Moonlight Over Paris (23 page)

T
he Murphys' pied-à-terre occupied the top two floors of an ancient building at the corner of the quai des Grands Augustins and rue Gît-le-Coeur. Although the staircase and corridors of the building were shabby in the extreme, Sara and Gerald's apartment was a marvel of modern décor. Its floors were painted a glossy black and its walls a bright white, and the only touch of color in the sitting room came from red brocade curtains that hung at the floor-to-ceiling windows and framed a marvelous view of the Seine and the Sainte Chapelle. Unusual flower arrangements further brightened the rooms—one was nothing more than stalks of celery, their leafy tops intact—and on top of the grand piano was an enormous metal sphere that most guests took to be a piece of sculpture but was, Sara confided, actually an industrial ball bearing. Altogether it wasn't Helena's idea of homey comfort, but it was the perfect venue for a cocktail party.

It had been hours since she'd eaten, but rather than help herself to any of the food in the dining room she went straight to Gerald and ordered up one of his near-lethal cocktails. Its effects were gratifyingly numbing, and after following it with
three glasses of champagne Helena decided that she was quite happy with the world and her place in it after all.

For a while she hovered at Agnes's elbow, not trying to insert herself in any of the conversations that ebbed and flowed around her, and then, suddenly, her head was pounding and she'd had enough. One of the sitting room windows was open, so she stood before it and gulped in deep breaths of night air, clearing her lungs of the fug of cigarette smoke and too-strong perfume.

Someone came to stand behind her, and without turning she knew it was Sam.

“Ellie. Something's wrong. Don't say there isn't.”

“It's nothing. I made the mistake of drinking one of Gerald's cocktails on an empty stomach. That's all.”

“You aren't happy, not even close to it, but you should be. Just look at what you've achieved.”

This angered her so much that she whirled around to face him, but her head started to spin and she had to clutch at his shirtfront to steady herself. “I learned today that I was wrong,” she said when her vision finally cleared. “I was wrong to think I had a future as an artist.”

“What happened?” he asked, his expression a curious mixture of anger and disbelief.

“I overheard Maître Czerny talking to someone, I don't know who. He didn't use my name but he was talking about me. He said I was monied and hopeless and I was there only to support the students who are poor and talented. He said he'd forgotten my name already.”

“That
bastard
. I could kill him.”

“But he was right. I've always had a feeling I wasn't good enough. That I was fooling myself to think I had any real talent. And now I know for certain . . . oh,
Sam
. What will I do now?”

Her eyes filled with tears, too many to blink away, and when she tried to hide her face he held her fast and wiped them dry with his thumbs.

“Sorry. I never seem to have a handkerchief. Right—this is what we're going to do. You're not having fun, and I don't think you should have anything more to drink. I'll walk you home and we'll talk, and everything will be all right. Sit here while I get your coat and tell Sara and Agnes where we're going.”

Seconds later he was back at her side, guiding her downstairs and across the bridge and past the cathedral. He kept her close by, his arm supporting her, making sure she didn't stumble on the cobbles, and when Vincent opened the door Sam did all the talking.

“Good evening, Vincent. Lady Helena isn't feeling well, so I brought her home early. Could you have a pot of tea and some plain toast brought to her room, please? I'll take her up now.”

“Mr. Howard, I hope you understand that—”

“On my honor, Vincent, I swear you have nothing to worry about. I would never do anything that might upset Lady Helena or her aunt.”

Suitably mollified, Vincent went off to sort out Helena's tea and toast while Sam steered her in the direction of the stairs. When she stumbled at the first step he simply lifted her in his arms and, cradling her close, walked up the steep staircase with no apparent difficulty.

“Is your room here on the second floor?”

It was hard to talk, for she was so very tired, but she had to correct him. “This is the first floor. Silly American.”

“Fine,” he said, and kissed her hair. “If you say so. Which one of these doors is your room?”

“Far end . . . left side.”

The door was ajar, so he shouldered it open and carried her across the room to her bed. He set her down and then, stooping a little, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch, whisper-soft, was the nicest thing she had ever felt.

“I had better go, otherwise Vincent is going to have a heart attack.”

“Don't. Not yet.”

She struggled to her knees, set her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him before he could stop her. At first he didn't respond, his mouth refusing to soften under hers, so she wrapped her arms around his neck, as she'd once seen Theda Bara do in a movie, and, opening her mouth just a little, let her tongue dart out to touch at his lips.

This had the effect of melting his reserve, and he pulled her close and kissed her so fiercely that she felt certain he had changed his mind and did desire her after all. But it only lasted a few seconds before he pulled away, gently but firmly, unwound her arms from around his neck, and took her hands in his.

“Ellie, no. You're in no fit state—”

She clutched at his arms, trying to draw him into an embrace, but Sam evaded her grasp and took another step back.

“I said
no
. You're not—”

“But I love it when you kiss me. I would seduce you if I knew how . . .”

“Are you trying to kill me? Listen—you're upset, you're three sheets to the wind, and Vincent has probably got his ear to the door right now. And we both know he wouldn't think twice about chopping me into little pieces if he thought it might please your aunt.”

This struck Helena as one of the funniest things she had
ever heard, and it was some time before she was able to stop giggling and catch her breath. She started to talk, but her tongue suddenly felt swollen, and her mouth wouldn't behave, and on top of everything else she discovered she had a frightful case of the hiccups.

“Si—
hic
—silly man. Was Auntie A—
hic
—who gave me th' idea. She said we should be lo—
hic
—lovers. So she won' care.”

Sam was shaking his head, but she knew she had to explain, had to make him understand. “Auntie A says I'm in love with you.”

“Are you?”

“I don' know. Never fell in love be—
hic
—before. Would be silly to love you.”

“Why, Ellie? Why would it be silly? Because I—”

“Because you're jus' like Edward. You're Edward in an Amer—
hic
—American suit. Thas' wha' you are, an' it makes me
sad
. So, so sad . . .”

She looked up at him, and of course he was so tall she had to tilt her head right back, and everything around her started to spin and shift. Her stomach turned over once, twice, and her throat seemed to close up—and then, before she could warn Sam or turn away, she vomited all over his front, and it went on forever, and in that instant she really, truly, wished she could die and never have to look him in the eye again.

He didn't turn away, which was very surprising, but instead stayed where he was and rubbed her back, even as she was throwing up all over his shoes. He said, “oh, honey,” once or twice, and when it was over and she had stopped that awful empty retching, he fetched a towel from her washstand so she might wipe her face.

Even after the maid had arrived he only went as far as the
hall, and when she and her room were clean, and she had been dressed in a fresh nightgown and dosed with bicarbonate, he came in again to say good night. He had changed into a clean shirt and trousers, though neither fit him very well.

“Vincent lent me some of his clothes,” Sam explained. “Do you feel any better?”

“A little,” she whispered.

“I'll be back tomorrow, and we'll talk then. Try to get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead, and then he was gone.

T
HE NEXT DAY
found Helena feeling thoroughly wretched in both body and spirit. She woke at dawn, her head aching so badly that the slightest movement pained her, and immediately resolved that she would never, ever,
ever
let a sip of alcohol pass her lips again.

She staggered to her washstand, the distance between it and her bed stretching near to infinity, and met the sorry gaze of her reflection in the mirror above. She had never looked worse. Her face was smeared with rouge and mascara, her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair stood on end and smelled horribly of smoke.

Somehow she stayed upright long enough to wash her face and brush her teeth, which made her feel fractionally less disgusting. Back at her bedside, she swallowed two tablets of aspirin and, thoroughly exhausted, burrowed under her eiderdown and shut her eyes against the coming day.

If only she could shut her mind to the memories of her mortifying behavior. Sam had been so understanding, and she had rewarded his kindness by acting in the most shameless fashion—and then, when he had declined her pathetic overtures, she had vomited all over him.

That was all she could think about, her mind's eye replaying it again and again, and even once she fell asleep again the memory of those moments haunted her, chasing her through galleries of paintings by other artists, talented artists, and whenever she stopped to look for her own work Maître Czerny would spring up like a crazed Guignol puppet, shouting, “Useless! Hopeless!” and no matter where she searched, she couldn't find her Sam, for he had left her, too, and would never return . . .

“Helena? Helena, darling, it's Auntie A. May I come in? Helena?”

How long had her aunt been knocking? She sat up, untangled the sheets from around her legs, and rubbed the sleep from her still-swollen eyes. “Come in,” she called.

“There you are. Oh, heavens—Sam wasn't exaggerating. Are you feeling better?”

“Not really. What time is it?”

“Nearly two in the afternoon. I thought it best to let you sleep. Sam is downstairs.”

“He's what—he's
here
? Why is he here?”

“I expect to see how you're feeling. The poor man looks very tired, so you mustn't keep him waiting. Should I ask him to come up?”

“No, I'll come downstairs. I just need a few minutes to dress.”

Once out of bed, she had to admit she felt a little steadier, and her head had ceased pounding quite so relentlessly. She dressed hurriedly, in an old frock that had seen better days, and, after brushing her teeth again and smoothing her hair, gingerly made her way downstairs.

Sam was in the
petit salon,
sitting on a ridiculous little fauteuil
that was far too fragile for his large frame, and for some reason he was wearing his best shirt and coat, the ones he reserved for important interviews at the Élysée Palace. To her relief, his smile was wide and genuine, and when he greeted her it was with a heart-stopping kiss on her mouth, not her cheek.

“How are you?” he asked, guiding her to a nearby chair.

“Better. I felt like death warmed over this morning, but I went back to bed and that helped. Sam—I'm so sorry for last night. Please forgive me.”

“There's nothing to forgive. You were right to be upset, given what you overheard at the Salon. And you'd had a long day, with hardly anything to eat. No wonder the drink went to your head.”

She smiled ruefully. “I'm fairly certain I will never drink another drop of champagne or spirits again, not as long as I live.”

“Are you still upset?” he asked.

“By what happened at the Salon? Yes. Of course I am.”

“Surely you can see that Czerny was wrong,” Sam reasoned. “He didn't say your name. He might well have been speaking of someone else.”

“No,” she insisted. “He was talking about me, and he was right. Just look at Étienne's work. That's the standard I need to judge myself against, and the truth is that I don't even come close.”

“Oh, Ellie—”

“It really is the truth. I need to face it.”

He looked unconvinced, but rather than press the issue he simply asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“I'm not sure. I think . . . I think I might like to travel. Go somewhere with Auntie A. Put all of this behind me.”

“‘All of this'?” he echoed. “What about your friends here? The life you've built for yourself?”

“I only ever planned on staying for a year. And I might return, one day. I haven't really thought about it yet. All I know is that I need to make a change.”

“So that's it. You're just going to give up. One man criticizes you—the same man who has never given you the time of day, because he's an idiot—and you fall apart.” Sam's voice was shaking, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze she was taken aback to realize just how angry he was.

“But Czerny was right,” she insisted. “I've known it all along, but I couldn't admit it. I was wrong to think I had enough talent to succeed as an artist.”

“You aren't wrong. You
are
talented—anyone can see that. Your paintings are beautiful.”

“So? Nearly anyone can produce a pretty picture. And that's all I'm capable of. Pretty, decorative pictures. A hundred years from now Étienne's work will be hanging on the walls of museums, but mine will be forgotten. I know that now.”

“So that's your response? You falter once and decide you're done? I thought more of you. I thought you of all people would have the courage to persevere.” His voice grew rougher, sharper. “But I guess all your talk of learning how to live was just that.
Talk
.”