Chapter Two
“I know him,” Nadine said, pointing at me slyly.
She, Charlotte, and I were having whiskey in the small parlor after dinner that night.
Diane and Catherine had family in the city and were at the Grand H?tel with them.
We were rarely all present in the evenings because of work and active social lives.
We all chipped in to keep a bottle of American whiskey on hand for whoever was here and in need of company.
I sat in one of the two Louis XIV chairs and gulped down a mouthful of the fiery brown liquor.
The cleansing burn left a warm calm in its wake.
Nadine was sitting in the other chair, dressed in a nightgown and silk kimono with her red hair piled on her head. “He’s quite the charmer.”
“He’s worse than a charmer. He’s a legitimate threat. He’s got more experience than me. It’s his bosses in charge now. And I can’t see them keeping both of us.”
“Are you sure? Culture pages are popular. And maybe it’s too early to tell.
” Charlotte was perched on the settee. She was more reserved than the rest of the housemates, but she was cute also.
Her prim manner and the way she’d added whiskey to her cup of tea.
She was a working-class girl from the provinces who happened to get lucky and get a story published in Le Figaro .
It wasn’t even a true story. But it was one of those career-making publications that had all of Paris talking even before she got to town.
It was hard not to like her, even though I was a little jealous of what looked like good fortune instead of hard work or earning it.
“I don’t know anything for sure,” I said. “But it feels naive to believe it’s not my job or his.”
“He’s handsome, too,” Nadine said breathily.
I took another satisfying gulp of my drink.
“Oh, he’s handsome all right. In a dirty, villainous sort of way.
Like it should be criminal to be that good-looking and that despicable at the same time.
It shouldn’t be allowed. And there’s a smugness to his face that I both can’t stand and can’t help but look at. Do you know what I mean?”
“Oh, for sure.”
“And he’s such a good writer that I can’t stand it.
I’m jealous; I know that’s all it is. But it’s all-consuming.
Sometimes, when I read his stories, I can’t get the words out of my head.
Like his little turns of phrase keep coming back to my mind, pestering me constantly.
When I see him, like today outside work, my skin literally burns.
Like his presence stirs me in this sickening way.
I absolutely can’t stand him. It’s like he’s so perfect I want to kill him. ”
“Oh, that sounds quite terrible,” Charlotte said in a sarcastic tone. “It sounds like you don’t really want to kill him, but something else.
“What could it be?” Nadine tapped her chin mischievously.
“Well,” I said, shocked when I realized what they were suggesting. It was unthinkable to consider Benoit Levin in a romantic or even friendly way. “This is not like that at all. You’ve misunderstood me. I actually hate him. With a deep passion.”
“Yes, I can see it’s all very passionate.”
“Stop, Nadine, or I might lose my dinner.”
“I can’t help it, Vanessa, darling.” Nadine raised her glass with a kimono-fluttering flourish. “It sounds a lot like attraction to me.”
The idea made me want to burst into flames.
It was uncomfortable. But what was even more uncomfortable was that they’d suggest such a bizarre idea in the first place.
How outrageous! There was no way the intense reaction and swirl of feelings I had about Benoit Levin were anything but negative.
Very negative. The very opposite of romantic.
Existing on a completely different emotional planet.
“It’s not funny at all. I could lose my job to him.
My job that I love. He makes me redundant. ”
“Ooh la la,” cooed Nadine. “Redundant and aroused.”
She cackled with glee, and I threw one of Madame’s embroidered pillows at her. “It’s not funny.”
It would have been funny if we’d been talking about anyone but Benoit Levin.
“I know, dear. I’m sorry. It’s the booze.
” Nadine straightened up, thankfully. “You have to be vigilant in a situation like that. You never know what will happen. You have to fight until the battle’s truly lost because he might break his leg in the next practice.
Or whatever the journalist equivalent is of a career-ending injury. ”
“Oh!” Charlotte raised a finger. “He could sprain his wrist and not be able to type.”
“Or maybe suffer a brain-wiping fever.”
“Many handsome and popular men do have syphilis, you know.” Charlotte delivered this suggestion with such seriousness that both Nadine’s and my mouths dropped open.
Then we looked at each other and said at the same time, “He’s probably got it.”
I laughed so hard that my eyes filled with tears. All three of us did. By the time I was pulling myself together, my ribs ached.
“I desperately needed that laugh,” I said.
“Oh, me too,” Charlotte said.
“Is someone coming?” Nadine cocked her head toward the door. There were footfalls on the stairs. I was wiping my tears when Diane came in.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” Nadine said to her, blotting her eyes with a corner of her silky sleeve.
“I’ve had a horrible evening, ladies.” Diane sprawled on the open half of the settee and sighed. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
“Tell us all about it. We’re always up for a tale of woe.” Charlotte raised the bottle in Diane’s direction. “Care for a drink?”
“That does sound good,” Diane said. She and her sister Catherine were wealthy Americans who’d come to Paris for a season and then decided not to leave.
They sent their maid back home to tell their father, who promptly cut off all their money.
Now both Catherine and Diane had jobs. The sisters shared that very American wild-at-heart quality, but Diane was the more flamboyant of the two.
I passed an empty tumbler from the hutch behind me. Charlotte poured two fingers and then passed the drink. She splashed some into her tea cup before setting the bottle down.
“And did you lose your sister along the way?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m starting to wonder if that wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Diane said. “Can you ladies keep a secret?”
We all three spoke at once.
“No!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Well,” Diane laughed. “Try this time.”
Then she explained this complicated story about pretending to be engaged to one of Charlotte’s aristocrat’s friends that culminated in an explosive dinner at the Grand H?tel where her family revealed that she was engaged to a boy back at home.
When Diane finished, she sighed again. “I don’t know what to do now.”
Charlotte, whose mouth had dropped open and hung there through the duration of Diane’s story, held up her hand as soon as Diane stopped talking. “I have so many questions, Diane, about all of this. But the most pressing one is: does Madame Tremblay know you had a man in the house?”
“Not that I know of.” Diane’s eyes went wide in amazement at her own brazenness. “And I walked him out in broad daylight.”
Madame had a strict policy against overnight guests in the pension.
Definitely no men. Sneaking a man into the house undetected was remarkable, considering it sounded like she was quite drunk at the time.
Diane was stupid for even risking it. But I squealed along with everyone, and briefly felt the mild sense of relief that comes from sharing our trials and tribulations with friends.
Charlotte was right. I needed to focus on my work, not the possibility of losing my job. I was used to hard work and struggle. I could be ruthless when I needed to be. I was an excellent reporter. Culture was one of our most popular sections, and I had earned my place. No need to panic yet.
When I arrived at the L’Entreprise building the next day, the changes had already begun.
The vast bank building felt fuller and less spacious than it had always been.
There were filing cabinets and desks haphazardly set in places where they didn’t belong.
Unfamiliar faces mixed uncomfortably with the familiar ones.
Usually I was the first reporter to arrive.
The others—all men, though that would change now too—didn’t show up until three or four.
Some of them had typewriters at home. Others had wives who did their writing for them or with them, and so they did it discreetly before coming in. Now there were new people everywhere.
In particular, the desk where I always sat was occupied.
I walked towards it, gut sinking with every step as the realization dawned.
Broad shoulders in shirtsleeves, a dark blue jacket slung over the back of the chair.
Hair short and tidy and smoothed into place.
Neck I wanted to wring. It was him. Sitting in my desk, typing away.
It wasn’t really my desk; the pen was a shared space.
Anyone who had work to do and needed somewhere to do it could grab any open seat.
But we always had enough desks that no one else ever sat in the place I liked.
Now here he was, moving in on my position and my desk. I couldn’t let him get away with this.
A dangerously handsome sort. That was exactly what I thought as I crossed the room to him.
Dangerously handsome. I ignored the frisson of delight at knowing his backside was in the chair mine knew so well.
That tickling fizz of seeing his hands on my typewriter keys, which was ridiculous of me.
He was invading my space even if he was lovely.
So if there were any flutters, I crumpled them up and stuffed them into the fire of my contempt.
I marched to the front of the desk to face him, crossing my arms and squaring my stance.