Chapter VIII. Salut, Bordeaux! #3
Inside, I come across storyboards for Les Choses S’Effondrent, En Cas d’Urgence, and Plus ?a Change, Fran’s short and first two films. His sketches, painstakingly detailed, recalling a much different time in our lives.
When we had two little ones and no money.
But we had happiness. We had trust. We had hope.
However, it’s the contents of the second box that surprise me.
Photos of me. Black and whites and contact sheets and work prints.
A chronicle of our earliest years. Our newly besotted years.
When I, and I alone, was his muse. Like Sophie, I imagine, spilling into Alain’s lap.
Entranced, enamored, oblivious to the outside world.
But here, our moments stolen and documented, like love notes written in shadow and light.
There are candids and close-ups and portraits and nudes.
Some far more provocative than others. The base of my neck.
The small of my back. His hand between my thighs.
The memory so distinct, I quiver, dropping the print.
And then sit beside it on the floor, spreading the photos into a skirt around me.
On the backs he has jotted down notes in his delicate cursive. Book titles, song lyrics, thoughts to remember. Potential names for future works. Once Upon a Time in Paris, Hike Up Your Skirt a Little More, Crash into Me, Voyeur, The Morning After, Secrets and Lies, Cecilia, Nue.
He loved me once. And maybe he keeps these images to remind himself. Maybe he keeps them hidden to forget.
I am still looking at the photos when my phone vibrates on the nightstand, the number now familiar.
“Salut.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice deep, gravelly. Morning Anouk.
“Nothing productive, unfortunately…”
“Come meet me for lunch and a little shopping in the Marais.”
“Sounds tempting…”
“I won’t let you buy anything you don’t want to buy.”
At that I laugh. “Okay.”
“I slept through my yoga class. But I’m going to meditate for half an hour and then jump in the shower.”
“I wish I could meditate.”
“I’ll teach you. Donc … Les Philosophes. On Rue Vieille du Temple. à treize heures.”
I beat her to the bistro and am seated inside on the banquette against the back wall when she arrives.
She blows into the room in a belted emerald-green wool coat that makes her eyes pop.
Her hair wind-tousled, her cheeks flushed.
A leather satchel hangs across her chest. She looks part schoolgirl, part movie star.
But with that neck, that graceful carriage, that sublime bone structure—there’s no mistaking who she is.
Heads turn. Mouths gape. She nods in my direction before greeting the host, the bartender, the waiter at the front.
They know her here. It’s hard to get French waitstaff to smile, and they are all smiling.
“Comme t’es belle,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheeks as she arrives at the table. “Paris really suits you.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what exactly it is she’s seeing. On Tuesday, I paid a visit to my favorite hairdresser for a cut, color, and blowout. But I was already back to my signature messy bun. Black cashmere V-neck, black trousers, black Converse high-tops. Hardly bewitching.
“You look comfortable in your skin here.”
At that I smile. “Others are comfortable with my skin here.”
“Yes,” she says. “Not the anomaly it is on the Westside of LA.”
She takes a second to remove her coat and loosen her scarf.
“LA is pretty, and the sun always shines, but it’s not the Shangri-la people make it out to be.
It’s very stratified, everyone has an agenda, and people think it’s okay to wear pajama pants in Whole Foods.
Which is … franchement dégueulasse.” She snorts.
It is a crude way of saying “disgusting.”
“Alors,” she says, exhaling. “Shall we order?”
Over salads and soupe à l’oignon gratinée, we talk about fashion week and shifts in the industry. How the era of supermodels has been usurped by a new celebrity culture.
“You have reality stars and influencers on the runway and in the front rows at the shows. People who are famous just for being famous. The fact that I don’t really understand this makes me feel old,” she laments.
I note how in fashion and other publications, the evolution of analog to digital meant that anyone could pick up an iPhone, and with filters and Photoshop create magazine-worthy photos, leaving many traditionally trained photographers scrambling for work.
“What magazines?” She laughs. “They’re all dying. And the ones still holding on are like tiny little pamphlets.”
“I’m glad I moved into fine art when I did.”
“I’m glad you did, too,” she says. “Or then I’d have to worry about your ulterior motives.”
If her words throw me, they are countered with such a wide and sincere smile that I can’t help but return the gesture. And for the second time in twenty-four hours, I feel it again. The rush.
Afterward, when we are nursing two cups of espresso, Anouk leans across the table conspiratorially and says, “So … what happened with élodie Cloutier?”
For a moment I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“When Clément mentioned her name last night, you just glazed over. Tu as fait…” She waves her hand in front of her face. “You went somewhere else.”
“Did I?” I laugh, and hope she can’t detect the nervousness, the fact that I am deflecting. Is this what she thought I was hiding?
“You Americans don’t know how to hide your feelings. Everything is on your face.”
“Actually, I’m Jamaican.…”