“Just to shower. My great-grandmother gave it to me and it means a lot to me. If I lost it or broke it, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
Emma has been living with him for three weeks now, but he feels like it’s been forever. He can’t get over how quickly they clicked, how quickly their bond strengthened. She seems to know his taste for everything, from his favorite dessert to the TV shows he watches religiously. She knows exactly what shirt size and color to buy him. When she makes dinner, she whips up a chicken tagine, even though he’s never told her it’s his favorite dish. When he asks if she’d like to go to the movies, she suggests The Wolf of Wall Street, without having any idea that Gabriel is probably one of Martin Scorsese’s biggest fans.
Over their eight years together, Chloé had never been able to remember that he hated chocolate ice cream and couldn’t stand skinny jeans. Gabriel hates hearing the little voice in his head that loves to compare the two women, but he can’t always quiet it. At first, Chloé was always better than Emma. Prettier, bolder, more feminine. But over the past few months, the tide seems to have turned. Emma is easier to get along with, a better listener, and funnier. Sometimes she’s even sexier.
Emma’s eyes are closed, but he knows she’s not asleep yet. He’s thinking about the conversation they had earlier tonight, following a phone call she had received. An international-aid NGO was looking for a photographer to report on the current situation in Gaza. A two-month mission that could lead to a permanent contract as a regional correspondent. Emma had sent her résumé and portfolio to all the NGOs and other organizations that might possibly be interested in hiring a photographer at the beginning of the year. Until now, she hadn’t heard back.
When she’d hung up, she had jumped up and down with joy as she told Gabriel about the opportunity she was being offered. Not only would she be able to live her dream abroad, but she’d be paid for her photos!
He’d been dumbfounded. Sure, she had mentioned her plans before, but he had thought . . . What had he thought exactly? That a months-old relationship would make her forget about the dream she’d been working toward since she was a little girl? That she’d never get her big break and instead live out her days taking wedding photos of mind-numbingly ordinary couples every weekend?
He hid his feelings and gave her a congratulatory hug.
“When would you have to leave?”
“In just under two months, mid-February . . . But nothing’s sure yet. I haven’t said yes,” Emma answered. She understood that Gabriel was hurt, though he hadn’t said so. “And even if I do go, it’d only be for two months at first. It may not lead to anything . . .”
“You know you have to go, Emma. You said yourself that it’s the chance of a lifetime. When you think about it, we hardly know each other.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true! I adore you, but your dream is what counts, and that’s as it should be. I don’t want to be the one to hold you back,” Gabriel said defeatedly, retreating without bothering to ask Emma how she felt about it all.
And now he can’t get to sleep. He was just starting to feel safe again, and now everything is about to fall to pieces.
Should he try to keep Emma in Saint-Malo, knowing that he might have to watch her waste away at his side? Or should he do everything he can to help her realize her dreams?
EMMA
This should have been an amazing Christmas present, but it’s put me in a difficult position. I’ve been waiting years for my big break, and now, when it finally happens, it’s at the worst possible time.
I can’t accept the job. I’ve gone over the offer a thousand times, but I just can’t. It would be stupid to leave, now that I’ve moved in with Gabriel. I’m sure my dream can wait a few weeks or months more . . .
I haven’t answered the HR guy who called me last Saturday. He gave me three weeks to think about it, because they know it’s a big decision. You don’t just pick up and leave behind everything you know in three days.
When I try to talk to Gabriel about it, he shuts down. He simply smiles and tells me I can’t let a chance like this slip through my fingers. Hearing him repeat that over and over, I’m starting to think that maybe he’s right. Maybe what we have isn’t so special after all. Maybe he even regrets asking me to move in with him but is just too afraid to say so. Maybe this job offer is convenient for him . . .
As the days go by, I feel like he’s becoming my adversary. We dance silently, step by step, in a fight with no words. I don’t know what he’s thinking, what he wants. Sometimes he seems so close, and then so far away again, as if I were already gone.
A single phone call has made it all start to crumble.
When I talk about the possibility of staying in Saint-Malo, he shakes his head sadly and says it would be stupid of me.
“But we’re happy together, aren’t we?”
“That’s not the question, Emma. We’re talking about your life, your dreams. My mother sacrificed her wants and needs to raise my brothers and me. She quit her job because my dad was always on business trips and there was no other way to make it work. But I know she loved being a florist. We grew up with her bitterness and regrets, despite the fact that she loved us and did her best to hide her listlessness. No, believe me, when you give up on the thing that makes you want to get out of bed every morning, you don’t go unscathed. And neither do the people closest to you.”
He stays on his high horse to avoid really talking about us.
At breakfast this morning, I finally decide to go for it.
“I’m not leaving.”
He continues to stare out the window, coffee cup in hand.
“Yes, you are. You have to.”
“I’ve made my decision and I’m not going to change my mind. So you can either keep being cold and distant, or you can take me in your arms and tell me what we’re going to do for New Year’s Eve.”
Gabriel finally looks at me. He seems to be trying to decide whether or not I’m serious. He smiles—at last—though the sad gleam in his eyes hasn’t disappeared altogether.
“Well, we have the choice between a wild party at Geoffrey’s and a fancy dinner at my parents’. Let me elaborate a bit on our options, so you can make an informed decision. Plan A: meet my parents, who will study you like a lab rat, shine a bright light in your eyes, and put you through an interrogation worthy of the Inquisition to make sure you’re not hiding some base and shameful secret. Other than that, they’re great. Plan B: an eardrum-shattering experience with Geoffrey, who, after he’s had a few drinks, will be unable to stop the litany of incredibly boring high school stories that inevitably pour from his mouth. He’s great too but can’t hold his liquor . . . I know that it’s tough to decide, so think long and hard before you answer!”
CHAPTER 12
JANUARY 2014
CHLOÉ
When she so proudly announced that she wasn’t leaving, I thought I was going to explode.
I thought everything was settled. Victory by forfeit, but victory nonetheless. As my mother would say, “Winning is all that matters.”
I can still see my father and his hunched shoulders as he carried out the few boxes of stuff she was willing to let him take after the divorce. The little wave he’d given Oriane and me before getting into the same white Citroën he’d always driven. The forced smile he wore and the sad look in his eyes. Yes, his wife was leaving him, but more than that, he had to leave his daughters behind. The man who loved every minute he spent with us would have to make do with every other weekend and half the school vacations.
Winning is all that matters. My mother got everything in the divorce: the house in Colombes, the furniture, the dishes—even her in-laws’ silver—the family photo albums, and, of course, the children. My father ended up with a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Nanterre. The bunk beds in our room creaked endlessly. It was all he could afford on his mechanic’s salary once he’d paid alimony and child support.
Winning is all that matters. I’ve always adored my father, even though his apartment was way too small for the games of hide-and-seek we were used to. Even though, when I was thirteen, I couldn’t bear to tell him I was too old for his games. Even though I was sometimes embarrassed of him as a teenager, so embarrassed of his modest means that I wouldn’t bring friends over on his weekends; I preferred to invite them to the house in Colombes, to the reassuring environment my mother provided for my sister and me, showering us with gifts and new clothes without worrying about her bank account. The alimony made it possible, and she would have done anything to feel like we preferred her to him, the homebody who had let himself slip into a routine that she suddenly, one day, couldn’t stand anymore. My mother is an expert in one-upmanship. She always has to be the most generous, the most devoted, and the most well-liked parent.
Over the years, as puberty and its host of changes set in, I gave in to her cajoling and let myself be influenced. I got used to having everything I wanted when I wanted it, despite the fact that I had never been fooled by my mother’s strategy. I took advantage of the situation without a hint of guilt; I figured she owed me at least as much for throwing my father out of the house and sentencing me to spend my life traveling between two homes, neither of which really felt like one anymore. I took everything my mother would give, but my disdain and indifference only grew. And when I didn’t get what I wanted, I was ready with an underhanded comment about how I was thinking about going to live with my father—even when I had absolutely no intention of doing so. I knew exactly what buttons to push; I’d been expertly schooled in emotional blackmail.
Winning is all that matters. Without ever letting it show, I always stayed loyal to my father. I stayed loyal to him while taking advantage of the divorce and of the woman I held responsible for ruining our family. Ungrateful, maybe, but loyal.
My mother is the one who gave me this hunger for victory. I play to win: anything less is not for me.
But now I don’t know what to do or think anymore. Why can’t that girl just hop onto a plane and go? She’s been saying that’s her dream since the beginning, hasn’t she? And Gabriel’s not even really trying to keep her. She’s clingier than a mussel stuck to a boulder. This thing keeps dragging on and on. It’s like something out of a bad nineties soap opera.
So now what? I’ve lost? Am I just supposed to admit defeat and be a good loser? Do I really have to accept that I bet on the wrong horse, and now I’ve lost everything?
GABRIEL
It’s four thirty in the afternoon and the light is already starting to dwindle. It will be completely dark before long. Gabriel is sitting on Chloé’s grave, his back against the tombstone bearing his wife’s name. The cemetery employee has walked past him several times with a severe look on his face to convey that a grave is not a bench and that it’s outrageous to behave as if it were. Gabriel ignores him and watches as the last of his cigarette burns up in the fading light. He’s meeting Emma at a restaurant at seven o’clock. He left work at four today, but given the amount of overtime he’s put in over the years, no one could hold it against him.
“So, Chloé, what do you think about all this? Are you rolling over in your grave?”
He laughs at his own bad joke, then gets serious again.
“Who were you really anyway? Did you have me fooled all those years? Did you make a mockery of me with Simon? Why did you marry me and move to Saint-Malo if I wasn’t enough for you? Why did you abort our baby without talking to me first? Was it mine at least? Did you hesitate before doing it, or did the idea of keeping it never even cross your mind?”
Gabriel throws his cigarette butt into the distance. It lands in a potted plant on another grave. Who cares?
“You’re dead, and you left me behind. You got off scot-free, and I’m stuck here with all my questions and your dirty secrets. I’m suffocating from the weight of the doubt, and you’re gone. What else will I find out in the coming months, huh? How many lies, how many betrayals will I discover?”
Gabriel loosens his tie.
“What do you think of Emma? I’m sure you wouldn’t like her. She’s not ‘girly’ enough for you. You always wanted luxury everything, and Emma is about the simple things in life. I’ll admit that I knew that about you going in. You were always talking about money and jewelry and vacations. For you, to live was to spend. I thought you’d get tired of it, that I could fill that void in you. But now I understand that you can’t make someone happy by taking away their dream, no matter how trivial it is. You can’t change people. Believe me, I would rather have figured this all out before you died. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Even if that means I have to suffer.”
He lets out a snide laugh.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Chloé?”
When he gets to the restaurant, Emma is already seated with a glass of white wine. She’s rapping her fingers on the tablecloth, a pensive look on her face.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“About fifteen minutes. I finished my photo session early. The baby wouldn’t stop screaming and the parents finally gave up. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get anything decent from the shots I took.”
Gabriel calls the waiter over and orders two flutes of rosé champagne. The man hurries back to the bar to fill the order. Surprised, Emma looks at Gabriel.
“Champagne? What are we toasting?”
“You,” he offers mysteriously. When the waiter comes back with the glasses, Gabriel asks for menus. “I’m starving. How about you?”
Emma nods. She glances at the menu and chooses the sea bass à la plancha. Gabriel opts for a roasted rack of lamb with a thyme rub.
“This is no hole in the wall!” exclaims Emma, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The air around them is heavy, but she can’t put her finger on why.
He takes her hand gently in his, then turns it over and lightly runs his thumb over her eagle tattoo.
“L’aigle noir, dans un bruissement d’ailes, prit son vol pour regagner le ciel,” Gabriel sings quietly. “With a rustle of its wings, the black eagle took flight to rejoin the sky.”
“What did you say?”
“You chose to get a black eagle tattooed on your arm for the Barbara song, right?”
Emma is taken aback. She pauses before asking, “What song?”
Gabriel doesn’t answer. He shakes his head to let her know it’s not important. With Emma’s hand still in his, he clears his throat.
“I have something for you.”
“A present?”
“Yes, a present.”
“But Christmas was a week and a half ago! And you’ve already spoiled me enough . . .”
Gabriel had gotten her silver earrings in the shape of two tiny cameras that she’d quickly put on.
“No, the earrings were only a taste of things to come.”
Gabriel lets go of Emma’s hand to take something out of his inside jacket pocket.
EMMA
A ring!
He’s about to pull out a ring! I knew it!
He’s been so mysterious for the past week. I could tell he was plotting something. I’ve been hoping I was right and trying not to think about it too much at the same time. I was so afraid of being disappointed, of getting my hopes up for nothing . . .
I admit that yesterday afternoon I ransacked the house while Gabriel was at work, looking for a little dark-blue velvet box with an engagement ring inside. I should know better, but even as a kid I would search the house top to bottom a few days before Christmas to find out what presents I was going to get. Old habits die hard!
I looked in the coffee-table drawer and scoured the living-room bookcase. Nothing. I ran to open his nightstand drawer and went through all his pants pockets. Empty. I checked the bathroom cabinet with Lucky on my heels—the poor dog must’ve thought I was hunting for dog treats.
Then, when Gabriel came home after work, I let him walk the dog by himself. I watched from the k
itchen window as he left, and as soon as he turned the corner, I grabbed the car keys he hung in the entryway. I emptied the glove box, the driver-door storage space, and even took a quick look in the trunk—you never know. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.
I took advantage of the few minutes when he was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed, to go through the pockets of the jacket and pants he’d worn that day. Still disappointingly empty (unless I count the crumpled gum wrapper and used bus ticket I found).
In the end, I gave up and decided to wait for the big reveal. The fact that he had made reservations at a fancy restaurant for the following day was another good sign. I tried to get it out of him, but he wouldn’t budge. Not even a hint. I feel a bit guilty, of course. But I’d rather not think about that for the time being.
And now the moment’s here at last.
I want to jump up and down when he orders two glasses of champagne, but I manage to keep my cool.
What if he waits until dessert? I won’t be able to eat a thing!
When he says he has a present for me, I want to squeal with joy, but I stay calm. I ready my face to express feigned surprise and genuine happiness. “Oh, Gabriel, I never would have expected it! How did you keep it a secret?”
He’s hunting for something in his jacket, in the same pocket I went through last night. Maybe he’s been keeping the ring at his office to make sure I wouldn’t happen upon it.
“This is for you.”
Gabriel places a pastel-green envelope on the table. He studies my face, which conveys genuine surprise and feigned happiness. I don’t think there can be a ring in there. Unless it’s an IOU?
“What is it?”
“Open it,” he says invitingly as he pushes it toward me.
I gently slide my index finger under the flap. Inside I find a glossy envelope with immediately identifiable dimensions. And within that, a single plane ticket.
Paris–Tel Aviv. Open date.
One-way.
Tears fill my eyes against my will. I clench my teeth.
“Why?”
“Because you have to pursue your dream, Emma. Your place isn’t here. You know that.”
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