Twenty-three
V ery soon after Emma and Liz had arrived at the spot in the Luxembourg where the dancing faun capered on his pedestal against a background of spring flowers and trees in full leaf, Mattie appeared. She looked wonderful, dressed in a deep green calf-length velvet dress, with a dark loose jacket printed with poppies over it. Her thick silver hair was up in a becoming roll, and she wore red drop earrings and a touch of dark red lipstick.
Emma made the introductions, and despite the language barrier, her grandmother and Liz seemed to hit it off at once. At Liz’s urging, Mattie began telling the dancing faun story, with Emma translating.
When night comes, the humans are all gone and the gates of the gardens are closed. Look! The dancing faun jumps off his pedestal and plays his merry tune, and all the other statues in the garden jump off their pedestals too, and join him in a dance around the garden. The flowers sway with them, and the night birds applaud. And if you are very quiet, and very still, you can lie in your bed and hear, faintly, on the air, the sound of the faun’s flute as he leads the dance .
As a child, Emma had listened for the flute every night after Mattie had told her the story. She was sure she’d heard it, faintly, on the air, and it had filled her with wonder. Even when she was back home in Australia, she’d thought she could hear it, more than once, in the weeks after they had returned. Performing it now with her grandmother felt so special.
Afterwards, the three of them walked to the Grand Bassin and Liz challenged both Emma and Mattie to a yacht-sailing competition, which Mattie duly won. ‘Well, I’ve sailed boats here since I was a child,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye, ‘and as I’m so much older than you two girls, I’ve had a lot more practice!’
Presently, Liz left them to go back to her hotel for a rest before dinner, but Emma and Mattie stayed in the Luxembourg, sitting companionably on green metal chairs under the trees. Mattie didn’t want to go back to the house before the restaurant, so after a while Emma left her and went back to freshen up. She had a quick shower and changed into a dress she’d found in a Melbourne vintage shop but not worn yet here. It was a flattering full-skirted 1950s number in lilac-coloured chiffon, and she paired it with another op shop find, a beaded cream cardigan, as well as dark ballet flats and a simple gold locket she’d inherited from her mother. A touch-up of mascara, a dusting of bronze on her eyelids, a bit of lip gloss and a quick spray of Mademoiselle, the Chanel perfume her grandmother had given her for a late birthday present, and she was ready to go.
She found Mattie still sitting in the same spot, sketching. Emma glanced over her shoulder—in a few quick pencil lines Mattie had captured so much of the garden and its people. And in the middle, directing it all, was the dancing faun. ‘Of course he has to be at the centre,’ Mattie said, ‘because he reminds us that in letting go, in trusting to the moment, we open ourselves to the gift of joy.’ Then she glanced at Emma and added, ‘And you, my darling, look absolutely ravishing, like the gift of joy in person.’
The restaurant Marc-Antoine had chosen wasn’t, as Emma had assumed, a high-end place, but an unpretentious bistro with a classic French menu. It had a lovely view over the river and was only a kilometre from the Luxembourg. Mattie wouldn’t hear of taking the Metro— it’s much too fine an evening to waste any of it underground , she said—so they slowly meandered through the quieter, narrower streets, stopping to look in shop windows, pausing at landmarks, and Emma took pictures of the places, and of Mattie, who was so glowing and animated in her spring finery, happily recounting tales from long ago. This area had been where Alain had had his shop, back in the sixties, and as Emma listened, it seemed that she could see the shop, shoehorned into a tiny space but filled with unexpected treasures. And she could see her grandfather looking up from his work and seeing a beautiful black-haired young woman, clutching a sketchbook with a confident smile.
Mattie pointed to a street they were passing. ‘In the cellar of that building over there was a jazz club where we went on weekend nights. It was a smoky, dim place, but you heard some amazing music.’ She took Emma’s arm as they kept walking. ‘This is where our little Corinne loved to watch the boats going by when she was around five or six; she loved to count them, and wanted to know what each of them was for. We told her all kinds of stories about them, some of them rather fanciful. See that man over there on the quay, taking out his violin from the case? That’s where Alain and I danced, on more than one warm evening, whether there was music or not.’ There was something so lovely, so special, about Mattie tonight, an inward light that made you catch your breath, and Emma felt as though she could have walked with her for hours.
But they were at the restaurant, and there, outside, waiting, was Marc-Antoine, effortlessly stylish in a caramel-coloured three-quarter-length coat over a simple white shirt and dark chinos. He gave Mattie a warm hug and glanced at Emma enquiringly. She knew he was waiting for her cue. So, trying to sound as casual as she could, she said, ‘I think we probably know each other well enough now to do la bise , don’t you?’
‘I think so too,’ he said, and then they kissed each other lightly on both cheeks. And that did it. He smells good, oh God, he smells so good , Emma thought, in a daze, and his skin is so soft and fresh where he’s recently shaved, and his eyes on mine, that expression in them … if I let myself breathe him in one millisecond longer, I am going to be lost . And that can’t happen. It can’t .
She stepped away, trying to regain her composure, trying also to ignore the speculative spark that had appeared in her grandmother’s eyes. Mattie might be dreamily childlike at times, but she didn’t miss much. She just took Marc-Antoine’s arm, saying, ‘So, my dear boy, shall we go in?’
They went in to where Liz and her husband, Martin—a tall, rangy man with iron-grey hair, a slow smile and a lovely Irish lilt—were having a drink at the bar. The couple raised their glasses when they saw them coming. Greetings and introductions, getting more drinks, settling at a table by the window all helped calm Emma, so she was able to chat normally. And when the Kir Royale she’d ordered came, she sipped at it gratefully, glad to have something to do with her hands rather than fidget. Especially as Marc-Antoine sat directly opposite and his legs were long so she had to concentrate on keeping her own legs well back in case they touched by accident. The thought of it made her skin tingle. No, no, no! She had to stop this. Okay, so he was seriously hot and that look in his eyes … But it was a bad idea. Wasn’t it?
She started. Mattie, who was sitting beside her, had gently pulled at her sleeve. ‘Sweetheart, have you decided?’
Emma looked wildly at her, unsure exactly what her grandmother meant. Then she saw the menu in front of her and smiled awkwardly. ‘Sorry.’ Ignoring Liz’s wry expression, she quickly chose her food. She began to feel light-headed as she downed a glass of white and then another, hardly noticing what she was eating—which was nevertheless delicious, artichoke mousse followed by an excellent steak frites —and struggling to keep up with the conversation that ebbed and flowed around her. She didn’t have to translate for Mattie because Marc-Antoine was doing a good job of that, so she could relax. Well, yeah, nah .
Finally, the evening wound down. Coffees were ordered, and liqueurs, and there was some more chat, and then Liz and Marty got up, saying regretfully that they had an early flight the next day and they’d better get going back to their hotel on the other side of the river. La bise was exchanged all round, promises to keep in touch were made, and then Liz and Marty left. ‘I’ll call a cab and see you both home,’ Marc-Antoine said to Mattie, helping her up very gently. She swayed and Emma noticed for the first time that her grandmother looked tired. But Mattie said, ‘No cabs, not yet, this has been such a nice evening, I don’t want it to end yet. I want to have a walk by the river, see the lights on the water, and watch the people, like Alain and I used to do.’ She looked at each of them in turn. ‘And would you two young people come with me?’
They went out of the restaurant, into the still lovely but cooler night, and Mattie held out her arms for each of them to take one. ‘It’s a bit chilly, and that will keep me a little warmer,’ she said, ‘you know how frileuse I am.’ She declined Marc-Antoine’s offer of his coat. ‘I will swim in that,’ she said, smiling, ‘but you can hold my bag if you like.’
Arms linked, they walked together beside the Seine, where the river flowed in black and silver silence under the moon. Even on a Monday evening, there were still quite a few people around—lovers entwined, friends chatting over late-night picnics, a young couple trying to get a baby in a sling to sleep, a man walking his frisky dog. Everyone nodded and said, Bonsoir . They had to walk slowly, because of Mattie, so every step was measured, and that felt good. Emma’s nerves stopped fizzing, her head cleared, and she felt much calmer. Mattie had been right to suggest this.
They sat for a short while on a bench so Mattie could rest, and she took one of each of their hands in hers, murmuring, ‘What a beautiful evening, thank you, my darlings.’ Then she fell silent, watching the river, her hands still in theirs, while Emma and Marc-Antoine’s eyes met over her head for a moment. But they didn’t speak.
Presently, Mattie said, ‘Let’s keep going,’ and they helped her to her feet and kept walking. But they had not got very far when Mattie stumbled and gave a choking gasp. Then she was sagging, crumpling between them, her eyes rolling back, and they only just managed to catch her before she fell.
Later, Emma wasn’t sure how it had happened, but suddenly she was sharply in control, any lingering trace of confusion leaving her. Paddy had told her what could happen to someone with her grandmother’s heart condition, and he’d shown her what to do. A very pale Marc-Antoine did exactly as Emma told him, helping to lower Mattie to the ground and calling the paramedics, telling them they needed to bring a defibrillator, while Emma kneeled beside her unconscious grandmother who lay with Marc-Antoine’s coat under her head. She checked if Mattie was breathing—she was—and felt for her pulse. It was still there, but faint and slow. Emma knew she couldn’t do CPR as that would inflict more damage on someone who was still breathing, so all they could do was wait, and pray …
Thank God it was Paris. Thank God it was the centre. Thank God that an ambulance happened to be cruising very close by. The paramedics were there in just over a minute—the longest in Emma’s life—and got Mattie’s heart rate stable enough to put her in the ambulance. They wouldn’t let Emma and Marc-Antoine accompany Mattie in the vehicle but told them which hospital they would take her to. They’d only be able to see her after the doctor had checked her out completely, which could take many hours.
Mattie looked so small and fragile on the stretcher as the paramedics hurried her away that Emma felt a terrible fear hit her. Her grandmother was on her way to hospital, but what if she never woke up? She was old. Her heart was already damaged. And she’d exerted herself too much this evening. What if she had a seizure on the way to the hospital, or if they couldn’t keep her pulse rate and blood pressure stable? What if she …
‘We have to go!’ she cried, ‘We have to follow them, right now! It doesn’t matter how.’ The strange calm control had left her completely, the shock of what had happened only hitting her now. She couldn’t stop shivering.
Marc-Antoine draped his coat around her, and picked up Mattie’s discarded bag before coaxing Emma up the stairs. ‘It’s okay, Emma, I’ve called a cab, they’re coming. I’ve got you.’
In the cab, he arranged the coat on her like a blanket, and held her hand. She was grateful for the warmth and his nearness and comforted by the absolute certainty that he also loved Mattie and understood what Emma felt for her, because he felt it too.
The hospital emergency department was full of lights, rushing and noise but also quiet, echoing with unspoken fear, hollow with waiting. Waiting, waiting … Mattie was with the doctor, they were told. Her heart rate had stabilised but she was still unconscious and they were running tests to evaluate her condition. No, they couldn’t see her. No, they didn’t know when there would be more information. It was good they had known what to do when it happened, good she had been brought in so quickly, but there was a little way to go yet. Best to go home, they were told. Leave your contact details. We’ll call you. But they couldn’t go. They sat close together on plastic chairs and drank terrible coffee and picked up ancient magazines then put them down again. They leafed through Mattie’s visual diary, which was still in her bag, delighting in the lovely drawings she’d created, not only the Luxembourg sketch but lively studies of people—including Emma and Marc-Antoine—and scenes of daily life in Paris. And most of all they talked, in low voices, in fragments. About Mattie. About Alain. About the house and the garden.
Emma learned a good deal in that strange, suspended time about the special bond between this man sitting beside her and her grandparents. They had taken a bewildered little boy and his frail mother into their hearts and helped them to find some peace and stability. She no longer felt any trace of jealousy or resentment, only loving admiration for what Mattie and Pappy had done. And a deep gratitude that Marc-Antoine had been in their lives, when she herself had been so distant, so unreachable …
Finally, well past midnight, a brisk nurse came out and told them that Mattie had been transferred from intensive care to a recovery ward. She was still unconscious but was definitely out of danger, although she still needed close observation. ‘You can go in for a few minutes,’ the nurse replied to Marc-Antoine’s question, ‘but you’ll have to leave as soon as we tell you.’
They followed her to a dimly lit, hushed room down the corridor, and there was Mattie, lying still and very pale, hooked up to tubes and monitors. Emma stopped abruptly, the sight jolting her back to another hospital room, and her mother, lying unconscious after the stroke from which she’d never awoken. Marc-Antoine took her hand, saying gently, ‘It’s okay, Emma. You don’t have to go in.’
‘I—I want to,’ she murmured, clutching his hand tightly as they went in.
Once they were sitting side by side on two padded chairs close to the bed, their eyes on Mattie, listening to her soft breath and the hum of the monitors, Emma felt calmer. After a moment, she found herself telling Marc-Antoine about her own childhood, of Paddy, who’d loved her as his own, and her mother, loving but complicated. She spoke about her childhood visit to her grandparents’ house, and her recent attempts to find out the secrets of Corinne’s past. ‘Although right now that seems of such little importance,’ she murmured. She asked him about his mother, who like hers had died too young. Emma learned then why he hadn’t been at Alain’s funeral two and a half years ago—because he’d been at his mother’s final bedside. He spoke lovingly of how she’d raised him alone after his father abandoned them when he was just a baby, only to try to sue for custody in a bruising legal battle years later; how they had lived in Italy with his grandmother Vivienne until she died when he was six, and they’d returned to France, which was when Mattie and Alain had come into his life …
They fell silent for a moment, watching Mattie, until a nurse came in and told them they had to leave. ‘And don’t worry,’ he added kindly. ‘She’s stable and safe as she can be right now, but she won’t wake up for quite some time. So go home and get some rest. We will call you when she wakes.’
As they walked out of the hospital into the dark reaches of very early morning, Marc-Antoine said hesitantly, ‘I’ll call a cab and drop you off at the house and we can meet back here later. Or maybe I can book another room at the hotel for you, I know it will be hard going back to the empty house—’
Emma shook her head. ‘No. I want to go home. But—’ she looked at him, ‘I don’t want to be alone. Do you mind …’ She swallowed, unable to finish.
He nodded, ‘I can sleep in the spare room.’ He called a cab.
In the car, the lingering effects of shock began to hit Emma hard and by the time they got to the house, she could barely stand. Marc-Antoine helped her up the stairs to her bedroom, where he drew back the bedclothes, helped her lie down, still in her chiffon dress, and covered her with the duvet, then went to close the curtains. But as he was about to leave, she whispered, ‘No, Marc-Antoine. Stay. Please.’ He stilled, his face turned towards her, unreadable. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be on my own. And neither, I think, do you.’
‘No, I don’t,’ he whispered. Then he was sitting on the bed, taking off his shoes, but not his clothes, and slipping in beside her. She felt a great peace envelop her then. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and was about to say more, but instead fell asleep so suddenly and deeply that she didn’t even know she had.
She awoke hours later to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Memories of the night before surfaced and her throat constricted. She looked over to where Marc-Antoine was still sleeping, one shirt-sleeved arm out of the duvet, face pressed against the pillow. It was an intimate sight, yet she knew all they had both done was sleep, and the thought sent an odd surge of warmth through her.
Getting up quietly, she picked up her phone from the bedside table and went to the window. It was 7 am. They had slept five hours. The phone was almost out of battery, but she managed to check messages and calls. There were none from the hospital. Putting the almost-dead phone down, she breathed a sigh of relief. So no call meant there was no change, that Mattie was okay. Then Marc-Antoine’s voice behind her said, ‘I checked my phone too. No word from the hospital.’
She turned and smiled at him. ‘I suppose that’s good news, right?’
He nodded. ‘I think so. Are you okay, Emma?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘in a way.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Yesterday at the restaurant, he had been immaculately stunning. Now his dark hair was messy, his elegant clothes seriously wrinkled and overnight stubble was beginning to pepper his chin, but she thought he had never looked so gorgeous, and her heart lurched. Then ‘Oh!’ he said, on a rising note of surprise, and Emma turned back to the window to see what he had seen.
‘It’s Monsieur Leroux!’ she exclaimed in pure delight. ‘Isn’t he beautiful!’ Down below, the squirrel was scampering about, a flash of red tail in the morning light. ‘He’s lived here for a while,’ she went on, ‘I’ve seen him a couple of times. I think he approves of what I’m doing in the garden—will you look at him!’
‘Will you just,’ said Marc-Antoine, with that wonderful smile in his voice. And somehow, as they both watched the lovely little animal, they found themselves in each other’s arms, and when the squirrel vanished as quickly as it had come, they didn’t let go, but reached for each other, kissing and kissing and kissing. ‘I want,’ Emma whispered, ‘oh, Marc-Antoine, I want so much … Do you?’ And he breathed, ‘Oh yes, Emma, so do I.’
Then they were undressing each other, tumbling onto the bed, skin to skin, lips to lips, limbs entwined, before coming together in a wild unstoppable rush that had both of them gasping at the end, laughing, kissing, then content for a while in each other’s arms before it all began again, tenderly this time, exquisitely slowly.
It was quite a bit later that they lay sprawled across the bed, spent, happy, astonished, smiling into each other’s eyes.
‘Before yesterday I thought you hated me,’ Marc-Antoine said, tracing the line of her face with a finger. ‘And that was a blow because I’d fallen for you at first sight, standing there so lovely and unexpected in the hall, in your bare feet and your hair all over the place.’
‘Love at first sight,’ Emma said, unable to stop looking at his beautiful face, his gorgeous body, her every sense prickling with desire. ‘Ha! I don’t believe in it.’ But of course she did. And she knew that intense reaction she’d had on first meeting him—the instant prejudice—might well have been a cover not only for jealousy but for another powerful emotion that she’d been afraid of. ‘And I didn’t hate you,’ she added mischievously, ‘I thought that you were arrogant, patronising and entitled.’
He laughed. ‘That’s quite a hit list.’ He held her tight, whispering, as his caressing hands sent thrilling tingles through her skin, ‘And what do you think of me now, Ms Emma Taylor?’
She looked at him, the breath catching in her throat. ‘Marc-Antoine—I feel you are …’
‘Yes?’ he said, smiling.
‘It scares me. I’m not sure.’
He waited, the expression in those beautiful eyes unwavering yet she could see, deep in them, a hint of something like sadness that made her say in a bold, defiant, heart-filled rush, so he could have no doubt at all what she felt, ‘It’s just that I am not sure I can ever get enough of you.’
She heard his indrawn breath as he said, his lips on her hair, his hands travelling down her body, ‘Then you won’t have to. Because I know I can never get enough of you.’
It was a while before they finally came apart and laughingly decided it was time they really must get up, shower, and have breakfast. Marc-Antoine called his secretary to say a family emergency meant he wouldn’t be in today, so there was no need for them to rush. They felt too lazy to go to the boulangerie , so Emma said they could grill the remains of yesterday’s bread and have it as toast, with butter and jam, but Marc-Antoine said he’d make crepes. And to her delight that’s what he did, from scratch, cracking eggs, whipping up the batter, letting it rest while they had their first cup of coffee, then tipping it into the pan and tossing the crepes with practised ease while she laughed and told him that he was such a show-off and it was very sexy watching a man who knew how to cook. He laughed back at her, retorting that she was such a critic and if she kept looking at him like that then he’d have to let the crepes fend for themselves. It was sensual and silly, and the crepes were delicious, crisp around the edges and of a melting texture in the middle. ‘I cooked quite a bit at home from the age of twelve,’ Marc-Antoine explained, as they polished the crepes off in record time, ‘because my mother was often unwell by then. But crepes are something Mattie taught me to make when I was seven or eight. We had such fun doing it.’
At that moment, Marc-Antoine’s phone buzzed loudly. It was a call from the hospital.