Chapter Twelve
As we climbed the stairs to our rooms, Benoit’s hand found mine.
A lightness enveloped me, like I was floating up the stairs instead of walking.
Although he could have, he didn’t press me up against the wall in the stairwell for a kiss.
And when we reached my door, he didn’t ask to come inside.
I was mildly disappointed, but also relieved.
There existed between us at this point a tacit agreement.
He kissed me quickly, once on each cheek, and then he walked away.
I was in my room and closing my door before he reached his own.
I wrote to Charlotte, completing a bad draft and then revising it to something that felt authentic and caring and humble.
Then I wrote to Nadine, explaining my latest personal revelations about being hard on myself and others.
There was a reason I was distant. My whole life had prevented me from getting close.
I wanted to be better, and I needed these women in my life.
Then I bathed and scrubbed and moisturized every inch of myself. And I dressed like a woman who was going to be undressed by a man later. With attention to detail and enhancing the experience. I pinned up my hair, and it was time for dinner.
When I stepped out into the hall, Benoit was also coming out of his room.
This happened often with him two doors down.
He smiled and took me in. I was wearing one of my regular gray ensembles, dressed up for the dinner hour with earrings and the bodice instead of a blouse. It was nice to be taken in by him.
All of my arguments against this man had fallen away.
Our job situation was so unpredictable, that whether I slept with him or not, it was going to be professionally uncomfortable for the foreseeable future.
We were so far away from home that nothing really mattered.
He also was very kind and smart; his personality was appealing when I stopped actively hating him.
His physical presence stoked a reaction in me that was not at all unpleasant.
And I was quite certain I would enjoy him. That we could enjoy each other.
I was ready. Because that’s what this ultimately was about.
Whatever this attraction was between us, I could no longer ignore it or pretend to hate it.
I needed to confront it head on. One night of seeing where it went, and he’d be out of my system for good.
It was my only chance to get my life back. And then it would be done.
My last remaining hesitation was that he’d hijack my brain. But he’d already done that, hadn’t he? A while ago. I hadn’t been able to think straight since he walked into the office that first day the paper was sold. I was already a goner. The only way forward was to, as he said, see what happened.
He was dressed in his dinner jacket with a flower from one of the hotel bouquets pinned to his lapel, and his eyes sparkled as he took me in. My breath rushed out of me and my whole body flickered on in his gaze.
Before reaching me, he smiled slyly and then stopped and knocked on Apolline’s door.
Walking down for dinner together had also become part of our routine.
We eyed each other while we waited outside her door.
He looked handsome as always, and he seemed to appreciate my toilette as well, though we didn’t speak.
Then Apolline opened the door and joined us, chattering away about how hungry she was and how many pictures she’d gotten that day.
Making her pictures required a process of light and fixative that could only be performed with the right conditions and equipment.
She had no idea yet what any of her photographs would look like because the only place in France that could process the film was back in Paris.
All her work was a mystery until some time in the future.
Apolline loved to talk about it. She’d been hoping for a processing lab at the paper, but the editor she’d been talking to about it left two days after the takeover.
Downstairs, we parted ways so I could post my letters at the front desk, and then I met them again in the dining room. When I arrived at the table, Benoit was saying, “It’s a capitalist endeavor as well as a democratic institution.”
“Oh, not this again,” I said, and they both looked up at me.
They had been rolling over the same discussion of ethics in journalism for the past several days.
Apolline, I’d gathered, liked the American approach to the newspaper business.
Undercover investigations, exposés, and sensationalism drove American papers.
We had much the same in France, and Benoit loved to point out that our readers also liked reading about grisly murder scenes and heinous crimes.
They liked stories. But France, more than America and Britain, had a deeper legacy of speaking truth to power.
He’d mention Zola soon if he hadn’t already.
Benoit’s take, always, was that the work held some responsibility to prop up democracy, inform the masses, and hold government accountable.
“We can’t help ourselves,” Apolline said. “Shop talk.”
They carried on while I half-listened. I ate my ratatouille and chicken, which was herby and similar to what we’d had every night so far.
The whole time, Benoit’s carnivorous gaze was on me.
He didn’t touch me or neglect Apolline in conversation, but his subtle attention and awareness consumed me. I drank three glasses of wine.
When the server came to clear our plates and offer coffee, Apolline declined. “None for me, thank you. I believe I’m ready to go up.”
“No coffee, Apolline?” Benoit said when the server departed. “This is early even for you.”
“I know. But I had a lot of sun today.” Apolline moved her napkin from her lap to the table. “You two enjoy yourselves.”
We said good night in turn, and off she went.
“And so it’s just us,” Benoit said as the server returned with our coffees.
“And so it is.” The server placed a delicate cup and saucer in front of me.
He served another to Benoit and left a tiny silver pitcher of milk on the table between us.
Then he was gone again. My mouth had become so dry.
I stirred a spoonful of milk into my cup, but then the spoon slipped from my fingers and clattered when it hit the saucer and landed on the table.
“Are you nervous?”
Although it didn’t feel terribly different from any other time I was alone with him—internal fluttering and sweaty palms and scrambled thoughts—I was nervous. Not that I could ever admit it. “About what?”
“Anything.”
“I’m not nervous, exactly. But I’m not exactly not nervous either. You are quite the seducer.”
“This isn’t something I do often, you know.”
“Oh, really? That makes me special?”
“We already knew you were that.” Benoit reached across the table and took my hand.
“But I mean it. This isn’t something I do.
I meant it when I told you that I’ve been interested since I first saw you.
I’ve come to like you very much, Vanessa.
Working with you has been a pleasant surprise, even if you can’t say the same about me. ”
Hearing him say these things was a little like drowning.
I didn’t want to think about feelings. Or what it meant if he had feelings for me.
I didn’t want to examine how I felt about him for one second longer.
I just wanted to get on with it. If this whole trip had been the clunkiest, most fitful foreplay ever, then I was ready to get to the main event.
“You know, I believe I’m finished with my coffee. And if you want to see this through, then I suggest you come with me now.”
His jaw ticked. I’d baffled him. But that was entirely enough smooth words and seduction. It was time for action. To emphasize my point, I stood and stepped away from the table to leave. For the briefest moment, I feared that he’d changed his mind and wouldn’t get up. But then he did.
We crossed the dining room and lobby with purposeful strides, heading straight for the stairs.
There was a gentleman coming down as we started our ascent.
Benoit followed me a stair or two behind.
When we were alone, passing the landing on the second floor, I looked over my shoulder at him.
His face was serious, maybe even nervous.
When he noticed me, his serious mask cracked into a wickedly handsome smile. “I feel like I’m chasing you.”
I laughed and paused a few stairs from our floor. I leaned on the rail as he stepped up to my level. “Now you’ve caught me.”
“I have.” He leaned into me and kissed me. This time there was no question, only certainty.
I put my hands on his lapels and gripped the fabric. Our mouths, searching each other more frantically with every passing second, said everything that needed to be said.
We were both breathing heavy when he broke away and leaned his forehead on mine. “I want you to come back to my room. Or take me to yours. Whichever you prefer. If you prefer it.”
I did very much prefer that we continue, but I hadn’t considered location at all.
Because of work, we’d been in and out of each other’s rooms a handful of times already.
Admittedly, I had imagined lying with him on various surfaces.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted him spending that much time in my room, exposing myself in this intimate way even if we were about to be intimate in other ways. “Your room.”
He nodded and stepped ahead of me. “Right this way.”
Our hall was thankfully empty and the thin rug down the center muffled our steps for the most part.
He had his door open in no time. Inside, he closed the door and lit the lamp on his desk.
Papers were scattered here and there, newspapers and typed manuscript pages in various states of editing and finalizing. His room was nearly identical to mine.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”