Chapter 13
Emma
I escape the hospital as quickly as I can and lean against the smooth stone wall of the building outside. It’s times like this I wish I smoked, just to have something to occupy myself with. I close my eyes instead and try to breathe.
When I open my eyes he’s in front of me. “Walk with me?” Matthew’s eyes are red, his shoulders slumped.
“Of course.”
We wander down the sidewalk, our hands thrust in our pockets.
A holiday market is set up on the banks of the Seine below us.
Matthew nods toward it and we head down a crumbling staircase to the lower promenade.
He buys us a five-franc bottle of red wine, a baguette, and a small wheel of Brie.
The wine comes with two plastic cups because for all their perceived snobbery, the French completely approve of drinking wine from plastic cups out in the open on the street.
They even encourage it. Matthew breaks off a piece of the baguette and cuts a piece of cheese with a sharp Swiss utility knife he had in his pocket.
He speaks only once he’s drained his glass and taken a bite.
“I needed that.”
I sip more modestly, but I’m just as eager to get buzzed right now.
“What did the doctors say?”
“Nothing you didn’t hear. I rang my father to let him know. Do you know what he said?”
I shake my head.
“ ‘Maybe we’ll be rid of the old bitch sooner than I thought.’ ” His voice is tinged with frustration.
“That’s terrible.”
“Also completely expected.”
“Is he here in Paris?”
“Geneva Freeport. Closing a deal. I don’t even know why I updated him.”
Matthew fills our two empty glasses as I sink my teeth into the crust of our makeshift cheese sandwiches. The Brie melts on my tongue like butter.
“It was Stella who gave me my first sip of wine. Who taught me to choose a good wine. Who brought me down to sit on the banks of the Seine,” he reminisces.
“We used to take riverboat tours with the tourists because she said the best view of the city was from down on the river and she was right. She was always right about everything.”
He goes quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose her.”
“It’ll hurt, but you’ll keep going,” I promise, placing my hand on top of his.
He sighs and glugs down some more wine. “You sound very confident.”
“I have experience losing people.” I’ve lost my mother a dozen times over the years. At least that’s what it always feels like.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Was it hard when your grandfather passed?”
“Terrible. I’m still not over it. Neither is Stella. But to lose them both…” His voice catches in his throat and trails off. “What will I do for the next few hours?”
“I’ll stay with you if you want me to.”
“I do.” He flips his palm over and takes my hand.
When the bread and cheese are finished, we stroll.
The pale silhouette of the Louvre emerges above us.
The next part of the riverwalk is blocked for a private party, forcing us up the stairs and into the neighborhood next to the museum.
We pause beneath a fluorescent sign for a restaurant called L’Appétit Sauvage.
I came here once with Pascal, practically dragged him inside, giggling.
“I have a savage appetite,” I’d said to him.
“It’s the best thing about you,” he had replied, his eyes dark with desire.
This entire neighborhood is haunted by my memories of Pascal.
I wouldn’t have taken that particular staircase with Matthew if the path hadn’t been blocked.
But now we’re forced to wander past the glossy red lacquered door of the Christian Louboutin boutique.
Pascal brought me here after we drank at least four martinis apiece at Sauvage on our fourth date.
The store was closing, but he was friends with the manager.
At the time I didn’t question how. Turns out Pascal was a repeat customer.
He led me inside and removed my shoes himself, an act that felt both tender and possessive. He brought over a pair of black stilettos with a five-inch heel covered in spikes so sharp they drew blood on my fingertip when I ran my hand over them.
“I want you to wear these and only these while I fuck you in the alley behind this store,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “I want you to wear them and stomp all over my heart.”
In the end it was my heart that was stomped all over.
Six months later a new pretty young thing sat in the front row of his class, brand-new Louboutins on her feet, a smug smile on her face.
I knew that smile. I knew that if I got close enough, she probably smelled of him, cigarette smoke and lust from having been with him in his locked office before class.
I know because I had tried the door. I’d been replaced.
He confirmed it the next day. “People love what’s new,” he said.
“In both sex and in art, don’t forget that, ma chérie.
” As if reducing me to a trend made it hurt less.
I shudder as we pass by the store, the memory so visceral I can almost feel the pinch of the ridiculous heels.
“Are you cold?” Matthew asks, noticing.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s easier than explaining.
He looks at his watch. “A couple of hours to go,” he says ruefully.
We’ve walked around the back of the Louvre and now we’re approaching the Tuileries garden.
Families are gathered on the lawn for dinner picnics, street musicians serenading them with accordions and guitars. Paris is a living postcard.
“We could wander through the museum,” Matthew offers.
“I think it’s closed.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Matthew has a renewed energy, the kind that comes with a new problem that can actually be solved. “Let me make one quick phone call.”
He pulls a large cellular phone from his backpack. It flips open like a clamshell. I’ve seen wealthy people use them before. They’re such silly things. Who would want to have a phone with them all the time? There’s no way they will possibly catch on.
“I need to eat more,” I say. “I can grab a table and order us some food. Make your call.” I boldly walk to the closest café and ask if we can sit outside at a cozy table for two.
It’s vaguely touristy because of the proximity to the museum, but they also hand us warm woolly blankets to drape over our laps and are quick to take our order.
We get a hodgepodge of delightful things, some grilled leeks, a plate of salty fries, a pot of mussels I didn’t know I was craving until their briny scent reaches my nose, rice pudding that comes in an oversized cauldron with its own bowl of caramel.
We avoid talking about Stella and instead keep things purposefully light.
His recent vacation to Ibiza, but not the clubby side, the hidden beaches where locals go.
My recent run-in with an American celebrity and her terrible children at the Orsay, tiny terrors with sticky fingers reaching for priceless art.
This could be the best date I’ve ever been on.
It’s not a date, I keep reminding myself.
You’re keeping him company until we hear news about Stella.
But his close attention and his chair moving ever closer allows me to indulge in the fantasy.
Before we can order dessert, his phone rings.
It sounds like a wounded bird chirping. He answers, chats quickly, then announces that we should make our way to the museum.
“We’re really just going to stroll inside after hours?”
“We really are.” Even though he’s the one who made all the arrangements, he seems slightly giddy at the prospect. I want to believe he hasn’t done this with many women before.
“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand to help me up from the table and doesn’t let go.
The city shimmers under the golden glow of streetlamps.
Instead of walking through the main entrance, the one with the glass pyramid shining like an alien spacecraft, we circle around to the back and knock on an unmarked door.
It’s answered by a distinguished-looking Parisian gentleman in a three-piece suit who greets Matthew with a warm hug.
“How’s your father?” he asks.
Matthew doesn’t grimace this time. “Excellent. He’s currently in Geneva.”
“Always on the go, that one. Let me take you upstairs. We do not have any events tonight so it will be quiet. Security is here, of course. I will be down in my office if you need me. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you very much, Laurent.”
“The pleasure is always mine.”
Once Laurent is gone, Matthew asks where I want to go first.
“You decide,” I defer.
“Well then. Follow me.”
It’s a privilege to be alone among the paintings, though it also feels like we’re trespassing in a sacred space. He strides quickly and purposefully as I trot behind him. He leads me to the seventeenth-century sculpture wing filled with marble Italian nudes.
We pause in front of Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss.
The bare-chested god Cupid clutches the dangerously mortal Psyche in his arms, his hand cupping her bare breast and pulling her toward him for a kiss.
The artist’s unique skill with the marble is in his texturing.
Psyche’s skin seems to quiver beneath the god’s touch.
I feel Matthew’s breath quicken behind me as he watches me take in the sculpture.
“How does it make you feel?” he whispers.
“Like we deserve to enjoy this one life we’re given,” I say back before I can think about my answer. “We deserve pleasure.”
His hands land on my waist, warm and eager.
“What do you want art to do to you?” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear.
I admit the crushing truth. “I want it to annihilate me.”
He presses close behind me. “No one is here, you know. It’s just us.”