Chapter 11 #2
‘It’s incredible, Florian.’ I turn to him with a nod of approval.
He is standing back from me now, wearing a pair of tweed trousers and a crisp white shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top.
His hands are in his pockets and his hair is gelled back; he looks relaxed, more at home here than I could have ever imagined.
Gone is the uncomfortable man I met at the bar the other night, he doesn’t have to apologise here.
‘I’m glad you two could come,’ he says sincerely and The American swaps the statue’s arm for Florian’s.
‘It’s remarkable.’ She kisses his cheeks. ‘What a talent you are.’
‘Well, it’s nice to take it to people who appreciate it.’ He nods at the room. ‘It’s a big turnout this year, buzzier than usual.’
The American tuts at him, sucking in her teeth. ‘You should be in Paris! Not here.’
He shakes his head, sticks out his tongue a little. It makes him look like a kid. ‘There are enough artists in Paris. I’ll take my chances here.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ another voice choruses into our conversation, a voice that immediately makes my stomach drop and a clammy heat spread across my chest. I keep my eyes on the ground and hope that if I don’t move, I might just disappear. ‘My son is a very talented man.’
‘Mama, I didn’t think you were…’ Florian gabbles, but she hushes him and continues talking to The American.
‘He’s always had an eye for detail.’
‘And patience I imagine,’ The American chimes in. I wonder if she remembers the conversation the other day in the hotel, whether if she just keeps her talking then I can sneak away.
‘Of course… you know it’s funny, he’s always been a very thoughtful, methodical boy, not like his brother, God rest his soul, he was always in such a rush.
’ I feel myself stiffen at the mention of Ettie, I try to make my exit but as I cut through the little crowd someone steps in front of me, we collide, a glass shatters on the floor.
Someone yelps from the noise. I look up, and my cover is blown.
She knows it’s me as soon as our eyes meet.
I wonder if there was ever any use in pretending I wasn’t here.
She doesn’t look shocked; she probably saw me walking around, come to terms with the fact her estranged daughter-in-law is roaming her remaining son’s exhibition.
‘Ava!’ There is venom in her expression, a sort of fixed cabin-crew smile that hides a multitude of poisonous intentions.
‘Maxine.’ I sort of bob in her direction. This is as far as our familiarity goes. She was Maxine to her face, Madame Grenaud when Ettie and I were alone and ready to trade barbs.
‘I did not know you were back.’ Whilst her sons had learned to soften their accent when speaking English, Madame Grenaud had not; she wanted to put as much distance between her and ‘my sort’ as humanly possible.
‘It’s not for long, flying visit.’ I look to Florian who is paler than he was a few minutes earlier.
The American is looking anxiously from one face to the other.
Even if she doesn’t remember, she is picking up on an atmosphere that feels as thick and heavy as soup.
I hope that maybe she might fake a faint, distract the crowds so that I can run, but she looks frustratingly stable.
‘You knew she was here?’ Madame Grenaud directs the question at Florian who practically gulps.
‘We met the other day in town.’
I try to assess Madame Grenaud’s expression for any signs of irritation but she stays remarkably unmoved. ‘How lovely, a reunion.’
‘Yes, a bit.’ I nod, hoping that if I stick to simple answers, don’t overcomplicate anything, then I might be allowed to walk free without too much of an altercation.
‘And how special that you’re here to see him.’ She looks up at the statue and I feel a strange affinity to the poor subject: there he is, trying in vain to escape his rocky prison, and here I am, desperately attempting to claw my way out of this social interaction.
‘Yes, it’s really something.’
‘Well surely you see the resemblance, don’t you?’ Madame Grenaud persists, her expression sharpening slightly. It is an almost indistinguishable change but when you’d spent a few awkward dinners at her mercy, you learned to prepare yourself for the blows.
‘The resemblance?’ Florian interrupts, looking equally bewildered; it is pretty hard to resemble anyone when you’re a faceless man.
‘Of course, my love, well clearly it’s our Etienne.
’ I notice how she directs the inclusion of ‘our’ to the two of them.
‘The hair, the posture, the metaphor, he would have loved it.’ She reaches out to Florian who is stunned into inaction; her hands cradle his face and she plants two kisses on his cheeks.
I could stay, wait for the next blow that she’ll have been saving up since she last saw me; it would be the polite, English thing to do, but I don’t have much patience for politeness any more. Instead, I turn, walk towards an emergency exit door whilst Florian tries to wrestle himself free.
The exit leads on to a turret which feels suitably grand as an escape option. I perch on the wall, fumbling around in my bag for a cigarette, until it’s there, in my mouth, and I can breathe in the bitterness away from everyone else.
I think of Ettie in a way I haven’t for a while, as a figure that is tangible, here, next to me, laughing at the situation.
He would think it’s all hilarious; he always had a way of making his mother look so ridiculous that it became a competition to get her to say the most outrageous thing so that we would have something to talk about in bed later.
‘There you are.’ The silence is broken by a sheepish-looking Florian, emerging through the door.
‘Here I am.’
‘I didn’t think she was going to come, she never replied to my messages. I would have warned you…’
‘You don’t have to warn me, she should be here. I’m sure I’m just as much of a shock to her.’
‘You don’t have to be so nice about it. I know she’s difficult.
’ He perches next to me, gestures for the cigarette and I pass it to him.
It’s funny, the familiarity we’ve slipped into now that we have something else to focus on other than the chasm between us.
The night at the market had made things easier; it was as if he was an entirely different person to the man I had known before.
‘She’s your mother, I know better than to agree with that.’
‘She’s been making an effort recently.’
‘Good,’ I smile. ‘I’m happy for you.’ Age must have done a number on me because I genuinely am happy for him. I want her to be better, to at least form some semblance of a functioning relationship with one of her sons. It’s what Ettie would have wanted too.
‘I know she made life hard for you,’ he says to his shoes.
‘It’s fair to say I was never her dream daughter-in-law.’
He passes the cigarette back to me, and I take the last few drags before it fizzles into a tasteless blur. ‘Her dream daughter-in-law doesn’t exist, because no one would ever be good enough for Ettie, let alone…’
‘Go on… say it,’ I tease, ‘an English girl.’ I put on a sultry French accent and pout in his direction.
‘I was going to say someone who made Ettie so happy that his entire life’s dream was to just exist with them in that café.’
I catch his eye briefly, nod slowly at quite how lovely that was to hear. I had wondered whether he shared his mother’s views, that I was something just holding Ettie back from greatness, but clearly I had misread that. Florian and Ettie had similar values when it came to career plans.
‘I’m going to get my passenger and make a quick exit.’ I stub out my cigarette and shake the ash off my trousers.
‘Don’t go,’ he pleads. ‘It gets more fun, I promise. She won’t stick around for long.’ He looks almost sad that the night has panned out like this.
‘You’re very kind, but you don’t need your ex-sister-in-law cramping your style.’ He smirks but doesn’t correct me.
‘Sunday then?’ he says quickly. So quickly that at first I think he’s speaking French.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s this community gardening project. We meet at ten in the car park.’
‘Gardening?’ It comes out as a half-laugh.
‘Yeah.’ He pushes himself off of the stone wall and then gestures to his outfit. ‘Do I not look like the type?’
‘I’m more surprised that you think I do!’ Although, the thought of him in gardening gloves and a sunhat does feel misplaced. I wonder if Ettie could have ever imagined his renegade little brother engaging in something quite so mundane.
‘It’s an excuse for a gathering. We do some weeding, plant up a couple of things and then there’s a lunch at the Salle des Fêtes after. It’s fun, quite social. I thought it might be good for you. Unless you have plans?’
I think of my incredibly empty schedule and consider making up an excuse but there isn’t much point. He’s probably guessed that if my only companionship in this place is with a bunch of geriatrics then I can’t really turn down the opportunity for some social contact.
‘Fine.’ I shrug.
‘You’ll come?’
‘What have I got to lose?’
‘A nail at worst.’
‘The car park, Sunday at ten.’ I nod at him, confirmation that I intend to stick to my word.
I am halfway through the door when he calls to my back, ‘It’s not him you know. The sculpture. It’s not Ettie.’
‘Oh I know,’ I nod reassuringly. ‘It’s you.’ And I leave him to his turret.