Chapter Fifteen
Nadine had a number of ideas for forgetting about a man.
And she had theater tickets, so she insisted we start right away.
After dinner, she got dressed and then came to my room to help me.
Nadine said I should wear the magenta dress because if I were attracting attention, then my attention would be too busy to dwell on a past lover.
I wanted desperately to believe her, and so every time I looked down at myself, I pushed the memory of Benoit’s face and his words— you look stunning —from my mind.
Every time I put him out of my mind, I got one step closer having him gone completely.
Didn’t I? Surely, sometime soon, this would work.
We caught a cab on Avenue de Villiers. As it conveyed us to the Cartier Theater in the Latin Quarter, I told Nadine about my bathing suit and swimming in Cabourg. I left out the part about being in the water with Benoit.
The theater was a small, smoky, bohemian place with aging burgundy damask wallpaper and black beaded lanterns.
And while the operetta did distract me temporarily, it was a romantic comedy, and the happy ending brought thoughts of Benoit spiraling back to me.
Of kissing him in the ocean. Of the deeply satisfied, very pleased-with-himself look on his face after that first time together.
The sound of his pleasured groans. The feel of him in my arms.
Nadine knew several of the actors in the company, and so after the show we agreed to meet them at the café across the street.
We arrived first and had our drinks when the lively troupe of actors and musicians came pouring in about twenty minutes later.
They were scrubbed clean of stage makeup and in plainer clothes than their costumes had been.
Nadine introduced me to everyone, and any friend of Nadine’s was a friend of theirs.
It was easy to be part of their boisterous group because they all wanted the spotlight, and I could simply watch and enjoy.
Nadine and I were at the bar getting our second glasses of champagne when she put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to whisper in my ear. “My friend Henri likes you.”
“What? How do you know?” Henri and I had gotten into a conversation about cats and my missing one. He was handsome and had kind, suggestive eyes. And he liked cats.
“He told me that he thinks you’re pretty.” Nadine cocked her head to the side and raised the perfect red arches of her eyebrows. She was wearing a silver gown. Her hair comb had a long black silk flower on a wire that arched up over her pile of red hair and quivered as she nodded encouragingly.
I laughed. “I told you it’s the dress.”
“Maybe. But he’s fun. Why not talk to him?”
I ventured a look back at our table. Sure enough, he was watching me. Our eyes met; he smiled and held his tumbler of liquor aloft. I turned back to Nadine. “If he thought you were pretty, would you be talking to him?”
“Oooh, good question.” She squinted while she thought about it. “I know him better than you. And I don’t currently need the services of a man to wipe my slate clean.”
I laughed again. “I don’t need my forgetting to come with chlamydia.”
“So don’t sleep with him! Just go talk to him. Let him flirt with you.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m definitely right.”
“Fine.”
When we went back to the table, I sat next to Henri, who gave me all of his attention.
He’d played the male lead in the operetta with enthusiasm and convincing vigor.
He had a deep, room-filling singing voice.
And it was nice, especially after cataloguing all these positive attributes, to have his attention and obvious affection.
He listened to the shortened version of my career drama.
I left out the part about Benoit. And Henri asked with genuine interest what my plans were now that I had left.
When the conversation lulled, he leaned in close and said, “You look stunning in that dress.”
Something inside me squeezed. And definitely not because I was thrilled to hear these words from this actor. Did he have to say it like that, word for word? Again, I decided not to think about Benoit.
I took a fortifying gulp of my champagne and smiled and desperately tried to adopt a flirtatious air. “Tell me about being an actor, Henri. A leading man.”
He carried on about getting the role and preparing for it.
He was dressed in a burgundy dinner jacket with an elaborately tied mauve cravat.
His black silk top hat sat in front of him on the wobbly table.
Every time he moved to emphasize this or that drama in his story of being an actor, the table tipped where one leg was uneven.
I sat and listened to him. I asked questions to keep him going.
A few times I thought he’d make a good interview for a story.
If I still had a job. He would be perfect to write about.
The whole production deserved some press, in my opinion.
But none of my professional ideas really stirred me the way work used to.
It felt shallow and uninteresting, and it wasn’t enough to keep my thoughts from wandering.
A part of me wasn’t there—not at that café or even at the paper.
A dastardly part of me was still back in a hotel room in Cabourg with Benoit Levin. All the while, Henri carried on.
“They say, Vanessa, that the key to playing a romantic lead is convincing the audience to fall in love with you alongside the love interest character.”
“Is it?”
“So tell me. Did you fall in love with me a little tonight?” He looked so earnest; truly a talented actor.
“Oh, Henri, I’m not sure that I did.” It would have been much easier if I had.
He frowned so dramatically that I wondered how much of his story of himself was also an act. “Perhaps you like me enough to join me at my place after this?”
Here it was, the very thing that might actually erase the feel of Benoit’s hands on my skin. But the answer was a resounding, respectful no. He took it in stride. And Nadine and I went home.
The house was dark and quiet. We came in through the front and went straight upstairs.
“Did it work? Forgetting him?” Nadine asked before we went to our rooms.
“Maybe a little.”
I slept well that night and awoke with a renewed sense of purpose.
Instead of languishing in bed, I got dressed and went downstairs to breakfast. I was still thinking about Benoit, admittedly, but I was also dressed and ready for the day, which was proof that I was at least making some forward motion.
My mission was showing progress. My job and Benoit may have been gone, but I was moving on.
However, I wasn’t exactly sure what moving on should entail.
When she found me lingering after breakfast, Madame Tremblay asked if I wanted to help her with errands, and I jumped at the chance.
The flower market, though I rarely had reason to go, was a wonderland of blooms. Stall after stall of roses in every color, bundles of lavender and daisies, bouquets of carnations and sunflowers and hydrangeas. Perfume from each flower hung and mingled in the air.
When we came to a seller with mums in baskets like spices, Madame threw up her hands.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “The first signs of autumn. They’re so pretty. If I buy two, Vanessa dear, will you carry one?”
“Of course.”
Madame crouched down for a better look at the flowers, muttering to me and herself about which plant to choose. When she stood up, she asked what color I liked.
“The purple is my favorite.”
“I agree. We’ll take these two.” Madame furrowed her brow. “Do you mind if we come back for them?”
“I can give you an hour,” the vendor said. He was a short man with a straw hat and clean canvas apron. He smiled and chatted with Madame while she paid him. Then we were off again.
Madame was a consummate housekeeper. She liked to keep a few bouquets around the house and came to the market every week.
The fragrance was heavenly especially on a warm summer day.
And it was a pleasure being with her while she did this work she loved.
She’d been giving me a short course in flower arranging all morning.
I wished I’d brought a notebook and pencil so I could take notes for a story.
I had been playing around with the idea of pitching some pieces.
That’s what Charlotte did. She wrote fiction—short stories and serials—that she submitted, and I had begun to think I could do the same with lifestyle stories.
Benoit had talked about his experience with this, selling ideas to the news agency and specific publications.
Along with my income from my trust, I could maybe do that instead of get a job at another publication.
The freedom might be nice. It was different, but maybe doable.
My idea of success was starting to change.
Instead of being the best in the office, I could design my work around my life.
“Madame, did you always know you were meant to do what you do?”
“What do you mean?” We were perusing a stand of dahlias so perfect they seemed unreal.
“You know, keep the house, make it nice. Buy the flowers. Did you always know you wanted to do this?”
“I don’t think I did. At least not at first. My husband and I had plans to travel more, maybe live abroad. His father died, then, and we put it off to help his maman with the house. Now that she and my husband are gone too, I can’t imagine myself doing anything different. At least not anymore.”
“Why?”
“Oh, love, I suppose. I still love him too much to get rid of the place.” We moved on to a rose stand, where bushels of petals and bouquets of every color were on display.
Love. I wondered what it would be like to make a life with Benoit. How would be so different from anything I’d ever imagined. “How did you know you were in love?”