R Is for Rebel

by Megan Mulry

  Nearly three hours into lunch, Abigail was trying to stay focused, she really was, but the two anthropology professors were settling into their second coffees and more cigarettes than she’d seen since Humphrey Bogart worked at Rick’s. Her eyes were watering and she had to clasp her hands in her lap to keep from swiping her hand in front of her face to push away the smoke.

  Finally, the older of the two looked at his watch and widened his eyes. “Alors! I didn’t realize it was almost four o’clock. I’m so sorry to cut our lunch short, but we have a department meeting in thirty minutes.”

  Abigail used all the restraint in the world to keep from laughing in his face at the idea of cutting a three-hour lunch short. But she managed it. The waiter finally came with his portable credit card machine, like an extra lifeboat on the Titanic, thought Abigail. She whipped out her credit card and smiled at the two men. They had been utterly charming, thrilled about the prospect of working with her and having research trips that would take them to Uganda and Libya, but Eliot’s words about her best lingerie were starting to clang distractingly through her mind.

  “It’s been such a pleasure, gentleman,” said Abigail. All three of them stood up from the table and walked out to the curb to say their good-byes. “I cannot thank you enough for your confidence in the foundation. It’s been such a pleasure to spend time with you both. I’ll call you next week about—”

  “Abigail, is that you?”

  Her head swung around and there was Eliot, all glamorous and fabulous, sporting his mirrored sunglasses that reflected the neoclassical buildings and his perfectly cut five-thousand-euro suit. He came up to the three of them and leaned down and kissed her neck. Right there in front of everyone.

  The two professors smiled, a little taken aback. Abigail was tongue-tied. Eliot extended his hand and introduced himself in his perfect French. Abigail stared as he impressed the two professors, accomplishing in thirty seconds what had taken Abigail weeks of phone calls and meetings, and one endless, smoky lunch. After a few minutes, the three men were laughing about something in French and Abigail was beginning to get peeved. Eliot sensed it immediately, drawing her back into the conversation and into him, draping his arm around her waist.

  “I’m so sorry. It was rude to launch into French. How did the meeting go?” He looked at Abigail and then back to the two men.

  She supposed she should feel grateful that staying mad at Eliot was impossible. She looked at the professors. “I think it went well, don’t you?”

  They nodded enthusiastically and bid their farewells, walking back to their department meeting.

  “What did you say to them? And I did not call you yet. Have you been hiding behind a streetlamp or something? I feel like you are my own personal version of The Red Balloon.”

  He squeezed her more tightly and led them in the opposite direction from the professors. “I missed you.” He leaned into her neck and did that half-kiss-half-inhale thing he’d been perfecting all week. “And it’s such a beautiful, crisp afternoon, I thought we might walk to your surprise.”

  “Oh, Eliot. You’re so impossibly good. Of course I’ve been distracted the entire lunch thinking about my best lingerie, because there’s quite a lot of it to choose from.” She pulled him closer to her side, reaching her hand around his back. “I wasn’t exactly sure which you would think was the best.”

  They were strolling toward the Luxembourg Gardens, then Eliot led her down a narrow street that curved away from the main avenue. They came to a narrow building that looked like the crooked house on the crooked lane. Eliot smiled that mischievous boy smile and pushed one of the unmarked buttons by the entry. They were quickly buzzed in. The entryway was ill-lit and unkempt. They walked up a narrow circular staircase that felt as though it might pull away from the cracking plaster wall if they decided to jump up and down on it.

  “Eliot. Where are you taking me? There’s delightfully wicked and then there’s illegal.”

  He smiled over his shoulder as he dragged her up the last few steps to the top floor. There was music coming through the thick oak door that had been left slightly ajar for them to enter. Eliot rapped on the old wood once and then pushed it open. The space was dilapidated and gorgeous. The rough beams of the ancient building’s sagging roof were exposed, roof tiles and partially shuttered windows let in slanting beams of the Parisian winter sun.

  Photography lamps were set up in different areas of the room and a man was looking over some images on a makeshift table in the far corner. Benjamin Willard turned around when he heard the two of them come in.

  “There you are.” He smiled as he approached them. When he crossed the room, he extended his hand. “How are you, Abigail?”

  “Good, thanks. How are you?” She shook his hand and looked around for the model and stylists. “Where’s Dina?”

  Ben looked at Eliot. “You haven’t told her yet?”

  “Told me what?”

  Sarah came flying out from another room to the left of the front door. “Are they here yet? I don’t have all—”

  “Sarah! What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Eliot. You didn’t tell her, did you?” Sarah was holding two different shoes aloft, as if she was on her way back to the room to ask someone’s opinion. Abigail glanced briefly at the shoes, which she could only describe as sadomasochistic thigh-high… things.

  “Tell me what? What is going on?”

  Eliot leaned in and kissed her neck.

  “Eliot, sack it!” Abigail had had enough surprises for one week. “Is this a photo shoot or not?”

  “Yes.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at her.

  She felt the blood drain out from her face and started to back up. “If you think I’m going to prance around in my underwear—” The heel of her shoe caught on one of the loose floorboards and she would have fallen flat on her back if Eliot hadn’t reached out to grab hold of her.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered into her ear, holding her tight and hard against him.

  She reached her arms around his waist and spoke into his chest. “I don’t think I like surprises.”

  He laughed and kissed her forehead. “Abigail?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to parade in your underwear.”

  She exhaled. “Oh. Well, okay good. So there’s that.”

  He smiled again. “I found the dress… the imaginary dress that I’ve pictured you in all these months of our separation. And with Ben here and Sarah willing to help, and this building that I’ve always loved even though it’s a wreck… because aren’t we all a wreck?”

  Abigail had stopped breathing. “Yes.”

  “So, for me, would you let Ben take a few pictures of you in the dress?”

  “I’ll feel ridiculous. I’m not photogenic, I swear. I’m not being overly modest.” She loosened her hold around his back, but he held her tighter.

  “The pictures are for me, not for you. If you don’t like them, you don’t have to look at them.”

  “Oh, Eliot.” She rested her cheek against the lapel of his soft suit. “How can I deny you anything?”

  He kissed her full on the mouth, hot and open.

  All this kissing in front of everyone all of a sudden! thought Abigail, before she couldn’t think anymore.

  She gasped when he pulled away, his eyes sparkling. “Thank you.” He kissed her again, but it was a quick buss.

  “My, my. You’re welcome. Maybe I should have said yes sooner. That was quite a kiss.”

  He leaned in near her ear and whispered, “I love you, Abigail.”

  “I love you too, Eliot.”

  They stood like that for a few more seconds.

  “Great!” Sarah barked. “Now that we’ve reestablished for the nine hundredth time this week that you two love each other, could we please get a move on the photos. I have to be back at the hotel at seven o’clock.”

  Abigail took a deep breath and Eliot re
leased her. “Okay, I’m ready, Sar. Where are the clothes?”

  “This way, come on. No dawdling.”

  She followed Sarah to a small garret off the main room and saw the dress. It was breathtaking. Abigail covered her mouth in shock. “Is that even a dress?”

  “Of course it’s a dress. Only the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”

  “What’s it made of?” Abigail reached for the diaphanous layers of fabric then pulled her hand away, afraid she was going to stain it or ruin it.

  “This is so wrong.” Sarah stomped her foot. “I can’t believe you are going to end up with someone who gives you vintage Dior gowns and I ended up with someone…”

  Abigail folded her arms and raised an eyebrow to hear how Sarah was going to describe Devon. “Someone?”

  “Oh, fine. Devon’s perfect, but he might be a tiny bit perfecter if he knew the first thing about fashion. Honestly! He doesn’t even care!” Sarah sounded genuinely despondent.

  “There, there, Sarah. We can’t have everything.”

  “Oh cut it out! Let’s get you into this incredible piece of art, shall we?”

  “Okay.” Abigail took a deep breath. “I guess I need to undress, then?”

  “Yes. Abigail. You need to get undressed. What is your problem? You are usually so immodest. What’s come over you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just do this.”

  “Try to be a tad enthusiastic, for my sake.” Sarah lovingly unzipped the pale gray beaded gown from the mannequin. “It’s so fantastic.”

  Abigail undressed and watched as Sarah carefully finished removing the dress and held it up for her to step into. “Oh my god! Does he buy you haute couture lingerie too?” Sarah pulled the dress closer to her chest and away from Abigail’s reach, staring at Abby’s fancy underclothes.

  Standing in her best lingerie in front of Sarah had never been part of Abigail’s plan. Now that she had removed her navy-blue wool skirt and white turtleneck sweater that she’d been wearing for the meeting with the professors, she was back to looking like a harlot. Abigail put her hands on her hips (which happened to be sporting a gorgeous pale lavender lace garter belt). “I buy my own lingerie.”

  “I don’t believe it! You are a closet lingerie whore? Oh my god. Wait until I tell Bronte.”

  Abigail shook her head. “You are so juvenile. Give me the damn dress.”

  “There, there.” She extended the dress and continued talking as Abby stepped in, trying to be extra careful not to crush the hem or get caught on the delicate lining. “All of this falling-in-love-with-Eliot-business has really got you going, huh?”

  “You could say that.” Abby smiled as Sarah lifted the dress into place.

  “The bra’s got to come off.”

  Abby looked down.

  “Strapless,” Sarah elaborated.

  Abigail took the bra off and set it on top of her skirt and turtleneck, which she’d laid on the rough floorboards.

  Sarah stared at the tag on the bra. “Are you kidding me? Did Louise Feuillère make that bra for you?”

  Giving a guilty shrug, Abigail said, “Well, Eliot did tell me to wear my best lingerie.”

  “I sort of hate you right now. Turn around and let me zip this up.” Sarah sighed with frustration. “I mean, of course the 1947 gown in a size negative four fits you perfectly. I wouldn’t be able to get one boob in here.”

  Abby looked over her shoulder at her gorgeous blond sister-in-law. “False modesty doesn’t suit you, Sarah.”

  “Oh, fine. I’ll do, but this is…” She finished clasping the tiny hook and eye at the top of the zipper, then turned Abby to face her. “This is something else altogether. Really smashing, Abs.”

  “So, what do I do? Just walk out there and do whatever Benjamin tells me to do?”

  “Let me put a touch of makeup on you first… I know Eliot wants you all sooty-eyed and crazy-looking like all his models at the shows yesterday. Why didn’t you come to the Danieli-Fauchard show, by the way?” Sarah applied makeup and waited for Abigail to reply.

  “I don’t really want to be seen with him until everything is taken care of with his, you know…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Oh, god. I keep forgetting he’s married.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Engaged, whatever. Sorry.” She was distracted, putting on some of her magical foundation and lightly powdering Abigail’s skin. “Now for those diamond eyes of yours.” Keeping her eyes closed, Abby felt the light pressure and soft texture of Sarah’s fingertip as she smudged the makeup to her satisfaction. “Okay. You’re all set. I think. Let me look at you.”

  Abigail opened her eyes. Luckily, there weren’t any mirrors around so she didn’t need to obsess about how ridiculous she must look in some crazy vintage ball gown in the middle of some ramshackle, falling-down building.

  “Lipstick!” Sarah cried. “Come here.” She pulled two gold cylinders from her bag. “These will be perfect. Dark, bloody red—”

  “Sarah—”

  “Don’t talk or I’ll mess up, and this stuff stays on forever. They were not kidding about that six-hour promise. I mean, seriously, you can do anything with this lipstick on.”

  “You are seriously perverted.”

  “Sure. You keep telling yourself that, Abs. You’re not the least bit perverted.”

  Abigail burst out laughing. “All right, all right. Let’s go.”

  “Shoes!”

  “No. I’m sorry, that’s where I draw the line. I refuse.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes, deciding whether or not to wage war on her sister-in-law for shoe heresy, then her face bloomed into a smile. “Now that I know about the lingerie situation, I’ll let you off the hook this once.”

  Shaking her head, Abigail turned and left the small dressing area.

  “So? How do I look?”

  Eliot was standing with his arms crossed, his back slightly turned to where Abigail was. Benjamin Willard saw her first and started snapping photographs immediately. Eliot was speechless.

  “I know!” Abigail laughed. “I was speechless too when I saw it. Isn’t it incredible?” She did a pirouette then turned slightly right and left, enjoying the movement of the layers and layers of lace as they floated around her hips and legs. She really did feel like a princess.

  Eliot walked toward her in silence, her heart pounding harder and harder as he got closer and closer. She vaguely remembered the sound of the camera clicking-clicking-clicking while Eliot pulled her into his arms and twirled her around the abandoned space, and their laughter and joy as she flew into his arms. The music surrounded them. Her bare feet were a few inches off the ground one moment, then they were dancing the next, or he would stop to kiss her neck or dip her back to kiss her chest while her head lolled back and stretched until the crown of her head nearly touched the floor.

  He battered her with all those too-strong words like magnificent and splendid and perfect and miraculous. At one point she felt tears, and he kissed those too, and they danced like that for what felt like hours but was really just fifteen or twenty minutes.

  “Oh my god, Eliot.” She breathed into him, feeling winded, not so much from the physical activity as the crashing waves of all that love.

  “I’ll try not to kill you with it.”

  “Okay. Love me in doses until I’m truly addicted and I’ve built up my tolerance.”

  He smiled and kissed her one last time. “How did you like your first photo shoot?”

  She laughed, ringing clear, turning to look at Benjamin Willard, and said, “Oh, is that what that was?”

  He smiled and replied, “I’m not sure what to call it, but I think I captured it on film.”

  “Thank you for that,” Abby added. “So now I just walk out of here in this priceless gown?”

  “If you like, but I’m afraid you’ll be furious with me if you ever find out how much it’s worth. Probably better to put it back on the mannequin and I can have the museum people come
retrieve it.”

  Abby gulped. “The museum people?”

  “Don’t ask. Trust me on this one. You do not want to know.”

  She turned and walked toward the changing area, where Sarah was watching her, and muttered, “I have fallen in love with a crazy person.”

  “Haven’t we all,” Sarah agreed as she began to help with the zipper and removing the dress from Abigail’s flushed body.

  ***

  Abigail spent the last few days in museums and parks, sometimes alone in cafés or, a few times, with her mother or Sarah. But for the most part, she meandered through the city as if it, too, was her lover. Eliot called her a flaneuse, whatever that meant. She wandered down small cobbled streets, and sighed at their ancient intimacy. She visited crowded tourist spots like Notre Dame and trailed her hand along the cool medieval stones and inhaled the evocative scent of incense and small memorial candles. She sat on benches alongside large, crowded avenues and watched normal people stroll or rush by, carrying bags or ambling alone, holding hands or chirping into a cell phone.

  Normal people.

  She no longer felt like a normal person. She felt like a new species altogether. She felt like she and Eliot had emigrated to another country. She spent the nights in his arms or taking him into hers, his every nocturnal whisper binding her tighter and tighter to him. She spent her days reliving the exquisite delight of each gentle or fierce touch.

  By the time she got back to London Sunday night and faced the prospect of spending the night alone in her own bed, the whole idea of Eliot not being there was quite unacceptable. She picked up her phone and dialed his cell.

  Before he had a chance to say hello, she snapped, “How is it that I am staring at an empty bed right now?”

  “I told you to move to Geneva a year ago. I have no idea what you’re doing in that dismal, gray city. I seem to recall some discussion about real life and responsibilities… something vague and meaningless like that.”

  Abigail smiled into the phone and flopped down onto her bed. If she closed her eyes, the sound of his voice was a pretty good approximation of his touch. He had spent the past week talking softly into her ear while touching her body, and the voice and the touch were permanently imprinted on to her. Into her.