was drinking and so what, it’s what these finance guys did to celebrate. Five-thousand-dollar bottles of wine, bar tabs that made international news and incited the outrage of decent hardworking Americans. For April it was not about the excess. It was about where the excess led.

  April knew how Troy was when he let himself break from his polished, slick-haired mold. Willow knew too, as evidenced by the Singapore Incident, but April’s experience went further back.

  He was intimidating at first, this man who would later become her husband. They’d been on four dates, five if you counted the business-class-lounge meet-up and their ensuing delayed flight. But at four-point-five dates in, April wasn’t sure how much longer it would last.

  They got along. They got along tremendously. This was never in question. Troy was kind and attentive and said the exact right thing 100 percent of the time. It was unnerving, that perfect personality combined with those looks: the flawlessly pressed clothes, his ridiculous jawbone, sandy-colored hair always neatly combed, flecks of gray at the temples. Those early days she watched him, waiting for a misstep.

  There was a closing dinner for them, too, in New York. April didn’t go of course, she was unconnected to the deal and only barely connected to Troy. But he went and then showed up unannounced at April’s apartment. When she opened the door she found Troy leaning against the far wall, hair tousled and lips curled into an easy, slow smile. Shit, April thought then. He was incalculably better-looking when he was a little bit undone.

  Troy stayed over that night, and things happened to a degree April had never before experienced despite having a reasonable number of experiences to compare against. It wasn’t merely the deed. Of course they did plenty of that, but they laughed and talked and relished each other until the sun rose across their city. They couldn’t see the sunrise, April’s old place not being exactly known for its views. Nonetheless, together they felt the light pour over them. April knew then she was done: There was no going back to a life without him, for a time at least.

  The problem with Singapore was that April could not blame Willow, not really. She understood exactly how this went. And she was afraid it’d go that way in London, too.

  “April?” Birdie said. “You still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m in a shop—it’s a little crowded…”

  April crammed the scarf into her tote yet continued to feel suffocated, as if it were still wound tightly around her neck. The smell and colors (those macarons; pink, orange, yellow, white) began to swirl around her like a bad, sugar-fueled trip. Voices sounded like foghorns, circus-like people bustled past.

  “Birdie, I have to go,” she said. “I’m not supposed to use a phone in here. I’ll call you later.”

  April turned, disoriented. It took a minute to locate the front door.

  “Pardon,” April said as she battled her way through the shop. “Pardonnez-moi.”

  Someone called her name. April burst through the door. The bell continued to jangle overhead as she moved down the sidewalk. Trying to catch her breath, she slumped out of view, around the corner from the patisserie’s glass-fronted entrance. She slid down the ancient, stone edifice; heaving and gasping but unable to catch her breath, each inhale slipping through her rib cage like water through a sieve.

  Chapitre XXVIII

  “April,” said a voice.

  She shook her head.

  “April!”

  Someone pawed her shoulder. April opened her mouth to scream, and hoisted her handbag into the air, hoping to fend off the attacker.

  “Avril!”

  She stopped abruptly as the purse continued its momentum, ultimately knocking her in the skull.

  April recoiled at the hit. She then looked up at the floppy-haired man standing above her. He wore a half-grin she could only barely make out through the hair hanging over her own face, not to mention the shock of almost concussing herself.

  “Oh,” she said. “Luc. Hi.”

  “You look flushed. Also, you are seated on the ground. I hate to ask the obvious, but are you all right?”

  Was she all right? It was the unanswerable question.

  “Bonjour,” she said and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I did not see you there. You scared me.”

  “It appears I do this a lot. Is everything okay? You seem distraught.”

  “Nope!” she said, voice breaking. “Not distraught! I’m fine! Just fine!”

  April attempted to stand as gracefully as one could after being collapsed against a patisserie wielding a quilted Chanel handbag as a weapon.

  “If you’re sure—”

  “Totally! How’s it going?”

  “It is going,” he said and smirked. Of course he smirked. “Well, I have to say, I am glad to have bumped into you. I’ve a bundle of terrific news right here in my bag. I was en route to share it with you when I noticed a strange but lovely woman sprinting out of a shop.”

  “I wasn’t sprinting. It was more of a fast shuffle.”

  “You have a funny way of viewing things. In any case life is looking up for fair Marthe.” Luc pulled a stack of papers from his shoulder bag. “She has a new apartment! No more frozen water basins! These are tied in yellow, which I think connotes positive developments for our Madame de Florian. Or perhaps I’m reading too much into it.”

  “The diaries?” April laughed, though mostly because it was easier than crying. “You have them for me?”

  “Of course. I said you could read them. Did I not make that clear?”

  Luc handed her the papers. She clutched them wordlessly.

  “In which we meet Boldini,” he said, grinning even wider.

  April held them to her body, still bewildered by everything that had transpired in the last seven minutes, or what might be transpiring across the Channel. She shook her head, trying to clear it all away.

  “Is everything all right?” Luc asked a third time. “You look rather upset.”

  “I don’t know.” April sighed. “I truly don’t.” Her marriage, this man appearing from nowhere, the pressure of trying to do right by Marthe—it was no wonder April needed a wall for support. Part of her wanted to fall back into it. “Well, thanks for the journals. Glad we bumped into each other. It saved you a trip. See you soon.”

  She turned and commenced speed-walking in the opposite direction. Cognizant of Luc’s trailing presence behind her, April used little caution in propelling herself onward, stepping into the street whenever someone blocked her way, even if it put her directly in the path of hell-bent Parisians on motorbikes.

  “You’re going to be flattened like a pancake,” Luc called, exerting minimal effort to match her pace. “Salut! Wait up. Talk to me.”

  Grabbing her bicep, Luc pulled April off the street and led her between two green iron gates. She blinked. Suddenly the wind was gone, along with the sounds of the motorbikes and people jostling past.

  “Where are we?” April asked, letting her arm slacken in Luc’s hand.

  She looked up at the windows above, their boxes exploding with pinks and reds and oranges. Ivy-covered walls surrounded them. Beneath their feet, a stone path. At the end of the path, a bench. April stalked toward it through the undergrowth.

  “A courtyard,” Luc said. “A place to rest.”

  “It’s beautiful,” April said as she sat down on the bench. Another thing she loved about Paris: The city held immeasurable places for solitude, countless side rooms into which to duck. Paris was a destination, yes, but with a thousand little journeys of its own.

  “Indeed,” Luc said. “Quite beautiful.” He remained standing, almost daring her to get up and refuse the respite he suggested. That woul
d be just like her, non? But his tone was so gentle April found herself glad to relax, happy to take the comfort he offered.

  This moment. It was getting too soft.

  “Well,” April said, trying to muster some grumpiness from the bench. “I hope we’re not on someone’s private property. I don’t want to get arrested.”

  “We’re fine. If anyone asks, we’re here to see a dentist who’s in that building.”

  April thought of her own dentist then, with his cheesy furniture and fish tank and fake wood counter. She pictured his narrow hallway and the small metal elevator that worked only on Tuesdays.

  “Even going to the dentist is exciting in this city,” April said wantonly.

  “Long day already, Madame Vogt? You seem beleaguered.”

  “Merci. ‘Beleaguered.’ You’re too kind. And, yes. Long day. Long week. Long month. Longer even still.”

  Luc said nothing. April scratched her left arm.

  “You don’t need to babysit me, you know,” she said.

  April expected him to sit beside her, and in fact a small part of her wanted him to. But there Luc remained, standing in a well-worn spot on the stone path, hands on his hips, sunlight shooting through his black hair.

  “What is so rough about it?” Luc asked. “This day?”

  “Just my assistant.” April shook her head. “She called. And. She’s great. I love her. But sometimes she’s a teensy bit of a pain in the ass.”

  “She must be French.”

  April snorted. “No. Not French. I’m not being fair. She’s a fantastic assistant. It’s a long story. And actually not even about her at all. Never mind, it’s stupid. All of it.”

  Luc nodded. He would not push further.

  “Do you need a minute alone?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. But feel free to go.”

  He pointed to the journals. “I find if I’m agitated, reading is a good escape.”

  “Ah, you are very wise. For a Frenchman,” April said, trying not to smile. “Now that you mention it, an excellent suggestion.”