As I emerge from the bathroom Manu is placing a tea tray on a small, round, yellow plastic table he moved to a spot in front of the clic-clac. The tray holds two tall white mugs, a fire-engine-red teapot, a white porcelain pitcher of milk, two dainty demitasse spoons, and a small dish of individually wrapped sugar cubes. No American man has ever served me tea this way. No American woman either.
“Voilà,” he says.
“Merci,” I say.
We sit side by side on the clic-clac as he pours out the tea, adds milk and sugar the way I like it, and passes me a cup. Our elbows bump, and I picture what his arm would feel like around my shoulders, how warm and welcome it would be. I wipe the corners of my eyes with my knuckles. It seems incredible I can still produce tears.
“Manu, listen. I have something else to tell you.” I take my gaze to the ceiling, where in two places the paint is peeling in arcs, like raised eyebrows. Unlike William, Manu doesn’t repair things five seconds after they break.
“J’écoute.”
Also unlike William, Manu doesn’t command me to “just spit it out.” He simply tells me he’s listening. I’m going to miss that.
“I’ve made a decision. I’m going back to Phoenix,” I say.
His mouth drops open. It’s an un-French thing to do, and I briefly wonder if he picked it up from me.
“Mais non!” He sets down his cup, sloshing a little tea on the tray. “Aimée! Why?”
I put down my own cup and look at him. “Why? Because I have no other choice.”
I didn’t expect he would be so surprised. I even thought the news might come as a relief. Without me around he could devote all his time and energy to Sophie. He wouldn’t have to try to balance our friendship with his relationship with her. Everything could go back to the way it was. Margaret would love that. So would Sophie.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” I add, though in fact I came to a final decision an hour ago, while sitting on the cold stone bench in the plain green garden behind the Hôtel de Sully.
He cups his hands around my shoulders and turns me to face him. “Aimée, I do not understand. It cannot be possible. You will go back to your husband? After this thing that he has done?”
“What? Go back to William? No! Are you kidding me?”
I snort. At least Manu considers William’s affair to be an actual serious betrayal, not some normal “boys will be boys” behavior I have to tolerate. His shrugs and the airy “he is a man” attitude were making me start to wonder. “I’m not going back to my marriage,” I say. “No way. It’s over. In a way, it never really began. And now too much has happened. Is happening.”
Like, for instance, the blue baby pajamas.
Ironic. William, who’s been wanting to have a child since forever, is now about to have two. I wonder if he’s realized the ridiculousness of this twist. Probably not. William doesn’t do irony.
“But if you do not return to him,” says Manu, “why do you not remain here, in Paris? Where you are happy?”
An anger I didn’t know I had wells up inside me.
“Stay in Paris? Tell me, please, how I could do that. I sure can’t live with Margaret anymore. Even if I found a new place that was affordable, how could I continue to live in France and have a child here? I don’t have papers or insurance or a real job!”
I wriggle out of his grasp, where I’ve lingered too long, jump up to retrieve the pillow, and hug it to my chest like a shield. “I love Paris. You know that. I’ve had an amazing time here. With Margaret. With—you.”
Manu’s face has turned grim, but I press on because while I’m talking, I’m not thinking. And I don’t want to think. Thinking is awful. I do too damn much of it. “I have to start getting serious, Manu. I’m going to be a mother. Soon.” I toss the pillow onto the clic-clac and head to the door. “And, right now, I need to be on my way. Thanks for everything. I appreciate it. Really.”
My voice is louder than it needs to be. My motions are more exaggerated. I pick up my two shopping bags and stand with my back to him. Manu. I’m running from him. Last spring, I ran from the grief of losing Kat. Now I’m running from the feelings I hadn’t wanted to accept.
Damn. And here I thought I was done running.
He leaps up and places his body between me and the door. “Aimée. Please stay.”
He again takes me by the shoulders, but I yank away. The warmth of his touch is confusing. Painful. Besides, I can’t tell if he means, “Please stay here right now” or “Please stay in Paris forever.”
Either way, it doesn’t matter. Sophie awaits. She’s no doubt wondering where Manu is right now.
“Manu! Please stop. Paris was an interlude. It was a—break. Don’t you see that? Everything has changed. I wish you the best.”
I want to mean this. I really do. Because what other choice do I have? As unlikely a couple as they seem, Manu and Sophie obviously have it going on. I need to be glad for him.
“If you mean Sophie—”
But whatever Sophie story Manu is going to launch into is cut short by the shrill ring of a phone. Not mine. His.
He grabs it and answers immediately. “Oui. Oui. Je comprends.” I understand. “Oui. Tout de suite.” Right away.
“It’s Sophie,” he whispers to me.
Of course it is.
While he murmurs into the phone, I slip out the door. I don’t look back.
Because here’s a bit of advice: When you’re walking away from the person you know you can never have, you shouldn’t string it out. The best thing for that person, and for you, is to move on. Kat taught me this.
I’m halfway down the first flight of stairs when Manu bursts out of the apartment, phone still gripped in one hand. “Aimée! Stop. Where do you go?”
I pause mid-step. Normally I’d hesitate to tell him I am going to stay at Hervé’s, because Manu doesn’t like or approve of Hervé.
But then I remember Manu’s approval isn’t supposed to matter anymore. I remember Sophie. So, I clomp down to the first landing before turning and looking back up at him. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve arranged to stay at Hervé’s for a couple of days. Just until I leave for Phoenix.”
I relay this information as neutrally as I can. Facts and data. When you have nothing else, you have those.
The frown on his face fades. “Ah,” he says. “You do not depart for America immediately then?”
“Um, no.”
I’m baffled. I assumed the mere mention of Hervé’s name would annoy Manu, as usual. But he seems more interested in the timing of my departure than in the fact of it. He even looks relieved.
I lean my hip against the banister for support. “I have a lot of things to do before going back. Plane tickets, sorting, packing. Money stuff.”
And I want to say goodbye to Margaret. Thank her for everything. She has been a wonderful friend and mother substitute. She’s been amazing.
I have to say goodbye to Paris too. Maybe for forever. You can stay in France without a visa for only three months, and I passed that mark weeks ago. When I go through passport control at the airport, they might notice and put a black mark on my record.
Manu nods, and I have the sense, as I so often do, that he’s been reading my mind. “Aimée, will you call me tonight?”
He sounds entirely calm. Normal. Un-traumatized. Well, I should’ve known Manu would quickly regain his equilibrium. He’s like one of those weighted dolls that, when knocked over, immediately rights itself again. He never acts out of panic or haste.
Lucky Sophie.
I turn to head down the stairs. “I have to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, for the deliveries.”
Because, crazy as it sounds, that’s the other thing I absolutely positively must do. No matter how awkward or painful it’ll be for me, I need to help Manu with the lunch deliveries until he finds someone to take my place. This someone won’t be Sophie. I’m pretty sure of that. No way would she consent to schlepping crates up and down stairs
.
But then perhaps Manu wouldn’t ever ask her to.
twenty-one
I leave Manu’s apartment building feeling like a trapeze artist who’s missed the biggest catch of her performance. Swing out, swing back, swing out, and then—oh no—I don’t reach forward at the right moment. I’m a hair too late or too early, my fingers slip when they should grip, the shouts and waves of the crowds below make me lose focus. And down into the safety net I fall.
The net being, in this case, Phoenix.
Halfway to Hervé’s he texts to give me the door codes. It’s the most encouraging development of the day so far. If for only a short time, I have access to the most marvelous space in all of Paris. I want to make the most of it while I can.
As I enter the courtyard, I almost step right onto Hervé. He’s down on his knees inside the door, using a rusty pair of clippers to hack at a vine growing up between the paving stones.
“Hey.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I really appreciate your letting me stay here, Hervé.”
When he finally rocks back on his heels and squints up at me, his lips pursed, I wonder if I somehow misunderstood our arrangement. It’s been such a holy hell of a day.
But when he says, simply, “Bonjour,” stressing both syllables, I realize what the problem is. I’ve made one of my frequent faux pas. In France, you’re supposed to say a proper greeting before launching into conversation. Even in a dress shop, you need to start with a polite bonjour before peppering the clerk with questions about size or color. La politesse. It’s not optional.
“Bonjour,” I echo, better late than never. It’s almost a relief to be back to annoying Hervé. Sometimes superficial relationships are the best; they’re much less painful.
He scowls as he jumps to his feet and plants a chaste kiss on each of my cheeks, but when he peels off his gardening gloves and reaches out to take my two bulging shopping bags, he murmurs, “Permit me,” in his usual polite way.
I have to giggle. Hervé, for whom feminism is a serious affront, would never allow a woman to carry her own luggage. So I don’t insist. I follow him through the garden, glancing back at the clippers he left lying on the ground. Hervé doesn’t seem like the type to do his own weeding. But maybe it’s a hobby. Both clippers and gloves look well worn.
He leads me directly to the wisteria tunnel where, as on my first visit, I linger and gape. It’s so verdant in here. Even the air seems tinted green. Next spring, the vine will be festooned with purple blossoms the size of bunches of grapes. I’ll never see them. I’ll be bracing myself for another Phoenix summer. On the bright side, Catherine will have arrived. I’ll have a daughter, a child to love and to love me. I’ll be the mother I never had.
“Allez, viens,” Hervé says to hurry me along. “Your valise, she waits for you. Upstairs.”
We move single file through the open door of the castle, across the shining black and white tiles of the mahogany-paneled foyer, and up the spiral stone staircase.
I look around, shaking my head. No, I didn’t dream up this place. It is real. It exists.
“You perhaps are fatigued? You can repose yourself before dinner. I think that is a good idée.”
It’s unlike Hervé to make grammatical mistakes in English or to sprinkle in French words. But today he seems distant, distracted. He hasn’t even looked over his shoulder to see if I’m still following.
“Yes, good idea. Thank you.” He leads me down the long, carpeted corridor and into the same suite of rooms we looked at the other morning. My appartement, he called it, and the term thrilled me a little. I went straight from my childhood home, an inner-city stucco bungalow, to living with William, in a just-built house, and have actually never lived in an apartment. “Thank you. A nap was part of my plan actually.”
“Parfait.” He places my bags on the floor next to the fireplace and glances around the room, narrowing his eyes as if he expects to see something or someone who doesn’t belong. But all is as it was. Which is to say fabulous. And, just like the other day, the house is hushed and still. The contrast with the hubbub of the Paris streets outside—a near-constant din of motorcycles, sirens, and street cleaners—is stark.
“I leave you then.” He hurries for the exit, possibly embarrassed at hosting a member of the opposite sex. Hervé is antiquated. Stuffy. I can’t imagine him having sex. With anyone.
“OK. Thank you.” I close the door behind him and move my bag collection to the bedroom, where my trusty carry-on still stands beside the armoire. Along with my stomach, my possessions have expanded during the months I’ve been in Paris. I’ll have to decide how much I’ll be able to carry back to Phoenix.
Sorting, culling, organizing, packing. Saying goodbye goodbye goodbye. I have a lot to do, and it will all need to be done in the next few days. Stringing things out would be unbearable. I need to get on with it, as Margaret would say.
I gaze with longing at the majestic bed, which looks super comfortable, but I don’t lie down there. I go straight to the bathroom, peel off my clothes, turn on the shower, and step under the pounding jets.
Because this is important: I want and need to wash off the scent of William. The whole time I was in Manu’s apartment, talking with him, sitting near him, I was conscious that only a few hours earlier, I’d had sex with William. I even worried Manu would be able to tell. Not that he’d care, I guess. He has Sophie now. But I care. I don’t want Manu to know I had sex with William barely ten minutes before finding out William had been busy having sex with someone else. Just picturing it makes me cringe. It makes me want to never have sex again.
Sounds over-dramatic, but it’s how I feel. I let the hot water run over my body for a long time, reveling in the spaciousness of the shower stall, and when I’ve dried myself and used some of the scented lotion I find on a shelf above the tub I put on a clean T-shirt and leggings. The polka dot chemise dress would be more suitable for an evening chez Hervé, but I can’t wear it because that, too, carries the scent of my last encounter with William. At least in my imagination. I wash it out in the sink, along with my underwear.
There. Now everything William touched has been cleansed. He’s gone. Forgotten.
If only forgetting about Manu could be so easy. I wonder when I started to care for him. It all came on so gradually I didn’t realize it was happening. My brain was too full of thoughts and worries about William, I guess. And Catherine. Meanwhile Manu took root in my heart and grew there, slowly and steadily, like a wisteria vine in a secret garden.
Stop. These thoughts are not going to help. What’s going to help is tackling everything that has to come next. I settle onto the bed and take out my laptop. It’s a hand-me-down from one of Manu’s clients. Booting up takes forever, so while it’s whirring and clicking, I get up to wander around.
At Margaret’s I had one room with one window. Here, my domain features three rooms with five windows. Two of them open out to balconies, one of which is furnished with an iron bistro chair and matching round table. I can’t resist stepping outside.
I rest my belly on the carved stone balustrade, breathing in the vegetal perfume of the garden. From this vantage point I have an aerial view of the wisteria tunnel and the whole of the luxuriant greenery beyond it—the plum trees, the rose bushes, the hydrangea hedge, and two octagonal flowerbeds I didn’t notice before. In contrast to the Hôtel de Sully’s sober parterres, Hervé’s private Eden burgeons with blossoms. I stretch out my arms and look up. There’s the Eiffel Tower. I am still in Paris.
A silky wave of gratitude washes over me. Yes, the last few days have been an incredible bust, as well as ridiculously eventful, but the last few months have been an amazing adventure.
I arrived in France ignorant and raw, grieving from the loss of Kat and clueless as to what my life should become. Clueless in a bunch of ways, to be honest. But on day two I met Margaret. Her motives for befriending me may have been selfish at first—she was lonely and I reminded her of her lost daughter, r
emember—but her affection was always pure-hearted and true. She introduced me to Paris. And to Manu. She shared her joie de vivre and showed me how to take pleasure in the good things in life. Like food.
All in all, I’ve been insanely lucky. Not many Americans come to Paris knowing no one and end up staying in a sort-of castle, if only for a few days.
“Amy? Do you sleep?”
I sit up. Look around.
I don’t remember coming in from the balcony and lying down on the bed. But I must have done so, then conked out. The computer is on the floor, also in sleep mode. The sun has set, and the room is in shadows.
“Amy?” Hervé says again. His voice is crisp and clear. And nearby. As if he’s right in the bed with me. This thought sends me leaping to my feet and lunging for the light switch on the wall, where I look all around and suck in a deep breath. Thank God. Hervé isn’t there. Just his voice.
“It is late,” the voice says. I search for its source and spot a red LED light blinking on the bedside table. An intercom. I see no buttons on the device. Is it voice activated? I picture Hervé listening in on me talking in my sleep or snoring. Creepy.
“Yes,” I say to it. “I mean, no. I mean, I’m awake.” Yikes. I must have slept for hours.
“Bon. Come to the library when you are ready.”
“OK. Yes. Sure.”
Long naps in the afternoon make me groggy. I walk around my rooms, rubbing my face to try to wake up. Too big of a nap also cuts the day in two, making everything that took place in the morning feel like it happened yesterday. Which I guess is a good thing. An awful lot took place this morning, very little of it nice, and I need to put all of it in the past as soon as humanly possible.
My one good dress is still damp from the quick wash I gave it earlier. So I change into my cleanest jeans and least-wrinkled T-shirt. In the bathroom I brush my hair and apply some apricot lip gloss. That will have to do. Anyway, it’s only Hervé.
Paris Ever After: A Novel Page 21