A Paris Apartment (15 page)

“I didn’t check the Caller ID,” April said as she closed the door behind her. “How are you? What’s going on in New York?”

“You never check the Caller ID. And anyway—New York? Please! Why are we talking about far-flung provincial outposts when you’re in France? Way to rub my nose in it.”

“You really were meant to live in Paris, weren’t you? Provincial,” April said with a snort. “I don’t agree, but, like I told your father, if I’m still here when school gets out, you are welcome to leave your far-flung outpost and visit. I’d absolutely love to have you.”

“Believe me, I’ve been working that angle nonstop since Dad mentioned it. But you’d have to convince
Su-s-a-a-a-n-ah
,” Chelsea said, drawing out her mother’s first name. “And she is having none of it. Apparently I’m ‘not going to Paris unchaperoned, Missy!’”

Shaking her head, April kicked off both heels and tossed her tote on the couch.

“I’m fairly certain I could handle the chaperoning requirements,” she said, moving through the apartment. April reached for the light switch but pulled back. Her path was clear, illuminated by the city lights twinkling through the windowed wall. “Though if your mother’s not comfortable with the arrangement—well, there’s not much I can do.”

April understood what this was about: The woman’s never even had kids! How many times had Susannah said that, behind April’s back as well as to her face? Less comely gene pool or no, sometimes April wanted to procreate if only to prove it didn’t make Susannah so special. People had babies every day, saintly mothers and meth heads alike. Of course shutting up ex-wives was probably not the best reason to create another living human, but it was tempting at times.

“Can’t you talk to her?” Chelsea pleaded. “Or to Dad?”

“I’ll try, but—”

“You don’t understand! It’s even worse than not going to Paris. She’s taking us to visit Armand’s wretched desert homeland for most of the summer. Old gal’s probably gonna rope us into arranged marriages or some shit. And Armand will make us wear burkas.”

“Really? He will?”

“I’m assuming.” Big sigh. “Never mind. Forget it. There’s no way Susannah will cave.”

“Well, I’ll talk to your father one more time,” April said. “Last-ditch effort.”

“Good luck with that. He’s, like, the last person who can get her to do anything.”

“Perhaps we can phrase it differently. Not a vacation. Something meaningful. With your A in AP Art History … it’s still an A isn’t it?”

“Yes! I can’t believe you have to ask!”

“With your Art History and interning in my office over spring break, maybe we can convince your mother it’s an educational experience. She seems supportive of your interest.” Shockingly, April did not add, “I can probably get you into a class or two at the Sorbonne.”

“Oh my god!” Chelsea wailed. “That’s just mean! Now you’re going to make me cry! Go ahead and talk to her, but you know how it is. Susannah doesn’t change her mind. About anything.”

“No,” April agreed. “She does not.”

April wanted Chelsea to come, but not enough to battle Susannah over it, not enough to listen to the ex-wife complain for the next ten years that some mean, childless party girl tried to destroy her family’s Middle Eastern excursion.

“So, what’s up?” April said, anxious to drop Susannah from their conversation. As Chelsea and Chloe morphed from children into teens, it was April’s goal to maintain a close connection to the girls without using shared Susannah vexation as a unifying force. Like any proper goal, this oftentimes felt unattainable.

“‘What’s up’?” Chelsea repeated. Another sigh, this time bored, not exasperated. “Oh, not much.”

You dialed me, girlfriend, April wanted to say.

“Um, all right. So did you call for a specific reason or just to chat?”

April paused in the doorway to her bedroom and slipped out of her clothes. This room didn’t have the wall of windows, but there was still glass and she was still bare and lit from behind. April contemplated what people might see as she stood in that doorway and found she didn’t entirely mind. It was okay to be a little naked all the way over in the Ninth.

“Well, both, I guess,” Chelsea said. “But mostly I called for a reason. Three, actually, if you care to hear them.”

“Bien sûr!” April said happily. She was already starting to feel seasick from the up-and-down of Chelsea’s mood. “Lay them on me.”

“Okay, first of all, I got the pictures you texted me. And, holy shit, that portrait?” Chelsea’s voice regained its formerly chatty speed. Good grief, the dramatic personality swings with those kids. April tried to remember if she was that all over the place at sixteen. “Marthe de Florian was a beautiful woman.”

“I know,” April said, smiling from the inside out. “Though it’s actually pronounced ‘mart.’”

“‘Mart.’ Interesting. Well, that painting is to die for.”

“He’s a master,” April agreed.

“I’d heard of Boldini, but only vaguely. I planned to duck into the Met during my free period, but they don’t have him on display, which is bullshit.”

“Most of his stuff is in private collections.”

“So I’ve gathered. Crap. I have to go in a second. I’m being summoned. Okay. Second question. I have to know, which museum did you go to first? When you got to Paris? Give me the juicy details. But the SparkNotes version because I really have to go…”

“Well that will be easy,” April said. “Because I’ve only been to the apartment, which to be honest, is pretty much the best museum I’ve ever set foot in.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe you’re in Paris looking at these amazing pieces all day, every day, and I have to go to the effing Gaza Strip for summer vacay.”

April let a chuckle escape from her lips.

“Jesus,” Chelsea said again. “Okay, third and final reason I called, I need you to see a guy about a purse.”

“Ah,” April said, grinning now. “There it is. Somehow I’m questioning whether you really care about museums.”

“No! I do!” Chelsea chirped. “I swear!”

“Uh-huh. So, tell me, what guy and what purse?”

“Well, okay, maybe a couple of guys about a couple of purses. First, Goyard.”

“What now?” April said. “How do you spell that?”

“You’ve never heard of Goyard? Jeez, you need to get out more! Well, not to worry, I already looked the address up for you. It’s at 233 rue Saint-Honoré. Are you familiar?”

“I am.”

April stepped toward the desk. She picked up a pen. Goy-yar. Or was it actually Goyard and Chelsea got the pronunciation correct? April had been working with both girls on their French, but as with all things said to teens, you never really knew what took.

“Is that ‘G-O-Y’—” she started.

“Okay. First, I want the Croisière weekender bag. In, like, a good color, but nothing too crazy. Nothing you’ve seen in New York. And, gawd, certainly nothing you’ve ever seen knocked off.”

“Not sure I’m the right person to assess what’s been seen in New York. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you by purchasing a thousand-dollar handbag that someone else might possibly have, or one that, god forbid, has been replicated.”

“A thousand dollars!” Chelsea laughed. “You kill me! It’s not a thousand dollars!”

The laughing, April suspected, was probably not because she picked too high a price point.

“Then I want the Sardaigne vanity case in gold leather. It has the Goyardine canvas, you know?”

“No.”

“You’ll figure it out. And I want my initials on both. Whatever color looks best. You decide. Also, if you have time to pop over to Moreau, I would love, love,
love
the Diligence Pochette. In a bright color, like turquoise? I mean, it’s a pochette. You’re supposed to have fun with it, right?”

While it sounded harmless enough, April knew from experience that a “pochette” as requested by Chelsea could run upwards of three thousand dollars.

“I don’t think I got all this,” April said, losing track of her notes somewhere around ‘weekender bag’.

“I’ll text you the details.”

“Can’t you just do Louis Vuitton or something?”

“Louis Vuitton?” Chelsea made a gagging noise. “That is so prosaic, April.”

“See? You can’t rely on me to pick out the right handbag.”

“Hmm,” Chelsea said. “It’s true you have a classic style. But your tastes are a bit utilitarian.”

“Why, thank you. This is why I need you with me. We could spend all weekend at the Galeries Lafayette—you’d love it there.”

“The Galeries? Tourist trap. First place I’d go is L’Éclaireur.”

April laughed.

“You know way too much about Parisian shopping for someone who’s never been here.”

“I know, right? It’s like my skills are totally wasted. Effing Susannah. Speaking of, you can’t tell her this because she would fuh-reak, but Chloe went on her first date.”

“No, really?” In April’s head: a girl of six, not fifteen. Scabbed knees. Strawlike hair. What kind of sicko was interested in a little girl? The answer was, of course, any given teenage boy because though Chelsea was more obvious in her beauty, both girls were as pretty as their parents. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised.”

“Probably because, like me, you thought she was a lesbian.”

“Chelsea! I did not!”

“Anyway, awesome big sister that I am, I totally covered for her, because Susannah says
no dates until age sixteen!
Insert finger wagging. Don’t worry. It was a totally innocent situation, natch. I mean, I wouldn’t let Chloe get up to any shenanigans. I’m looking out for her.”

“I’m sure you are,” April said, thinking of all the times Chelsea used her sister as an alibi for her own (suspected) misconduct.

“I met him,” Chelsea went on. “He’s okay … dorky-cute. He goes to Poly Prep. In
Brooklyn
. And he’s into ‘performing arts.’ I mean, whatever. It’s sort of adorable. But also gross. And—aw shit—hold on a minute.”

April waited as she heard shuffling and the cupping of a hand over the phone, which did little to dampen the sound.

“Hel-
l-o-o-o
,” Chelsea said in a drawl. “Why are you barging into my room uninvited? You’re not allowed to do that. You’re supposed to give me privacy now that I’m an insecure teen girl trying to find her way in the world. I might be holding a box of tampons or something. Haven’t you listened to a word Susannah’s said? No bueno, Padre. No bueno.”

“Padre”? April’s stomach went squirrelly. She had not expected Chelsea to be at Troy’s, though April was only barely cognizant of what day it was and what might be happening back in New York in her absence.

As father and daughter squabbled back and forth, April’s finger hovered over the End Call button. Maybe she should go. Maybe it’d be easier for everyone if she ended it there, before anyone else got hurt, or in trouble, or yelled at by Troy.

Eyes clamped shut, April moved her finger ever closer to the button. It would be a relief, she thought, to hang up. Leave him out there, waiting, wondering why she never called back.

Chapitre XXVI

“Who are you talking to?” Troy wanted to know.

She had not hung up. Somewhere in the agony and fear, April stayed on. Maybe because she thought of Susannah, a small crumb of her heart softening toward the polished, beautiful, sharp-tongued woman. She’d been in April’s place once, not in the exact same manner, but probably also waiting somewhere, wondering how long she’d hold for Troy.

“It’s really none of your business,” Chelsea snipped.

“It’s time to get off. I hear you giggling and swearing in here. You’re supposed to be doing your homework. Swear to God, Chelsea. How do you plan to get into college? On your charms and good looks? It doesn’t work that way. And I’m not pulling strings. I won’t do it!”

“God, Dad, chill. I was only talking to April.”

“April?”

Goose bumps ran along her arms.

“But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

The phone swooshed. It smacked into a hand.

“April,” he repeated, sounding positively thrilled. April contemplated for a second that he might simply turn off the phone, and she cursed herself for not doing it first. “All right. Go do your physics.”

“Yeah. I heard. Bye, April!” she called. “I’ll text you about the bags!”

“Bye, Chels,” April whispered, a pang shooting through her. If there was a divorce, what were April rights with regard to the girls? Could she reasonably demand visitation? April wondered when she would next see them, if she would see them.

“You were at a dinner?” Troy said into the phone, straight off, no greeting to be had, not even “hey.” “Is that why you weren’t picking up?”

“Um, yes,” April said and burped a little, the taste of the steak and Côtes du Rhône lingering in the back of her throat.

“Long dinner. Next time, a little quicker callback might be in order?”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was something important.”

“I didn’t realize I didn’t qualify as important.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, how was your dinner?” His voice was funny, up too high, cracking and uneven. “I thought the grand meals didn’t happen until the auction was ready to go.”

“It wasn’t a dinner
dinner
. Just a meal. At a local bistro.”

“Yeah. Who with?”

He zipped something. Was he going somewhere?

And wait a minute. What was he doing home in the first place? It was late afternoon in New York. He only came home before nine o’clock if there was somewhere else he had to go.

“Hold on a second,” April said. “What are you doing home right now? And do I hear luggage? Are you traveling somewhere?”

“Yes! That’s why I’ve been trying to call. I have a closing in London. Yesterday the deal was dead but now back, alive. I didn’t think the fucker would close but here we are. Don’t mess with Troy Vogt, you bastards. I can wait it out all day long.”

“London? A closing?”

It was an unexpected announcement, yet also not. If a deal closed in some distant part of the world, Troy showed up to sign the final papers and attend the requisite closing dinner. Stanhope hadn’t closed a deal in a while, over three months in fact, so this was good news. Sort of.