And what he has with me is a child.
Our child.
No time to lose now. Today may be, as Dad always liked to say, the first day of the rest of my life. I’m returning the tin to its spot in the suitcase when I spy a small object stowed inside the adjoining side pocket. At first, I think nothing of it and continue tidying up the suitcase. Then I notice the tissue paper wrapped around said small object is smooth and un-rumpled, too un-rumpled for it to have traveled all the way from Phoenix. No, it has to be another item William purchased here in Paris.
This time I don’t hesitate to snoop. The tissue paper, as if eager to assist, falls open the second I touch it to reveal a white cotton drawstring pouch. I wonder if the pouch holds naughty lingerie for Samantha. But the white cotton looks too pure, too innocent, too virginal, for anything X-rated to be inside.
“Amy. What the hell?”
William has returned. He’s standing in the open doorway. His left hand still grips the knob. His right is clenched in a fist.
I don’t stop to wonder how he managed to open the door without me hearing. I hold up the white cotton pouch.
“What’s this?”
His normally brown eyes glint like wet charcoal. “Put that back.”
“I don’t think I should. Aren’t we supposed to be coming clean with each other?”
He just stands there, flexing his fists. I cradle the pouch in both hands and give him time to respond. I do that for Catherine.
But when he continues to wordlessly stare at me I insert my fingers into the pouch and loosen the drawstring. Inside is a tiny folded garment. Huh. Well, it is sleepwear. Just not the X-rated kind.
It’s pajamas. One-piece footie baby pajamas.
Size newborn.
Color blue.
They are soft. Plush. Darling. “William. Who are these for?”
Even as I pose the question, I’m aware I already know the answer. No math is needed to solve this problem. William learned about my pregnancy on Friday evening, after most shops have closed. He spent all of Saturday with me—breakfasting, lunching, visiting Foucault’s pendulum, walking the Jardin du Luxembourg. Today is Sunday, when most shops are also closed. Anyway, when I got here he was still in bed.
Meaning that William had to have purchased these baby pajamas before finding out about the existence of Catherine. Meaning they can’t possibly be intended for her.
I spread the little garment over my thigh and run the tip of my pinkie finger around the perimeter of the tiny breast pocket. It’s always seemed curious to me that infant wear has pockets. After all, what would babies keep in them?
“Tell me, Will. Tell me what you came all the way to Paris to say.”
During the time I give him to answer and in which he does not, I note that the pajamas have a tiny Eiffel Tower hand-embroidered on one lapel of the Peter Pan collar. I also slip the ring from my finger and place it on the floor next to the suitcase. Everything is happening fast.
“Will,” I say. “I want to hear you speak the words. At least do that. Can’t you do that?”
He glares.
“You surprise me, William. You really do.”
twenty
On my way out of the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc I pause at the reception desk. The deskman, tipped back in his chair and reading a battered paperback, looks up at me.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” I extract a small white rectangular card from my tote bag. Like an older French person, I carry “calling cards” printed with my name and phone number. Manu made them for me, at Margaret’s behest. “Voici mon numéro de téléphone. Pouvez-vous s’il vous plaît me contacter dès que Monsieur Will Brodie se prépare à partir?”
My voice sounds as if it’s coming from a distant planet, but I manage to speak grammatically, even remembering to use the reflexive.
The deskman nods and replies that he would be delighted to give me a ring when Monsieur Brodie makes a move to check out of the hotel.
It’s a precaution. I don’t really think William will sneak out of Paris before we’ve had a chance to talk and start to settle the things that need to be settled. But you never know.
Meanwhile Catherine and I need food. Now.
As I step out into the Sunday-quiet street I scan the pavement for the Hermès scarf and Oxford shirt, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Perhaps someone recognized their worth and scooped them up. Or William himself saw them and took them with him. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I head straight for the nearby Café de la Poste, sit at my favorite table in the corner, and order an omelet, fries, green salad, and a gigantic café crème.
As I wait for my food, I gradually start to relax. In Phoenix I never went out to eat by myself. In Paris I love eating in cafés and restaurants alone. For one thing, you appreciate the food more when you have no distractions, and for another, there is just no snugger or more settled feeling than sitting at a tiny table for one and being waited upon.
This time, though, the food seems tasteless. No pleasure, no pain—apparently that’s my sweet spot, where I need to be.
Afterwards, I cross the street to the bakery with the red-and-white-striped awning. Not because I’m still hungry but because I have so many things to forgive and forget and ponder and arrange and do. I didn’t have a Plan B, and now I’m going to have to scramble. Maybe a little something sweet will help.
“Une de vos petites tartes aux framboises,” I tell the thin unsmiling girl behind the counter. “S’il vous plaît.”
How curious that my French is fantastic today, when I feel so numb and stupid, and frankly, flattened. In fact, it may be the only sector of my brain that’s functioning. When the girl hands me a raspberry tartlet wrapped in white paper, I murmur “merci” with just the right intonation and recall my first morning in Paris, last April. This same girl waited on me in this same bakery, and I couldn’t remember the French word for “sandwich.” Despite the fact that it’s “un sandwich.” Obviously, straight A’s in French class don’t necessarily translate to fluency in actual French. Just as book smarts don’t translate to life smarts.
I carry the tartlet to the little park behind the Hôtel de Sully, which is not a hotel but a private mansion with a public garden. I come here often because the garden’s a bit of a secret one—few tourists seem to find their way in even though it’s adjacent to the popular Place des Vosges—and because it’s so austere. No flowers, no fountains, no statuary, no ponds. But the pebbles in the gravel pathways are always raked smooth, and the box hedges outlining the grass parterres are always precisely pruned. Like most French gardens, it’s restrained, precise, and assured.
The way I’ll need to be from this point going forward. Because—and this is what robbed all the flavor from my omelet lunch—I’m going to have to go back. To Phoenix. Alone. Even before William showed up in Paris I knew this was my most likely next step, because it’s the best chance I have of establishing a stable life in time for Catherine’s arrival. Still, it’s amazing how quickly my list of options has narrowed down to this very one.
I find a bench, sit down, unwrap the tartlet, and take as big of a bite as I can stomach. No one in the whole wide world knows where I am right now. I am flying solo. Last spring, when I got here, it was scary, but over the past few months I’ve come to love this untethered feeling. It means freedom. Adventure. But today the sweet, delicious food in my mouth tastes like sawdust. The late-summer sun on my face is thin and unsubstantial. My stone seat is cold and hard.
Because while I’m free, yes, it’s in the way an orphan is free or a released convict is free—alone and adrift in a world where what I thought was true is untrue, and what I thought was mine is not mine. I set the tart on the bench beside me, tilt my head back to gaze up into the pale sky, and remind myself that none of what took place today should be surprising.
Not long after William and I got married I accidentally knocked one of his jigsaw puzzles to the floor. It had been almost complete, and though I spent the rest of the day
trying to reassemble it, the puzzle was still mostly a mess when he came home from work that night. But, to my astonishment, he didn’t get mad. He didn’t even seem surprised. “Things fall apart,” he said, shrugging. His non-reaction, weirdly, hurt my feelings. As if he didn’t even care enough to get mad.
But the fact is he was right. Things do fall apart. All the time. Every day. I pick off one of the raspberries from the tartlet, roll it around in my mouth, swallow it, and get out my phone.
“Allô?”
Channeling Amy 2.0, I come straight to the point. “Hervé, I’m wondering if your offer of a place to stay still stands.”
We haven’t spoken since Friday morning, when he got into that weird argument with his housekeeper, or whoever she was, and I had to leave without saying goodbye. But he responds to my query without missing a beat. “Absolument,” he says.
“Thank you. Thank you. You are totally saving my life. Can I come this afternoon?”
“But of course.”
He doesn’t question my change of plans or ask what I’ve been up to the last couple days. No doubt his intention is to pump me for information when I get there. Little does he know my intention is to excuse myself, go straight up to my room, and log on to his Wi-Fi. I need to email people to arrange a place to stay when I get back. Also make reservations for my one-way airplane ticket. Also contact Kathryn about the details of Kat’s will. Also, maybe, even start to scout around for a job. I used to volunteer at the local library, and before I left Phoenix, was offered a position there. That would be a start.
But I don’t forget my promise to make him a meal. “This afternoon we can discuss a menu for tonight. I’d love to cook dinner for you.”
“Ah, but Amy. That is not necessary.”
“Oh, but I want to. Truly. Anyway, we’ll talk soon. Thank you again. Ciao.” Yeah, people in Paris say ciao for goodbye, even though it’s an Italian word. It’s another habit I’ll be giving up, as it could seem pretentious. In Phoenix.
I end the call and drop my phone into my tote bag. Calling Hervé was step one. It was easy.
Step two—going over to Manu’s to get my stuff—should also be easy because he’s sure to be out, ensconced in some fancy restaurant eating his way through a massive French Sunday lunch with Margaret and Sophie. Margaret would insist on observing this custom, especially on Sophie’s first weekend back in the fold. But this is a good thing because I have no idea how I’m going to tell Manu what’s happened and what I’ve decided to do next.
It’s going to be hard. Since almost the first day I turned up in Paris, Manu has been my best buddy. More so than Margaret, who’s a bit like a zany fairy godmother, full of fun and light-heartedness but also unsteady, unstable. Manu, on the other hand, is just always—Manu.
But now, regardless of what I do or where I go, our relationship has got to change. Like Margaret, he’s returning to his former Sophie-centric life. Even if he wanted to continue our friendship, Sophie surely wouldn’t stand for it. I wrap up the remainder of the raspberry tartlet and hurl it into a trash receptacle on my way out of the garden.
Yet I don’t head directly to Manu’s. No. I choose the long way around, walking slowly past the greengrocer’s where Margaret and I get our fruits and vegetables, the florist’s where she has a standing order for a weekly bouquet of fresh flowers, and the cheesemonger’s where you can buy any one of three hundred different kinds of fromage.
Catherine hops about, happy I’m up and moving. Perhaps she likes wandering the streets of Paris as much as I do. After all, since shortly after conception, her air and water and food have all been French. The sounds she hears are French sounds. The vibrations she feels are French vibrations. In a way, Paris is home to her.
I need to burn it all into my memory banks. I need to remember that no matter where I end up, Paris will always go on and on. It will be here, even if I’m not. Eternal Paris. Paris ever after.
A ping coming from my tote bag announces the arrival of a text. It can’t possibly be William (too soon for him). When I take out my phone, I see it’s Manu, wondering where I am. I picture him seated in a white-tableclothed restaurant, surreptitiously thumbing out a quick message, in violation of Margaret’s no-devices-at-the-table rule, but I don’t smile. Nor do I reply to the text. In fact, I power down my phone completely.
I don’t quite understand why. It’s almost as if I’m angry with Manu or jealous of his newly rekindled love with Sophie. Which is ridiculous. I should be glad for him. He deserves to be happy. After all, I have no claim on Manu, just as I have no claim on any other person, place, or thing in the French capital. I had borrowed this life for a while, that’s all. Or, better said, it was lent to me.
And now, poof, it’s disappearing. That shriveling sense of having found something wonderful only to then lose it wraps around my heart like a boa constrictor.
When it starts to rain I quicken my steps and turn the next corner onto Manu’s street. Here, there are no greengrocers or florists or cheese shops to beguile or distract me. At the door to his building I punch in the code, enter, and mount the six flights of stairs as rapidly as I can. My calves are weak in spite of the omelet and fries and salad. It’d be great to linger at Manu’s cozy place for a while. Maybe even take a nap. I sure could use one. Last night I was excited about meeting up with William and didn’t get much sleep.
As I unlock the door, I visualize the sensation of my hot cheek coming to rest on a cool pillow. Just for a half hour.
“Aimée.” Manu is standing in the middle of the compact room, holding his phone in one hand and his jacket in the other. “Did you receive my text?”
I pause to take in the sight of him. He’s wearing the denim shirt we picked out together at the flea market up at Clignancourt. The one that makes his eyes look even bluer.
“Um, yeah,” I say, a lump forming at the back of my throat. I’m not prepared to say goodbye. That much is obvious to me. “I thought you’d be doing the long Sunday lunch thing. With Margaret.”
“No. We went for brunch earlier. Then I come here to look for you.”
Believe it or not, brunch is a thing in Paris. Margaret loves it. I think it reminds her of the massive English breakfasts of her youth.
Manu has stepped closer and is studying my face. I feel myself redden. Despite all my cold-water splashing and lip-gloss applying, I’m sure he can tell I’ve been crying. Manu really looks at people. He listens, too, and notices what you don’t say as well as what you do. Even more than Kat, Manu has the ability to see into my heart. I’ve always known this. Today, for some reason, I know it more. If that makes any sense.
“Margaret tells me to tell you she hopes you passed a good night. She has not forgotten about helping you find a more permanent place to stay.”
I focus on the floor. Margaret is another person I’ll have to say goodbye to. Another important, significant person, like Kat, whom Catherine will never get to meet.
Manu eyes me as he pockets his phone and hangs his jacket on a hook. “You have been with William, have you not?”
Bingo.
“Yes. Good guess.” I head for the clic-clac and sit down. My legs won’t hold me up for another second.
Manu nods, then strides to the kitchen alcove. “I make tea. Yes?” Normally he finds my devotion to tea a subject for humor, but this time he doesn’t crack a smile. Ever since Sophie returned, he’s been solemn, worried, distracted. He’s changed. Like everything else. Things fall apart.
I start to shake my head no—I had a big coffee less than an hour ago—but he’s brandishing a royal blue box of Tetley, my favorite brand of tea. It wasn’t here this morning. At least I don’t think so. I was so freaked out about my rendezvous with William I might not have noticed it.
Manu fills the kettle, switches it on, and looks at me over the kitchen bar. “You have something to tell me. Do you not?”
Oh, he is good.
“Yes.” My voice quavers. The words I have to say will be
painful. Embarrassing. I’ve hardly had a chance to get used to the idea myself. But maybe it’s better I don’t have too much time to think. I reach for the orange and white pillow, and cradle it against my chest. “Something has happened. I mean, I discovered something.”
Manu circles around the bar and perches on a stool. “I think I know. William, he has found another lover, yes?”
I jump to my feet. “How did you guess?”
He shrugs. “He is a man.”
“Yeah he’s a man! A married man. To me.” I turn and hurl the pillow across the room as hard as I can. “At least he was.”
The pillow-hurling felt good, and fortunately, I missed sending Margaret’s African violet crashing to the floor. But my outrage sounds flat even to my ears. Expecting William to be faithful to me all summer was unrealistic. I should’ve been expecting something like this all along. But I was too wrapped up in my own little dream world, here in Paris. With Catherine.
Manu shrugs again, and his thin face crinkles into a wry smile. “Mais, chère Aimée, you did leave him. You came to France.”
The kettle starts to whistle, a welcome interruption as I’m on the verge of looking around for something else to throw. Because while William hooking up with Samantha, or someone, was more or less predictable, the baby pajamas signify a twist even Manu might be surprised by.
Size newborn. Color blue. I guess William’s getting his boy.
“Yeah, I did come to Paris,” I agree after an awkward silence. “I’m not sorry.”
But that was then. This is now. Now everything has changed. Catherine is on her way, and I have to move forward into the future. I can’t muck around in the past, in the should-haves and the what-ifs.
While Manu is fiddling with the tea, I round up my two shopping bags full of clothes, station them next to the door, retrieve my money belt from the desk drawer where I’d hidden it, and step into the bathroom to strap it on underneath my dress. Along with my tote bag, this is everything I brought with me when I moved out of Margaret’s yesterday. Step two is almost complete. Step three, going over to Hervé’s, is next.
Paris Ever After: A Novel Page 20