Chapter 21
Outside the clouds of earlier had ganged up and were now producing an insistent drizzle.
‘Wait here,’ Tomas said, ducking back through the hotel door.
I stood under the canopy, gazing out onto the rainy Paris street.
Unlike at home where I’d have rolled my eyes at another damp day, here I stood and watched and saw nothing but beauty.
I knew from experience that that wouldn’t last. The weather in Paris wasn’t all that much different from home and once the initial shine wore off, it could be just as annoying if you had plans.
Or the hairdressers. But now, in this moment, it was beautiful.
The pavements, glossy with rain creating an Impressionistic version of the view above, the colours melting and indistinct.
‘Here we are.’ Tomas appeared beside me and I jumped. ‘Pardon.’ His hand rested on my arm for a moment. ‘You were miles away?’
‘No. Right here, actually. I’d forgotten how beautiful it could be.’
He opened the large umbrella, offered me his arm, ensuring I was sheltered, and we stepped out into the rain.
‘It’s hard to believe you haven’t been back in all this time.’
I gave a small, thoughtful sigh. ‘At first I didn’t want to…’
He nodded but remained silent.
‘And then, well… I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by coming here.’
‘And yet here you are.’
‘Ashok suggested it might be a good idea.’
‘You are close.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘And yet you’ve not known him long.’
‘Is it a requisite of friendship to have known someone for a certain length of time?’
‘Of course not. That’s not what I meant.’
‘If you’re concerned about Gabby, don’t be. I’d trust him with my life.’
‘That’s a strong statement.’
‘We have a strong friendship.’
‘So I see. And no, I’m not worried about Gabby.’ He paused. ‘Frankly, I’m more inclined to be worried about Ashok. He might not know what’s hit him.’
Tomas had a point but it made me smile. ‘I’m pretty sure he can look after himself.’
We walked on a little further in silence that was, if not quite companionable, less awkward than I’d expected.
‘Clearly he knows the history you have with Paris.’
‘He does.’
‘I’m a little surprised he spoke to me at all then.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll bitch about you later.’
His laugh was as warm as I’d remembered, wrapping around me as we huddled close under the umbrella.
‘It was all a long time ago, Tomas. We’ve all grown and had lives since then.
’ It was easier to say the words walking along, not looking at him.
It made it easier to avoid thinking what might have been.
‘Now I’m here, though, I realise I should have come back to Paris a long time ago but at least now I get to share it with my daughter. ’
‘Then I hope she loves it as much as her mother.’
‘Me too.’
‘The gallery is just here.’ He pointed to the next window front along, slowing as we approached. I stepped away and looked at the single large painting displayed in the window. Tomas followed, keeping the umbrella above me.
I’d have known that scene anywhere. The sparkling blue of the lake, the deep, rolling green of the trees behind and to the right, rows and rows of deep purple lavender that when you got close would be alive and humming with the sound and movement of thousands of bees.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I turned to look at him. ‘Sorry. That’s probably a very banal description of your art.’
‘I prefer that you use the words that first come to mind when you think of it.’ He paused, both of us looking at the painting. ‘You remember?’
‘Yes, Tomas,’ I replied, my eyes remaining on the image in front of me.
‘I remember.’ I could hear the tension in my tone.
Looking at the painting, I could feel the breeze on my skin, smell the heady scent of lavender in the air and remember the mixture of nerves and thrill that had raced through my body on that day.
The fact that Tomas thought I’d ever forget the place I’d lost my virginity to him sparked a flash of anger in me.
I squashed it back down and gave myself a mental kick. What did any of it matter now?
‘I apologise.’
‘Don’t be silly. I shouldn’t have snapped,’ I replied, pasting on a smile. ‘I’d blame it on jet lag but I don’t think a few hours on the Eurostar qualifies.’
Tomas flicked his own brief smile back. ‘Shall we go in?’
The gallery was sparse-looking. Plain, white walls that wouldn’t compete with the art, a couple of uncomfortable-looking but likely extremely expensive chairs were placed opposite a marble-topped desk with gold hairpin legs.
Lights were artfully installed in order to highlight the pieces to their best advantage.
‘It doesn’t open until next week. There’s still a little tweaking to do with the set-up.’
I looked around, my mind tumbling back to halcyon days when we’d jump on a train to somewhere and spend the day together in quiet company, Tomas transferring the scene in front of us to a canvas balanced on a homemade easel he’d knocked up from some bits of wood he’d found in a skip we’d passed on the way back from a bar one night.
I’d sit or lie beside him, reading, doing coursework or just dozing in the warmth of the sun.
How simple those days had been. No Internet to drag me down rabbit holes, no social media to doom scroll as I sat beside him. Just us and nature and paint.
‘Do you want to just look around? I can wait over here.’ He pointed towards one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs.
‘Would you show me?’
His shoulders relaxed a little and his face creased into that beautiful smile once more.
‘I’d love to.’
We moved to the first painting. The warm cream walls of the Palais du Luxembourg resting stately in the background, its neutral walls acting as the perfect foil for its gardens where fiery accents of brilliant oranges and warm, rusty reds contrasted with swathes of cornflower blue, the colour of summer.
I could practically feel the sun as it warmed the stone of the building and the bare shoulders of the woman in the white sundress, bending to smell those same flowers.
Next was a riot of colour in the Parc Floral de Paris. We had loved spending days there, the colours changing with the seasons.
‘I can smell the flowers.’ I turned to him and found his eyes on me. ‘You always loved painting there.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘Like many gardens, there is always something new to see, to paint. I love their everchanging nature.’
‘Sasha told me they host jazz festivals there now.’
‘That’s right. Do you like jazz? I didn’t think you did but… it’s been a long time.’
‘It has. And no,’ I screwed up my nose, ‘not really. I mean some is OK but the freeform, to me at least, still sounds like a lot of notes just thrown in and left to get on with it.’
His laugh echoed around us. ‘I completely agree.’
I moved away from him, towards the next painting.
‘You’ve captured her so well.’
‘Thank you.’
In front of us was a large canvas of Gabby, champagne coupe in hand, bubbles clinging to the glass on the inside as condensation coated the outer.
Her head was thrown back in laugher, and her neck, long and slim, held the gold cross necklace that she had worn ever since I had known them first. It had been a christening present, ostensibly from her older brother – according to family legend, he had chosen it, declaring that only this one would do.
‘Does she like it?’
‘Yes. Thank God!’ he replied, arranging his features into an expression of overstated mock-relief.
‘I’m glad. It shows the inner joy she has.’
‘It was that I wanted to capture most. It’s easy to paint a picture of a beautiful woman, but, for me at least, there has to be more to it than that. Just as there is so much more to a beautiful woman than her looks.’
‘So enlightened.’ I threw the tease to him.
‘You know my sister well. Do you think I would ever have any choice but to be?’ He was smiling but it faded as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I’m so sorry that what happened between us caused your friendship to fail too.’
I shook my head. ‘It didn’t fail, Tomas. It was just too painful at the time.’ I didn’t want to talk about that now. Think about that now. ‘What’s next?’
We wandered together through the rest of the exhibition.
An atmospheric scene of Passage l’Homme caught my eye, the vivid greens of the early summer trees contrasting with the cobbles of the street and the antique cream stone buildings with their faded, shuttered windows.
Tomas’s paintings took me on a tour from steep steps leading to the Sacré-C?ur as it gazed from its position over the city, before plunging us deep underneath the streets of Paris to the catacombs housing the bones of around six million Parisians, before we were back above ground and into the lavender-scented air of Provence.
As we approached the very last painting, I stopped.
The last thirty years fell away and there, in front of me, was the girl that had come to Paris all those years ago, full of hopes and dreams and confidence.
The girl who had made wonderful, meaningful friendships and had loved her studies that had never felt like schoolwork, who merely studied for interest and joy.
The girl who had fallen in love with both Paris and Tomas Bertholle with her whole heart and in that moment, that exact moment captured on the canvas before me, was happy and relaxed, a gentle bronze to her unlined skin, and all of those dreams still vivid and intact.
‘I can see Sasha in her.’
‘Yes.’
The silence settled once more. I had so many thoughts, so many questions but none of them would become cohesive and stick long enough for me to utter.
‘Are these all for sale?’
‘Yes.’ Tomas repeated his one-word answer and I turned to him.
‘Aren’t you supposed to have a model release or something for this?’ That hadn’t been one of the questions zooming around my brain but it had apparently shoved its way to the front and made itself known.