"Relax, Mum. This room is so spotless it needs something like me to… you know...."
"What? Provide color?"
This was an old conversation between them. Anna and Greg's bedroom was decorated in shades of white. The redwood floors, laid when the house was built 200 years ago and magnificently restored, provided the one color alleviating the severity. This room had become her refuge in recent months. An absence of objects, other than the antique dresser and an original, bright turquoise Bauhaus plastic chair positioned by the window, made it easy to slide into a state of blank nothingness where she didn't have to feel.
But Ingrid was already pushing open one of the doors along the wall of built-in wardrobes. It slid smoothly into a recess revealing a collection of expensive clothes.
"Mum, you need a little chaos." Ingrid pointed to where Anna had arranged her clothes according to garment and color, with one section devoted to jumpers and another section for underwear, gloves, scarves etc., etc. Every piece of clothing was folded meticulously in piles of perfect alignment. "This is ridiculous."
An idea was forming in Anna's mind—disparate thoughts coming together and beginning to flow in a certain direction.
"Do you fancy going to France?"
"Er, Mum, we are going to France as soon as dad finishes his conference."
Anna resisted the urge to spit out a comeback at her smart-mouthed daughter. Ingrid's teenage touchiness and her fragility meant that conversations degenerated into verbal sparring between them far too often.
"No, darling not the trip to Biarritz. Before that. To Paris."
Ingrid stared at her mother as if she'd gone mad. "Mum, I'm going to the concert with Matt. Remember? I'm not going anywhere else. There's no way I'm missing The Spirits Unborn. Sorry, Mum."
"Come here." Anna patted the space next to her, "what's your opinion on this?"
Anna showed her Luc Marteille's letter, along with her translation. "What do you think?"
Ingrid skimmed the translation. "Mmm. Interesting, I suppose."
Ignoring Ingrid's less than enthusiastic response, Anna continued. "How about you and I do a bit of research? Be detectives and find out who is this Hélène."
The concept was crystallizing. It offered something different, something new. Her present existence offered no freedom to explore. It was fixed and constricted by routine. And going back to how it was before wasn't an option.
"Mum, I told you. I can't."
"But, this is something we could do together." She paused trying to come up with a reason more powerful than the latest pop group. "I would love to spend time alone with you...." she trailed off.
Arrangements with Ingrid required negotiation. Jeremy would have… but she blocked that sequence of thoughts. She didn't want to plead with her daughter because that might reveal her nervousness or lack or courage at the thought of going alone. But the more her mind tracked back around this imaginative fancy, the more attractive it grew.
"It'll be a challenge. Just the two of us."
Ingrid looked for a moment as if she might consider the idea, but shook her head. "Mmm. Let me see. Matt and the concert? Or haring around Paris with my mother playing Sherlock?" Her sing-song voice told Anna the answer.
"It's not as if you're going to marry him is it?"
Anna could have bitten her tongue off as Ingrid shot to her feet, her face flaming almost as red as her hair, her eyes sparking fire at her mother.
"You don't want me to have any life of my own. You can't let go can you?"
Before Anna could muster an apology, Ingrid was slamming the door behind her.
Anna didn't move. I'm the adult. I'm the adult, she kept repeating. She tried to remember what she'd been like as a teenager. Not many images came to mind. A few stray memories: a scratchy school uniform; trying cigarettes with school friends; her first real kiss at fifteen‒Frank, her best friend's brother had given her a quick peck on the lips one evening when her friend disappeared into the bathroom‒she remembered the spots on his forehead.
Her parents certainly wouldn't have tolerated these outbursts. But the grief councilor advised patience; people showed their grief in different ways. Better to allow the grieving process to achieve resolution, the woman had advised, otherwise it might emerge at a future date as a serious issue.
Anna found it hard to not feel as if she'd been emotionally slapped when these confrontations took place. She glanced at the letter and back at the still life. The desire to find out more about Luc Marteille was growing. For the first time since Jeremy's death, she wanted to go somewhere and do something different; something which could lift her spirits. Perhaps part of resolving your grief meant finding things to occupy your mind while you learned how to cope without the loved one?
She decided to discuss the plan with Greg at dinner although after dinner was better when he would be more relaxed.
Nowadays they rarely ate in the dining room, a habit they'd given up since none of them needed to be reminded of happier times. The large round breakfast table at the far end of the kitchen accommodated them in comfort, and the view, through the French doors into the garden, encouraged daydreaming.
"Thank you, darling. I enjoyed that." Greg pushed his half eaten meal away. "I'm full."
Anna thought he looked gaunt; he'd lost weight over the past few months, but discussing it with him was out of the question. Conversations between them were minimal; polite questions and stock grunted answers. Their interactions these days fell into the 'pass the salt' category.
Since Jeremy's death, an invisible screen separated her from Greg and Ingrid, and no matter what she said or did, she felt unable to reach them.
"Are you going anywhere this evening?" Anna asked Ingrid.
Her daughter usually ate and left as soon as possible. With exams finished and no homework, she spent her evenings with friends, most of whom Anna hadn't had the pleasure of meeting.
"Not sure."
Anna couldn't tell whether she'd earned Ingrid's forgiveness for her earlier remark.
"Well, don't forget to stack the dishes in the dishwasher." She made an effort to make the reminder casual, not a nag, before turning her attention back to Greg. "Do you have much work tonight?"
For the past few months Greg had increased the amount of work he brought home. After dinner he retired to his study, working till late. Leaving him alone to work presented no problem as he required nothing from her. They coped in different ways.
"Yes. We have a lot of new cases at the moment." He finished the last of his wine, a sure sign he was ready to leave.
Anna took a deep breath and told him about the Luc Marteille's letter. "Imagine what value it will gain as a work of art if he painted it for a mistress. I'm thinking," she spoke hesitantly, "of going to Paris and doing some research on the story."
Greg stared at her, his gaze critical. "Google it and I'm sure you'll come up with the same results," he said, settling back in his chair and helping himself to more wine.
"Yes, I could take that approach to the subject," Anna said quietly, "but your father's research never came across any references to this woman."
"It's a good proposition, but you can't go alone."
She heard Ingrid's indrawn breath. It was rare for them to display their disagreements in front of the children. Anna frowned at her husband. You're not my keeper, she thought. And he hadn't always been so unadventurous. She could easily accuse him of being dull these days when his work appeared to be the sole activity that enlivened him. Jeremy's death revealed how much they'd grown apart over the years, but she thought she understood his heart. Had he withdrawn that from her too? Or was it her? Was she the one who'd withdrawn? She couldn't say, but the reality of their marriage was that she and Greg were strangers; neither of them revealing matters of any import to the other anymore.
"I'll go with Mum." Ingrid stared at her plate, not looking at her father as she talked. "I saw the letter earlier. Listen, Dad, when you're away on that summer
conference before our Biarritz trip, Mum and I will visit Paris for a few days and check out where he lived and painted. Maybe we can learn what happened between Luc and Hélène?"
Anna hardly dared raise her eyes. Ingrid had changed her mind? Anna didn't bother to ask why. That she had was enough. Her heart quickened, and she experienced the slim breaching of an inner door, the other side of which lay—she couldn't see what, but it beckoned. The tantalizing possibilities of what she might discover captivated her. Resistance was useless; the battle to hear the voice of reason was lost to this new cause.
"Well it's late for booking flights." Greg's voice sounded flat.
"You can't assume that." Anna's combative spirit, dormant the last few months, twitched awake. She addressed her daughter. "If we're lucky, we might be able to squeeze in some shopping." She threw the carrot at Ingrid knowing she'd catch it.
Ingrid's face lit up. "Oh Mum, that's a brilliant plan. Wow! Paris in summer!"
Anna turned to Greg and without missing a beat moved in, pressing home her advantage. "We can easily meet you in the transit lounge after the conference and fly south together. You won't have to take one step outside the airport."
"Won't you miss what's his name?" Greg asked his daughter, trying a new angle.
As far as Anna knew, he'd not ever given a single indication that he was acquainted with any of Ingrid's fleeting infatuations with the opposite sex.
"Who? Matt? That's not serious. It's not as if we're getting married is it?" Ingrid shot a conspiratorial glance at her mother, who smothered the smile threatening to break.
Oh, Greg, Anna thought, don't you know how much your daughter takes after you when it comes to winning an argument?
"And I won't be seeing much of him after the hols 'cos he's going to Exeter. No, I'd much rather be in Paris and do proper historical detective work. Sounds much more fun. Right, Mum?"
Anna nodded, a sudden rush of gratitude to her daughter surging through her. The irritation with Greg dissipated as they made plans.
"Yes. We can stay in Montmartre and do the research from there. Walk the very streets that Luc and Hélène walked."
She didn't need Greg's money. Income from her freelance graphic art jobs gave her enough independence, but the habit of deferral to her husband's wishes, built over a lifetime of marriage, was a constraint not easily discarded.
Greg finished the rest of his wine in one gulp and shoved his chair back. He never accepted defeat gracefully. "I'll be in the study if you need me. I've got a pile of papers to check over for tomorrow. Let me know what you decide," he threw over his shoulder as he left, his tone suggesting he didn't much care either way.
Anna stared at his back. What was up with him? Couldn't he show more support? What was wrong with flying off to Paris? Was it because she hadn't included him? He should be pleased she had a project, an interest in something that might drag her out of the apathy she was drowning in? Wasn't it what the psychiatrist prescribed?
"I'll do the dishes." Anna hoped her peace offering to Ingrid would achieve two goals: make amends for the earlier squabble and making sure her daughter didn't have another change of mind. It had been too long since she and Ingrid ganged up in opposition to Greg, and the thought of their alliance gratified her.
Ingrid accepted the offer with alacrity.
After finishing his work, Greg went straight to the bedroom from his study bypassing the snug where she sat watching TV. Anna wondered whether his work absorbed him to the extent that he hadn't noticed she was downstairs. Or did he think the cold treatment would affect her decision?
She slid into bed, turning away from him.
He reached for her.
She remained silent, not moving, not responding. His hand felt heavy as he stroked her back. She knew he was trying to gauge if this aspect of their lives had undergone any change.
He stopped stroking her back, moving his arm to encircle her waist and snuggling into her curved back, aligning his body with hers.
She stood it for as long as possible until she could no longer bear the heat of him warming her as he encroached closer. Stiffening, she took hold of his hand, lifting it carefully off her.
"For Christ's sake, Anna! When? When are you going to be a real wife again?"
The same old argument. The last time he'd used that phrase, they'd had a titanic humdinger when she'd gone from silent depression to manic rage in the blink of an eye. She threw back the duvet. "I'm going to get a drink of water. Do you want one too?" Anna used her submissive voice. She didn't want to hurt him but this was about her, not him.
Silence.
She padded to the bathroom and ran the tap. Using softness as a deceit wasn't calculated, but sometimes it was the most efficient‒and least painful‒method of dealing with people, including Greg. A dominating father, a husband with a prominent position had shaped the way she interfaced with others. To avoid confrontation, she cultivated a pliant facade. Nonetheless, she did possess a harder core, and rarely did something after having decided against it.
When she returned, Greg lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Anna lay staring at the painting. At two years old, Jeremy had big eyes, dark curls, and she'd hold him in her arms, and point at the flowers. She'd tried to teach him to say chrysanthemum, but the only bit he managed was the last syllable—mum. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye onto the pillow.
The gold of the frame glistened in the moonlight. What was it that drew her in? Even in this monochrome light the flowers possessed a vitality which made it easy to imagine them swaying in the summer breeze of a southern French summer. She wondered about Hélène.
"This is very difficult for me, Anna. Can't you understand?" Greg's voice, harsh with demand, intruded.
"Is this your a man has his needs speech?" Her voice was ice.
He closed his eyes, turning away from her.
"I'm sorry." She spoke the truth.
They were drifting apart; both incapable of putting themselves in the other's position and unwilling to move from their entrenched corners.
Greg didn't answer.
Tomorrow she would book the tickets.
Chapter Four
Relationships are fluid, not static, and have to be worked at constantly. The give and take between two people, the subtle flow of reciprocal emotion and energy needs attention from both parties. Compromise is the name of the game.
Paris, July 1873
The sky was deep blue, cloudless, and the sun, a disc of hazed gold, battered the city. Luc had opened the windows, but there was no respite from the afternoon's heat.
Hélène's footsteps receded down the stairs.
"It's very good, Luc. You've captured the essence of her nature," Guiseppe De Nittis moved back from studying the almost completed painting of Hélène. De Nittis was a young Italian artist new to the group, and he and Luc had quickly formed a close friendship.
Luc lay sprawled on the battered brown couch. "And what is her essence?" Luc asked. "I mean, how do you see someone's essence?"
"In the face, the eyes, the posture. In their demeanor. Everything about a person indicates something of their inner self. A wholesome country girl like Hélène is an uncomplicated character; she has no need to mask or dissemble, unlike our Parisian sophisticates. She epitomizes the wholesomeness of country life, don't you think?"
Luc considered Hélène's portrait. He'd painted her lying on her side on the couch, her head propped on her hand, turning to one side as if she were conversing with someone out of sight. The bright light falling from the skylights illuminated the details of her fresh complexion, glossy curling hair and slim figure
"Hey, Luc! This is a conversation!"
"I'm sorry." Luc dragged his eyes away from her image. "What did you say?"
"I'm saying that painting says that you're in love with her."
"Don't be ridiculous." Luc laughed. "I'm a faithful husband."
"Open your eyes and look. Your work says otherwise. Faithfulness
is in the heart as well as the loins." Guiseppe stood. "I have to go. Keeping M'sieur Verizon waiting isn't going to improve his generosity."
"He's looking to buy?"
"It's a possibility. When I spoke with him last, he said something about commissioning a portrait of his family." He paused at the door. "If I can't satisfy him, I'll put in a good word for you. Will you be at the cafe tonight?"
"Probably." The door shut, and De Nittis clattered down the stairs. "Good luck," Luc shouted after his friend.
After studying Hélène's portrait for a bit longer, Luc took the canvas off the easel placing it at the back of the room where it wouldn't disturb him. He tried to work on a smaller canvas but couldn't settle. He made an effort to work on a couple of other pieces which needed finishing, including one of his children, but in the end replaced the painting of Hélène back on the easel.
She'd started modeling for him at the beginning of the week, and already there were times, after she'd left a sitting, when her expression as she looked at him, the way her breasts, hips and thighs curved under her clothing consumed him; all he thought of was making love to her, possessing her and making her his.
The fact she was returning home at the end of the month, to marry some uncouth farmer, constantly niggled, worming away at his peace of mind, filling him with desperation at the thought of losing her. He knew he was becoming more obsessed with her; happy and elated when she sat for him, morose and unable to paint when she wasn't there. This yearning for her was becoming a compulsion over which he had no control and was beginning to dominate his life.
He found himself attempting to engage with her; something he'd never had any interest in doing with other models. Flirting, coy smiles and flattery were behaviors he despised when he saw other artists seducing their models. Despite his best efforts, her responses were polite, submissive, distant; those of employee to employer. Luc wiped his forehead with his arm. Looking at the painting of Hélène was driving him mad. He had to get out of the studio.
The route from Montmartre to his house on Rue Murillo took him through the Parc de Monceau. Families sitting on the grass under the welcome shade of the great oaks lining the lake reminded him that he had a wife, a beautiful rich one, who loved him deeply, and two children he adored. His mind glossed over the tragedy of their last, stillborn child. He was well on the way to success in his chosen field, achieving everything he'd set his heart on. Nevertheless, he felt tormented at the sight of love-struck couples strolling in the park. He blamed Hélène.
One Summer in Montmartre Page 3