Chapter 3 #3
A waiter in a spotless white button-down shirt presents us with a croque monsieur the size of my head.
A sandwich is never just a sandwich in France, but this one is especially beautiful.
It’s massive, with thick, bubbling Gruyère and Comté cheese, browned at the edges and still melting in the middle.
Pink ham spills out of the sides along with more cheese collecting in small pools on the edges of the plate.
Without thinking, I run my index finger through it and sigh with pleasure when I put it in my mouth.
This elicits a wide smile from Matthew. Next to the croque there is a platter of finely cut french fries stacked a half a foot high and thin slivers of lightly seared steak.
The smells of meat, salt, garlic, cheese, and butter make my mouth water nearly as much as the proximity of Matthew’s thigh to my own beneath the table.
Our legs keep brushing against one another, something I thought was an accident at first, and now I’m not so sure.
“You really pretended there was no menu when you ordered the two most basic French dishes,” I tease.
“There’s nothing basic about the food here. Trust me. And besides, he won’t make a croque like this for just anybody. Only the best customers.”
The explosion of tastes in my mouth makes my head spin slightly. It’s the butter. So much perfect French butter on absolutely everything.
“What is your favorite piece of art, Emma?” Matthew asks between bites. We both eat off all the plates, reaching across one another as if we’ve done this a dozen times.
I want my answer to impress him.
“Tamara de Lempicka’s La Dormeuse.” A bold hyperrealistic portrait of a femme fatale in repose. She’s brash, sensual, and dangerous. She’s everything I’ve always wanted to be, both the woman in the painting and Tamara de Lempicka herself, though I’m sure few have ever heard of her.
“Obscure. But I like it. You know it recently sold at auction. The most ever paid for a painting by a female artist,” Matthew remarks approvingly.
“Do you think about all paintings in terms of money?”
“Of course.”
“I wish we didn’t have to assign monetary value to art at all.”
“That ship has sailed. We no longer have a choice in the matter. Art is money and money is art.”
I hate this, but I also know it too well.
Surviving as an artist, especially as a woman, feels impossible most of the time unless you marry well or hit the fame jackpot.
“It sold for two million dollars, right? I read about it in the paper. And still, that’s a fraction of what has been paid for the paintings by dead men,” I scoff.
I saw La Dormeuse when I first arrived in Paris.
It was featured in a private showing that Pascal brought me to in the grandiose apartment of one of his collector friends.
Maybe Matthew was there, or even Stella.
At the time I was just giddy to be a part of that world.
La Dormeuse was being paraded around the salons of the very wealthy, leading up to her eventual auction.
It was Pascal who told me Tamara de Lempicka’s story.
The Russian Revolution forced her to flee to Paris, where she reinvented herself as an artist to support her family.
She embraced the new art deco styles and bucked all the conventions of a female artist. She broke the rules of both cubism and neoclassicism with intention and elegance, mostly painting strong, stylized women not as passive muses but as commanding presences challenging the male gaze of traditional portraiture.
“It was a coup! Two million for a relatively unknown artist, mostly famous because she was beloved by an American pop star,” Matthew explains. “Madge is obsessed with it.”
I too have heard the rumor that Madonna covets de Lempicka’s art, but I let him go on. He clearly loves talking about money.
“But you aren’t wrong. It was a small fraction of what we pay for male artists.
I believe the most expensive sale of all time remains Vincent van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet for about eighty million dollars.
Though I don’t know if I could continue enjoying this meal if you’d said your favorite painting was something as pedestrian as Starry Night.
What do you love about it? La Dormeuse.”
So many things. I love that the woman looks powerful, even in a state of rest. I love that she’s sensual but not at all submissive.
“It makes me feel all the things,” I say instead.
“I have it on good authority that the collector who purchased it will be loaning it to the Louvre for a show soon. Have you been?”
“To the Louvre?” I purposely pronounce it incorrectly.
Loov-rah! Then I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You do know that as an American visitor you’re not actually allowed to stay in the country unless you visit the Louvre within two months of arriving.
The secret Parisian police will find you and drive you to Charles de Gaulle themselves. ”
Matthew’s chuckle is validating. In the beginning, Pascal pretended to enjoy my sarcasm.
He pretended to adore every single thing about me, told me I was brilliant and witty.
But eventually my jokes wore on him and he just cocked his head and stared at me with concern when I said anything he deemed off-color.
“I could give you a private tour of the Louvre, perhaps check and see if La Dormeuse has arrived.”
“Oh, you work at the Louvre?” I ask sarcastically.
“The Swansons have special access. We can go when there aren’t hordes of tourists.”
“That might be nice.” The wine is now making me sleepy and also making me believe that I deserve to wander through the halls of the world’s greatest art museum with a handsome billionaire.
I let my leg willingly drift closer to Matthew’s until our thighs are firmly connected beneath the table. I’m now actively wondering what his body looks like beneath his clothes.
“How much do you know about my family, Emma?” he asks.
“Only what you and your grandmother have told me.”
Matthew lights up. “Do you want to know more?”
Obviously. “Sure.” I play it cool.
“My family works in art. Always has. My grandfather Maxwell, Stella’s husband, was an art dealer, just like his father before him. We have offices all over the world.” He says it as casually as someone might say, “We have a couple of hoagie franchises in Delaware.”
“ ‘We’? Do you work for them?” I pretend to know less than I do.
“Been primed for it since birth. My sister, Caroline, and I both have. Right now we’re essentially the same level, but I think there’s a good chance Father will tap me for a promotion soon. To groom me to take over when he’s gone.”
“Is he sick?”
Matthew laughs. “He’s a man who likes to plan. I’ve been working hard to prove myself. I do all of our Hollywood transactions. Don’t tell anyone, but I just sold an Edward Hopper to Steve Martin.”
“Which one?”
“I shouldn’t tell you. It’s still top secret.” He rakes a hand through his hair and then drapes an arm around my shoulders, running his index finger along the nape of my neck.
He whispers it in my ear. “It was Hotel Window.”
“That’s such a quiet, lonely piece. But also so elegant.”
“Steve was so pleased with how it all went he played me a banjo solo afterward. I fucking love New York and Los Angeles. So much less stuffy than here and London. I’ve been over there most of the year meeting with some investors who think we could do the coolest things with virtual reality.”
“Isn’t that science fiction?”
“It doesn’t have to be. Imagine dancing inside of a Degas or swimming beneath the waterlilies, sleeping on Van Gogh’s wooden bed.” He’s giddy with excitement. “Think about what people will pay for that!”
“What if it didn’t have to be priced out like a side of beef?” I scoff a little again.