Chapter Thirteen #2
When I joined Apolline at breakfast, before I was even seated, she told me that Benoit was on his way back to Paris. “He got a message late last night and had to go home.”
“What? He didn’t tell me.”
“I bumped into him when he was on his way out this morning and told him I’d pass the word along.
” Apolline spooned jam onto her slice of baguette, oblivious that her news had hit me like a punch.
She was wearing her linen suit, this time with a crisp white shirt.
“He was in a hurry to catch the first train. He should be getting on it now.”
“Did he tell you what happened?”
“His mother fell, it sounds like. He wasn’t sure how bad it was yet.”
“It wasn’t for work?” Sadly suspicion was always my first reaction. But that’s how I kept myself from heartbreak: by pretending I didn’t have one. “Or because he’s mad at me?”
“No.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Believe him?”
“Yes. Do you think his mother really fell?”
Apolline recoiled. “You think he lied to me about something like that?”
“No. I guess not. But he’d been trying to talk to me about work.
And supposedly our editor is leaving soon.
” Even as I explained this to Apolline, the problem sounded thinly contrived.
“I’m just saying that, if he was called back for work, it could be that something’s happened. A big decision has been made.”
“I don’t think so. He said his mother fell, and I believe him.”
“I suppose I do too.” I unfolded my napkin and placed it in my lap. Then I swirled milk into my coffee. When I looked up, Apolline was gaping at me. “What?”
“I thought you liked him?”
“You did?” We’d not acknowledged our affair in front of Apolline. “What gave you that idea?”
“Are you mad, dear? It’s obvious. You two are always bickering in that flirtatious way.” Apolline straightened her shoulders. “Plus he told me you’d been spending time together.”
“Oh, did he?”
“He did. Not details or anything. He was asking for advice.”
“Advice about what?” My words came out sharp. I was surprised that Benoit had spoken to Apolline—anyone—about me or us. That anyone could know.
“What to do when you like someone and she doesn’t like you back.”
My mouth fell open. “And what did you say?”
“That it was obvious you liked him back.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, it is too.” She pursed her mouth. “And now I have an even clearer view of the problem.”
“And what problem is that?”
“That you’re unable or unwilling to admit how you really feel.”
It was impossible that Apolline had cracked the code on me. And yet she had summed it up quite neatly. “So you think I’ve pushed him away?”
“No. I don’t know what happened. Did you push him away?”
Had I? I had. But what I didn’t understand, at least not yet, was why. “I have to work with him. That makes things difficult.”
“You’re right. It does. But for some people, work isn’t everything.” Apolline bit into her baguette.
“It feels so risky. Letting myself hope for anything but work. I guess because I can control it a little better.”
“My dear, have you learned nothing in the past few weeks?” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Our stable workplace was disrupted because some man with too much money decided he wanted to buy it. Nothing is under our control. Nothing. Not really. No one knows for sure what’s going to happen.”
“I never would have predicted that I’d be engaged in any sort of non-work dealings with him. Of all people.”
“I don’t see why not. Sure, a man from work is never ideal. But no job is permanent. That may be difficult for you to understand because you’re young. I’ve worked for four different publications in twenty years.”
“What about long marriages? You have one of those.”
“I do. Because we choose each other over and over. No newspaper will do that for long. They get rid of you as soon as you’re too expensive. What’s important to me is having someone along, no matter what the world dishes out. It’s better that way.”
“It doesn’t exactly sound romantic.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “But it still is.”
We finished our breakfast, but before leaving the table, Apolline said, “You know, if he does get this editor’s position over you, I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re an ambitious woman. And I don’t want you to take what I’m saying the wrong way.
But you may have had a chance before we were bought.
Now, though, if it’s between you and Benoit, and his lot are making the decisions?
” Apolline shrugged. “Then you might be wasting your time wanting something you don’t have a shot at getting. Not only is he a man, he’s their man.”
“I appreciate your candor, Apolline.”
“Something to consider.”
So it was just me and Apolline for the next two days.
The last story I was working on was about the Grand H?tel, which had been written about a thousand ways already by every publication in Paris.
And it was grand, to say the least, stretching along the shore like a seaside Versailles.
The lobby was draped in burgundy curtains and a dazzling crystal chandelier hung in the center.
Every night, the dining room waslike the Paris social scene relocated.
But a diplomat who kept a place outside of town held weekly gatherings that thinned the hotel crowd on those nights.
I visited the hotel twice before I found a unique story to tell about the place: I followed their main attraction stage performer through the course of her regular day and wrote a profile about her.
She was a singer from a hamlet outside of Lyon who was passing through on a tour that would take her to London and eventually Oslo.
Apolline and I followed the same routine as we had been, except without Benoit.
He didn’t show up at breakfast or knock on my door before dinner.
He was never there in the hallway. I didn’t bump into him in the hotel lobby or pass him on the street when we were out working.
An older couple moved into what had been his room.
My swims in the ocean were less invigorating.
My work felt less interesting, less sharp.
Apolline and I didn’t talk through our stories or bounce ideas off each other.
He was gone, and everything about the trip dimmed.
Though I did get to know Apolline quite well.
“I believe my daughter is a lesbian,” she announced over dinner on the last night at the hotel. Now that it was just the two of us, we were seated at a smaller table by the bar. We couldn’t see the pianist anymore because of a large potted palm tree, but he was playing something tinkling and soft.
“What makes you say that?”
“My husband caught her with the neighbor’s maid. He’s been absolutely beside himself about it. That and she says she’ll never marry; been saying that for years.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Worried, mostly. I fear she’ll suffer greatly for it.”
“So, and this is a selfish question perhaps. But why did you suggest introducing her to Benoit? Why did you talk about how marriageable she is?”
“Just because she’s a lesbian doesn't mean she isn’t marriageable.”
“Well, no, I suppose not.”
“And she’s like all women. If she isn’t in a good marriage to a decent man, then who will keep her safe?”
“Can’t she keep herself safe?”
“I suppose she could. But she would have to be in the right position. I don’t think she’s cut out for journalism, and I’ve done everything I can to teach her to draw without it catching on in any professional way. But she’d be a wonderful mother.”
The server came and cleared our dinner plates. He offered coffee, and we accepted.
“At first, I admit, I thought you might be a lesbian,” Apolline said when he’d gone.
I laughed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you disliked Benoit so much that I thought for sure you had to be one of those girls who isn’t interested in men at all.”
“I’m not a lesbian, Apolline. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m not.”
“Well, I know that now. After a few days it was pretty obvious that you felt the opposite of how you let on about Monsieur Levin.”
“What exactly was obvious?”
“My dear, I’ve never seen a pair of idiots more in love than you two.”
Love?! I was surely not in love. I definitely couldn’t fall in love with him.
Because falling in love meant getting married and having children and family responsibilities in the best case, and constant heartbreak in the worst. Even if people agreed not to have children, children still had a way of coming.
After the way we’d carried on for those handful of days, I could have been pregnant already.
I would have to stop working—the only thing I’ve ever really, truly loved and excelled at—to take care of his children.
Our children, but still. Maybe it was different when you fell in love.
Maybe, when you fell in love, it didn’t feel like you were giving anything up. Which was why I never wanted to do it.
What Apolline probably didn’t understand was that people are unreliable.
They are selfish and cruel. They move on from things.
They put people in bad positions, often unintentionally.
And even the best people, the ones who love us, have to go.
They die. Or they get sick. Or they get pulled away from us for this or that reason.
Or they stop talking to you as soon as you aren’t perfect.
I could not attach myself to anyone. No one ever really belonged to me, could ever be fully relied upon.
My parents, who’d loved me completely, left me.
If I fell in love with him, I would lose myself and everything I worked for.
I couldn’t let myself do that. It would ruin me.
But I did miss him. Unfortunately, even in his absence, I had plenty of time to think about Benoit.
I thought about everything, replaying our intimacies, our conversations.
Longing might be a more appropriate description than missing.
A mundane pallor fell over the hotel and the town and even the beach.
The sunsets were less colorful. The tufts of clouds less striking.
Even Apolline wasn’t as enthusiastic about much without Benoit’s invigorating presence.
Though I will admit that the train ride home went much smoother without him.
I missed him so much that I was beginning to wonder if Apolline was right.
That no matter how much I didn’t want to fall in love, it was too late. Maybe I already had.