I was keenly aware that it would only take one volume she didn’t approve of for her support to wane, but with Alain at the helm severed limbs and knitted genitalia wouldn’t be making an appearance anytime soon. It didn’t surprise me that Geneviève was interested in religious icons; like many residents of the 7th arrondissement she was deeply Catholic, to the point of attending Confession every Friday. She made me promise to let her know the second the finished copies came in – never angling to see anything before the final, perfect version, which suited me because I was protective of the galleys, which had a fragile embryonic quality. With their typos and slightly off colours, I was as reluctant to subject them to scrutiny as I would have been to serve a half-baked cake.
A week behind schedule, the shipment had finally arrived from Italy, where printing costs were lower. My excitement was as great as ever; I loved the smell of the cardboard boxes, the sound of the Stanley knife ripping through the weft of the packaging tape as I hovered over my colleague Viane, whose job it was to send the copies out to subscribers. I could never resist warning her not to damage those on top with the blade. ‘Not at a hundred euros a go,’ I joked, although that really wasn’t the point. She laughed, something my colleagues did a lot around me but not in an unpleasant way. At least they thought I had a sense of humour. As the only foreigner in the company, my foibles were put down to cultural differences, of which there were many. They all knew I couldn’t help it. We gathered around to coo over the book, overcome by the quality of the end product. The job held no greater moment, the reward for up to a year’s hard work. None of us was in it to get rich.
I waited for things to calm down before taking a single copy back to my office and clearing the desk, as if preparing for some kind of ceremony. I ran my hand across the low-gloss dust jacket before resting the spine flat and allowing the book to fall open at a random page. Closing my eyes, I let my weight sink into the chair.
I had never felt so exhausted. For days my thoughts had been spiralling between my mother, Philippe, Jean-Luc and now Vanessa, like hands spinning uncontrollably through the quarter hours on some demonic clock. Longing to think about something else, I took a deep breath and went in search of sustenance. There was a sensual dimension to any new book, doubled when it was one of mine. They had a smell by which I could have identified them blindfolded in a store (not that many places stocked our titles): a strange blend of the woody and the chemical, not even particularly pleasant.
People often remarked that I loved my work and it was true. I felt a tiny thrill every morning at the fall of my foot on the white stone steps leading to the offices. I cared far too much about the covers we agonised over, the feel of the smooth, heavy pages, the perfect layout of text and images. To love what you do for a living is rare, my work the only real passion I was capable of. That wasn’t a reflection on Philippe. It was a reflection on me.
It might have been different if I’d been willing to get help before now but I never wanted to. I was adamant about that even at the age of ten. Not very Californian of me, I know. Thirty years on, even the Europeans have started to talk. In Paris seeing a psy has become so fashionable that people discuss it openly, competing over whose issues are the most interesting, whose therapist the most perceptive and profound. Who’s the most damaged. I was lucky to find you. You were so kind that time back at the beginning when I couldn’t stop crying, so patient on the days I spent more time looking out to sea than talking. There aren’t so many of those now. You don’t say much, and when you do it’s mostly to ask questions, but knowing you’re listening is the reason I can finally hear myself.
That afternoon I was having trouble keeping my eyes open thanks to our latest house guest. So much for teenagers and their headphones; Vanessa’s music had throbbed through the flimsy wall between the spare room and ours until gone two in the morning, Philippe and I so unsure how to deal with it that we did nothing. The neighbours below had banged on the ceiling in the end, so now I’d have to apologise next time we met in the lobby or the street. It took at least another hour to drop off after that.
Thinking about sleep during the day is asking for trouble.
* * *
I woke with a jolt followed by a ripping sound in my right ear when I moved my head. My cheek had been stuck to a page of the book by sweat, drool or maybe just the oil of my skin, leaving the thick paper damp and buckled. There was a tear an inch or two long parallel to the spine, made before I realised what was happening and peeled it away from my face.
Fortunately nobody could have seen me. The door to my office was closed and when I went out, my colleagues were gone; they didn’t live to work, especially on a Friday. The younger ones celebrated the start of the weekend at a bar in the Marais which I passed on leaving the office. Alain went home to his wife, Viane and Lisette rushing off to see their two-year-olds and free the nanny they shared in the 11th arrondissement.
I headed for the bathroom sensing something wasn’t right. A deep crease in my cheek was correcting itself in front of my eyes and blue and red ink had transferred to my skin in a purplish blur. When soap and water didn’t work, I only succeeded in removing the dye with an entire packet of Kleenex and a tube of hand cream. That was the best solution I could come up with as the survival kit I schlepped with me for every eventuality (migraine, diarrhoea, period) had never had to cater for anything like this. Once I’d cleaned it off, I applied a fresh dusting of face powder. My eye make-up needed only minor repairs. I brushed my hair and with that, order was restored.
I’ve always been hard on myself, on principle. But at that time I was conscious that I needed to give myself a break for once, take it easy over the weekend and try to get my head around things. I was under a lot of stress, after all. Philippe would want to see the book and I wanted to show him; there it was again, that need to carry on as usual. It helped me believe everything would return to normal at some point, that one day all this would feel like a blip, insignificant in the context of our life together. Back in the office, I closed the covers. It was as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Twelve
The sight of him in the reception area brought me to a standstill. The others must have left the door unlocked, thinking I’d soon be on my way out. No visitors should have been there at that hour.
‘Hello,’ I said, instantly failing in my attempt to sound relaxed.
Jean-Luc Malavoine turned away from the display cabinet where he’d been perusing the spines of some of our latest releases whilst texting. I smiled at the formality when he held out his hand, more suited to a bureaucrat than someone his age. But it was natural that he might feel embarrassed after the episode in the restaurant.
Here we were again, alone. ‘Have you recovered from your journey? You’re looking…’ I cut off, unable to summon a single word I could consider saying out loud.
‘…better?’ he suggested, blushing and trying not to laugh. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘So what brings you here?’
This time the way he looked at me was unmistakable and I didn’t care in the slightest why he was in my office. Geneviève and Henri were nice-looking but it didn’t seem feasible that they could have produced someone this gorgeous. Jean-Luc’s smile had an open, unguarded quality, his eyes bright as seaglass, at the confluence of blue and green. His brown hair was streaked with light and needed cutting. A pair of sunglasses hung from the breast pocket of a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbow. Energy pulsed off his tanned skin. Life.
‘I’m here to collect a book,’ he said eventually. ‘My mother was going to come by, but I told her I was going to be in the area…’ He caught my eye to check that I was on board with this obvious lie. The complicity he was assuming made me nervous. Geneviève and I were supposed to be friends, unless he’d heard otherwise. And what on earth made him think it was okay to act like this with me? I put my hand to my face, the ink stain replaced by a deep flush, as if he knew every thought I’d had since that night, every dirty little th
rill.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Icons! The copies arrived this afternoon, in all their glory.’
The stack of boxes was still occupying one side of the reception area, which was darker than usual because they were partially blocking the windows. One box was open, the flaps sticking up. ‘Do help yourself,’ I told him, resolving to stay exactly where I was. For me to get the book I would have had to cross the room into close proximity with him, to edge my way round the Danish sofa in curved steel and black leather, which had been returned to its usual spot following the delivery. This was the grandest part of the Editions Gallici offices, in the style of an elegant salon with wood panels and an ornately carved desk. It was no secret that I found the addition of a piece of ultramodern furniture preposterous; I had never seen anyone attempt to sit on it. But in order to reach the boxes Jean-Luc pushed it aside with his foot like an abandoned toy. Whilst his attention was diverted, I let my gaze dwell on him, absorbing everything I could. His physical presence wasn’t down to size – I’m five foot four, fairly average, and since I was wearing heels he was only an inch or two taller than me, but in perfect proportion, with just the right amount of muscle for a slender athletic frame. I found myself wanting to know what he looked like without the clothes, a thought I had never had about any man in such brazen terms. When he turned around I had the unsettling feeling he really could read my mind from my expression, if his was anything to go by. Knowing. Flirtatious. The way a woman likes to be looked at. It scared me how damn good it felt.
But not in this situation, for God’s sake, not him and me. That didn’t compute. A voice in my head – my own quiet, sensible voice – was asking me what is wrong with you? I tried to stay calm by telling myself he’d soon be gone: he had his copy now; I’d look behind the reception desk for a bag to put it in and send him on his way. Given that we’d seen so very little of each other in the past, it wasn’t as if I’d need to actively avoid him.
But he showed no sign of leaving. Instead he leaned against the desk, opened the book and started leafing through it as if he were interested, and by this point I’d convinced myself that nobody outside this building ever would be. He frowned slightly, squinting to read the captions. Forgetting my scruples of not two minutes ago, I crossed to stand next to him, curious to see what he would choose to linger on. I watched his fingers glide down the edge of the pages with the lightest of touches, turning them so as not to leave any trace. It was beyond me not to imagine them on my skin. I had to stop myself from fidgeting, hyper aware of all the places I like to be touched: my shoulders, my breasts, the inside of my thighs and where that leads.
After a while he looked at me. I hadn’t realised quite how close we were, our personal space intersecting. If I could feel his breath, he must be able to feel mine. ‘Bravo, c’est magnifique!’ I thanked him, dipping my head modestly as if I had created every one of the treasures myself. ‘Have you been there?’ he asked.
I hesitated over the reason I hadn’t travelled to Romania. ‘There didn’t seem much point, unfortunately. The religious order is extremely secluded. The author managed to wear them down but they would never have allowed a woman into the monastery.’
A woman. How I wished I hadn’t drawn attention to my gender and yet it wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed. I doubt very much that Jean-Luc Malavoine would ever have looked at a man the way he was looking at me. I was staring at him too. I couldn’t stop.
‘You’re American, right?’ he asked. I’d almost forgotten we were having a conversation and tried to collect myself.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘From California, way up in Del Norte County. Don’t suppose you made it there.’
‘Oh, I did. The redwoods? God, the west coast is stunning.’ As he said this he closed his eyes and his expression took me aback, stirring up my own feelings about the place I grew up. He’d switched to English without even appearing to notice and for once I didn’t mind. The combination of American inflexion with a strong French accent was so sexy that if he’d decided to recite the endless list of footnotes from the book I would happily have listened.
Things look and feel so different when you unhook them from what they usually mean, when you stop agonising and angsting and give in to pure instinct. Sensation. There was a change of pressure that would have registered on a barometer. Desire. It circumvents logic. That’s not an excuse. It’s just the way it is. C’est comme ça.
‘At spring break I hitchhiked the whole way,’ he continued. ‘Well, most of it, from Seattle back down to LA.’
‘That must have been an experience,’ I said, pushing aside visions of a different experience altogether. ‘Isn’t hitching a bit risky?’ Way to sound boring and middle-aged.
‘It was amazing. I stopped for a few days to see the giant redwoods. Can’t remember the name of the town; it had this little lighthouse that looks like an actual house with a bright red roof.’
‘Gosh, what are the chances? That’s Battery Point, really close to where I grew up.’
He smiled, pleased. ‘And do you know LA?’
‘Can’t say I do. Only been there once – I’ve been in Europe a long time. Where were you?’
‘Santa Monica. You know Diebenkorn, the Ocean Park pictures?’
Of course he would know about art. If only he’d stop talking about things that drew me in so I could say I was just on my way home… At the same time, it was a relief to direct my errant thoughts to the respectably neutral topic of abstract expressionism.
‘I love Diebenkorn! Such outstanding use of colour. There’s an earlier painting where the street rises up on the way to the ocean – you can’t see it but you know it’s there. I once counted seventeen greens in that picture—’
In a wordless interruption Jean-Luc leaned toward me. This wasn’t fantasy any more. It was wish fulfilment.
Chapter Thirteen
I felt Jean-Luc’s hand in my hair, pushing it back. I turned my head away, I don’t know why; undeterred, he began kissing me, starting at my collarbone. As he worked his way up, I couldn’t wait for our mouths to meet. I was wearing a slim skirt with a silk blouse which allowed a tasteful suggestion of expensively engineered lace, nothing too revealing. But I felt naked before he slid his hands under both of these layers, shaking as I unfastened his belt. There was even a French accent to the sharp exhalation he made when my palm brushed against his hard-on. The same word can be used for the intimate body parts of a man and a woman and it leaves nothing to the imagination: le sexe.
The centre of my body had shifted from my head to that exact spot in an overpowering flood of anticipation. He was looking around for a place to do it. I didn’t care where; I was thirsting, as if I would die if I didn’t get it. Jean-Luc drew back to look at me and honestly, I felt like the most desirable woman alive. I kicked off my shoes; he undid my blouse, slowly, those eyes at first swooping back to mine between buttons, finally unable to look away. There was the desk, the floor or the stupid black sofa, finally good for something.
As we gravitated toward it, I remembered just in time to double-lock the door that led from the stairway. He wouldn’t let me go; his warm hands moulded to my breasts. On the rug in the reception area, the pieces of clothing we’d pulled off each other were already intertwined.
I reached to guide him. He pushed my hand away. The first time was urgent and frantic, just so we could breathe again. After that, things slowed right down and showed no sign of stopping.
I was going to say things like this don’t happen to me but it wasn’t like that. Life had dealt me plenty of crap in which I had no say. But I did this and I don’t deny it. Sure, at the time it felt like I had no choice but that would be dishonest. Too convenient. Most of us encounter sexual temptation at some point. There’s always a choice – it’s just easier to discount the options we don’t like and for me that was saying No.
We gave that sofa the workout of its life and when I lay back on it afterward, shattered, but in a completely different way from
before, it felt nothing like the first time with any other lover. There was something touching about the way he looked at me when it was over and a trace of self-satisfaction I couldn’t hold against him. Not after that.
I was glowing and blinking in astonishment. So this was what people meant by amazing sex! Was it purely chemical, a rush of endorphins sating an appetite?
This is hard to admit, but doing it with Jean-Luc made sex with Philippe seem to lack a crucial dimension, even at its best. I swear that revenge for his cheating couldn’t have been further from my mind. Not consciously. Let’s face it, if the area of the brain that evaluates decisions had any say in this I would never have done it.
For once in my life, I didn’t think at all. I did it because I wanted to, it really is that simple. For the first time, I did something spontaneous and wild. Slutty, some would say. Something I didn’t stop to justify or analyse from every angle. Jean-Luc wanted it too. He started it (which I never would have) and he liked what he got. But that was a bonus. That day I was out for my pleasure, to satisfy a desire stronger than I had ever known. And now there was a shimmering at the edges of my world. It had never looked like this before.
Jean-Luc was twenty-three years old. It was me who should have known better, that much is clear. I was past the age at which anything can be gently written off to youth or inexperience, probably some cougar conquest that he’d brag about to his friends. That wasn’t a nice thought. But then I had a worse one. More a case of being uncomfortably reminded, because it’s not as if I didn’t know. I’d fucked Geneviève’s precious son.
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