Paris Kiss (16 page)

Chapter 27

The three of us – Camille, Georges and I – had just finished a long shift at Rodin's studio. The little café at the end of the street was already closing when we arrived looking for a meal, so Georges suggested we go to his studio instead.

‘It's not far – across the road, the door by that street lamp. There's bread, cheese, wine and, of course, caviar.'

Camille yawned. ‘Why not? No one will know, unless you tell on us, Georges.'

I hesitated. It was one thing to be alone with Georges in Rodin's studio, where we were colleagues, or out and about in public with Rosa keeping a sharp eye on him, but quite another to be alone with him in the privacy of his
atelier
. And since the night we'd kissed in the cab, Georges had been making it clear he wanted more with a little touch on the arm here, a lingering look there. And I'd been encouraging him, furious at William.

Camille tugged at my arm. ‘Come on, Jessie, don't just stand there, I'm starving.' She crossed the street ahead of us, but still I didn't move. Snow began to fall and flakes came to rest in my eyelashes. I blinked them away, shivered and pulled my short cape more tightly around my shoulders. Georges unbuttoned his overcoat and wrapped it around me. It was lined with rust-coloured fur and I couldn't help stroking the collar.

‘What is it?' I said.

‘Russian wolf.' He pulled the deep collar around my neck. ‘It suits you – it's the same colour as your hair.' He took off his gloves and held my face between his hands; they were warm. ‘Jessie,
viens avec moi
.'

I thought back to William in the painting, of his betrayal of the friendship we had shared since childhood. He had no right to sully it, no right at all. Why was I holding back when he had not? I tilted my face up to Georges, and he kissed me lightly, so lightly, on the lips, and led me through the deepening snow.

Camille was waiting for us in the doorway. ‘What took you so long? My feet are like ice.' She stamped her boots. There was snow in her dark hair and her skin shone pale as a moonstone.

Georges unlocked the door and went over to an iron bed. He put his hand on a lump under the sable counterpane and shook it. ‘Sasha, wake up. We have company.'

A tousled head poked out of the fur and peered at us with cross little eyes, like a bear emerging from hibernation. ‘What time is it?'

‘Early. Just after midnight. We have guests.'

Georges' Russian studio partner threw off the cover and stood in his longjohns. He scratched his tow-coloured head and grinned, pulled on a jacket with military frogging over his bare chest, and padded over to us.

He bowed and tried to click his stockinged feet together. ‘I am Aleksandr Cheburko Ivanovich. But you can call me Sasha.'

Camille laughed. ‘Well, Sasha, I am Camille and this is Jessie, and we are hungry enough to eat your fur bedding.'

‘No need! I have caviar and vodka.' Sasha swept a shaving kit and jars filled with paintbrushes off a tea chest onto the floor. He beamed at us again and fetched a bottle of clear liquid, a tin of caviar and a hunk of bread and laid them out on his makeshift table. He indicated the bed. ‘Please.'

Camille and I sat down and Georges squeezed in between us, spreading the fur over our legs.

‘You girls can keep me warm,' he said. ‘What a feast, Sasha. But vodka is rather strong for Jessie and Camille. I have a couple of bottles from my father's vineyard, will you fetch them?'

The Russian brought the wine and a chair, which he sat astride. ‘You should try vodka. In my country, women drink it too. Is good for keeping out cold.'

‘I'd like to try it,' I said.

Camille seemed to catch my reckless mood. She grinned as Sasha handed us small glasses of clear liquid. I took a sip and made a face as it burned a path down my throat.

‘No, no, like this.' Sasha threw back his head and emptied his glass.

Camille copied him and fell into a coughing fit.

Georges patted her back. ‘I told you it was strong. Why must you always try to outdo the men? I swear, Camille, you'll come to a bad end. Why don't you just accept that women are the weaker sex?'

‘Never!' Her defiance was spoiled by another bout of coughing.

Georges took the glass from my hand. ‘You should be more like Jessie, she knows how to behave.'

Well, I was sick of being a good girl – it hadn't done me any favours so far. I took back my glass and swallowed the contents in one fiery gulp. The warmth spread through me and my courage returned: I was in Paris, alone. I could do anything I wanted. Anything. All those rules I'd been taught, the ones that applied to women but not men, could go to hell. William could go to hell.

‘Another,' I gasped, holding out my glass to Sasha.

Georges shook his head. ‘You are both to eat something, straight away.'

‘Yes sir,' I said and giggled. Camille belched and we laughed.

Georges rolled his eyes and muttered something about women not being able to hold their drink, but when we'd both eaten some briny caviar on rye bread, he poured us more vodka.

‘
Santé
,' Camille said.

‘Bottoms up,' I said in English.

‘Bottom? What is bottom?' said Sasha.

‘
Ton cul
,' Camille said, and we snorted with laughter, silly now and careless.

‘In Ukraine we say
Budmo
,' said Sasha. ‘And we must shout,
Hey!
We do three time and everyone empty glasses each time.'

‘Hey! Hey! Hey!' And down it went.

‘Jessie, you are English,
da
?'

I nodded, unable to speak. My tongue seemed too big for my mouth and I couldn't feel my jaw. Sasha seemed unaffected and poured himself another drink.

‘I read many fine English books, Mr Dickens, Mr Hardy. You like famous Ukrainian writer Gogol? Dostoyevsky said we are all coming out from beneath Gogol's overcoat.'

‘No, no, no!
No book talk. I forbid it,' Camille said. She wriggled off the bed and pulled Sasha to his feet. ‘Show me your work, Sasha, I want to see your work.'

He held out his hands, palm upwards, in surrender. ‘French women – so commanding, is irresistible.'

‘Bossy, more like,' Georges said, leaning back on his elbows on the bed. ‘Don't take any nonsense from her, Sasha. If Camille annoys you, put her over your knee. She likes that.'

Camille turned and stuck out her tongue at Georges. ‘It is you who needs punished,
coquin
.' She squinted and shook her finger at me. ‘See to it, Jessie.'

Sasha opened a curtain over a doorway into the next room, where I could see canvases stacked against the walls.

He shook the bottle he still held. ‘First, I must buy more vodka, there is tavern near here.'

Camille noisily insisted on going with him and they both tumbled out into the cold. The door closed behind them.

Georges shifted on the bed to face me and pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. ‘Do you also think I need punished, Jessie?'

I pretended to consider the matter. ‘Well, you don't always behave like a gentleman.'

‘I don't care about any of that, all those rules for people of our class, about how we should behave.'

He sat up and took one of my hands in his. I thought he was going to take me in his arms and make love to me.

‘You seem troubled, Jessie, ever since that night at Henri's studio. Has something happened?'

This was what made him so different from William. Georges paid attention to me, studying me like an artist studies a rival's painting, looking carefully at the brushwork, at the colours used, at the composition. William reserved that concentration for his work. He loved me in a distracted, amused way more suited to a sister than a lover. Georges made me feel like he was interested in me, and only me, above everything else. He took me seriously, sought my opinion and treated me as an equal despite his jokes about women artists. And he was handsome in a careless, ruffled way that made me catch my breath. It was a devastating combination.

He was still looking at me, patiently waiting for me to speak, and I found myself talking about the painting, about William
negotiating
with those women. At one point, I began to cry and tried to take my hands from his to dry my eyes but he held them firm and kissed the tears from my cheeks with his warm mouth.

‘Jessie, if you were mine I would never look at another woman. With you it would be different. He must be mad to let you slip from his hands. Me, I would never let you go, never.'

He tightened his grip on my hands and I cried out. Then his mouth was on mine. I resisted at first but he put his hands in my hair and pulled me towards him. His shirt was open at the neck and his chest was smooth. I felt the muscles in his back flex and ran my fingers down the groove of his spine. The heat from the alcohol pulsed through me as Georges put his hand on my thigh and pushed it to one side. I knew it was wrong but I didn't care. It would be a relief to give in and take what I wanted, just as William had. I stopped thinking and lay back on the bed. Georges leaned over me, his eyes searching mine. He stroked my face.

‘My God, you are beautiful, like a Bellini nymph, carved from the whitest marble.'

There were voices at the door. We looked at each other with a wolfish hunger before leaping apart. I rearranged my clothes, my fingers clumsy.

Camille and Sasha were still fumbling with the lock and laughing. Georges put his hand on mine and spoke quickly.

‘Jessie, I know Rosa and Camille, they joke about me, and how I have an eye for the girls. It's true, or at least it was true, until now. I'd give up everything for you, I swear to it.
J'en mettrais ma main au feu
.'

Camille burst in with Sasha, laughing as they stumbled into each other in the doorway, but she stopped when she saw us.

‘Jessie, your eyes are huge. And Georges, I don't know. You look like one of those tormented couples from Rodin's
Gates of Hell
. Have you quarrelled?'

‘I think I've had too much to drink, that's all,' I said. ‘Georges was telling me not to have any more.'

‘Time for us to go.' Camille removed Sasha's arm from her shoulders. ‘Georges is right, no more vodka for you,' she said, firmly.

I followed her as if in a dream.

We walked home in silence, but when we reached our street, Camille turned to me.

‘What really happened in there?'

‘Georges kissed me,' I looked down. ‘And more. I don't know how far it would have gone if you hadn't come in.'

I heard her gasp.

‘Did you want to?'

‘Yes.' I groaned and put my face in my hands. ‘Yes I did. I've never wanted anything so much.'

We stopped under a street lamp and faced each other. Camille's eyes were as dark and cold as the bottom of a lake. Rodin called her his dream in stone, after the Baudelaire poem, and now I knew why. She was angry, jealous even. It was the same for me when she told me about Rodin, when I pictured them together, naked, touching. I was seized by an urge to take Camille in my arms in the empty street and kiss her like we had before the ball. But my blood was up and this time I knew I wouldn't stop.

Camille laughed abruptly, the sound like the snap of a sail, and the moment was over. She quickened her pace and her limp became more pronounced. She could never disguise it when she was angry. I hurried to catch up with her.

Her voice was dangerously light. ‘I'll bet Georges told you he'd mend his ways, settle down and be a good boy for you.' I didn't say anything but she looked at me sharply. ‘Ha! Don't be a fool and fall for it,
ma petite anglaise
, he says that to all the girls, believe me, I know, I've had enough broken-hearted models wailing on my shoulder about him. A word of warning: Georges is amusing – and handsome of course – but you'd be a fool to fall for his fine words. You'd be better to stick with your William, much safer.'

‘But what about love, Camille?' I said, hurrying to keep up. ‘What about love?'

‘Ah, love.' She stopped and looked at me sadly. ‘Love always gets in the way.'

Chapter 28

Montmartre, Paris

December 1884

‘
Bon anniversaire, nos vœux les plus sincères, Que ces quelques fleurs vous apportent le bonheur…
'
The song was drowned by cries of ‘
Santé!
' as we raised our glasses to Camille in
Le Chat Noir
, where we were celebrating her twentieth birthday. She threw her head back and drank deeply to raucous cheers from the other tables. I watched her white throat move and a trickle of red wine snake down her chin. The candlelight threw shadows on the faces around the table, like a scene from a Caravaggio. Rosa, in full tails, leaned back in her chair and applauded. Suzanne, now besotted with Henri, was pressing sticky red kisses onto his forehead. Henri was entertaining us with gossip about the Prince of Wales' adventures in the Paris brothels, where the whores had adopted Henri as a sort of mascot.

‘The girls at
Le Chabanais
tell me that Bertie is delighted with his new chair, a most
unusual
chair. Madame Kelly sneaked me into his room to have a look at it. Shall I go on?'

Camille banged her empty glass on the table. ‘It's my birthday! I demand to hear all the details.'

Henri looked at me and raised his eyebrows at Georges, as if asking his permission. No one had said anything yet, but that night Georges was making it clear we were a couple. He was bareheaded and his hair stuck up at an angle where he'd pushed his hands through it. I wanted more than anything to sit on his lap and kiss him, feel his mouth open under mine. Georges draped his arm over my shoulder and frowned at Henri.

Rosa called across the table. ‘Jessie's her own woman. I'm sure she can cope with a few saucy tales.'

Georges looked at me. ‘It's up to you, Jessie.'

I shifted in my chair so that I was a little closer to him. ‘The papers at home are always full of tittle-tattle about the Prince of Wales. If Henri has inside information, who wouldn't want to hear it? Come on, tell all – spare us nothing!'

Henri grinned. ‘Very well, but do not blame me,
Mesdemoiselles
, if you become faint when you hear the juicy details.'

Suzanne pinched his cheek. ‘Get on with it, you devil!'

He kissed a strand of her hair. ‘Well, first you must know that his Royal Highness' coat of arms always hangs above this massive bed at
Le Chabanais
, where he has his own room. And there's a copper bath of immense, whale-like proportions, in the shape of a woman, or a mermaid or something. The girls fill it with magnum after magnum of champagne before jumping in with him. Can you imagine? And, this is the best bit, because he's so fat, they've built a special chair for him, a
siege d'amour
, so it's more comfortable when one of them kneels down in front of him to pleasure him while the other straddles his enormous…'

‘All right, Henri, that's enough,' Georges said, to a chorus of protests from Camille, Suzanne and I.

‘What a spoilsport you have become all of a sudden, Georges, I can't think what's got into you,' Suzanne said, winking at me. She began one of her silly anecdotes, I think it was about her pet goat, but I wasn't paying attention. I could feel Georges staring at me. I was afraid that if I met his eyes and he asked me now to go away with him, I should get up without a word and follow him. Everything had changed between us – and all because of that one night at Georges' studio.

‘Jessie.' His lips brushed my cheek and his breath tickled my ear. ‘We need to talk about this. I want to know how you…'

We were distracted by a heated exchange that flared up between Henri and Camille, who were both drunk. Camille had been watching Rodin at the bar, where he was talking to a gallery owner, and Henri, spoiling for a fight, had taken offence.

‘I fear I do not have your complete attention, Camille. But then, who can concentrate in the presence of the towering, the monumental, the unbearably
expressive
Rodin?'

Camille scowled at him. ‘You have the gall to mock Rodin? You'll never be half the artist he is.'

‘Sadly, this is true. If only my legs had continued to grow apace with the rest of my body… But let me tell you, there's nothing wrong with the most important part of me.'

Suzanne gave out a shout of laughter and Rosa nudged her in the ribs. ‘Lucky bitch!'

Camille rolled her eyes. ‘Are you still peddling that story, Henri? I don't believe a word of it.'

A woman called over from the next table. ‘The little man speaks the truth – he's well endowed where it matters.' A cackle. ‘We girls call him The Tripod.'

Another cackle, from her friend this time. ‘
Merde
, you made wine come out of my nose, you ginger bitch. Tripod. That's a good one.'

There was something familiar about the two women and I turned in my seat to study them. They were street girls,
femmes des boulevards
paid to lure men into cafés for a couple of overpriced drinks and maybe more. Either that or
filles de joie
, who let themselves be picked up by customers. Rosa had explained the difference to me, but I still didn't understand the nuances. In any case, they were clearly prostitutes – my father would have called them floozies – their hard faces powdered white, mouths scarlet, hats trimmed with grubby ostrich feathers, black velvet chokers around their necks and indecently low necklines. One was a redhead in a grubby sage dress and the other a brunette in stained grey. Where had I seen them before? With a lurch I recognised them: they were the two women from Henri's painting, the ones with William. I stood up, I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know what had happened that night; I wanted to hear the details, no matter how sordid.

‘Georges,' I said. ‘I'm going to talk to those women. I want to ask them if they'll pose for me.' I was too ashamed to tell him the real reason, but luckily he didn't seem to recognise them.

Georges shook his head. ‘It's not a good idea, Jessie, they're rough street girls.'

‘It's all right, I'll be fine.'

‘At least let me come with you.'

I squeezed his shoulder. ‘Thank you, but I'd rather go alone.' I walked over to their table and took a deep breath. They looked up at me.

‘What do you want?' the hard-faced brunette said.

‘May I sit down?'

She shrugged, but their hostility was palpable.

The other one, the redhead, sneered at me. ‘Why would a fine lady want to drink with the likes of us? Aren't you afraid your precious virtue will be spoiled? Or perhaps you're one of those rich bitches who like slumming it,
hein
?'

I would have to appeal to them woman to woman and open my heart. I told them how I'd seen Henri's painting, about William and how we'd known each other since we were children; that we were expected to marry but now everything had changed. How I wanted to confront him, but I needed to know the truth. It was torture not to know for certain, would they help me? When I'd finished, I could see their shoulders drop.

The ginger topknot placed a grubby hand on my glove. ‘Oh,
ma mie
, you're in love with him, aren't you?'

I didn't want her to touch me. I thought of her fingers burrowing in William's clothes. I took my hand away under the pretence of wiping my eyes. Up close, there was nothing attractive about these women, their skin was mottled under the heavy make-up and their hair greasy and thick with powder. I couldn't understand how men, well-bred and cultured men like William, could want these women, who were more to be pitied than desired.

The redhead patted my hand and told me her name was Claudine. ‘Ah, there, there, don't cry now,
petite.
Yvette, do you know who she's talking about?'

When Yvette put her arm around me, the smell of stale sweat mixed with cheap perfume rose from her armpits. ‘He is English,
ton petit ami
?'

I nodded and she screwed up her eyes as if trying to remember. She gave a cry and pointed at Rodin. ‘Was he with that one, over there by the bar?' I nodded again and she prodded her friend. ‘The artist, you know, the one who always pays us so well to watch us eat each other, the filthy beast.'

Claudine grimaced. ‘How could I forget? It took me days to get the taste out of my mouth.'

‘The dirty dog – no class, not like the Englishman. Now, he was a real toff,' her friend said.

So they had been with William. I stood up, sickened, but Claudine pulled me down by the skirts. Her laugh turned into a wet cough and she spat on the floor before she could speak again.

‘Hear us out, Mademoiselle. By the way, you wouldn't have a few
sous
for a poor working girl? My glass is empty, and that's never a pretty sight.' I dug in my purse and handed her some coins and she pocketed the money. ‘He was a handsome bastard, right enough, for a
rosbif
,' she said. ‘I like 'em dark like that, broad with a big chest you can sit astride. He looked strong. I bet he has to take his weight on his elbows, eh?' She nudged me and I flinched. ‘Otherwise he'd drive you into the mattress, that one.' She cackled again.

The brunette, Yvette, said: ‘Get on with it, the show's about to start.'

Claudine wiped her nose on the back of her hand, taking her time. ‘He was a right handsome bastard, and healthy looking too. I'd have given it to him free, eh Yvette, eh?' Another cackle and another glare from the brunette. ‘All right, keep your wig on.' She yawned and hiked up her skirts to scratch her thigh. ‘But he was a waste of time when we collared him together.' She laughed and imitated an English accent: ‘He says,
desolé
modomazelle
but he's got a girlfriend
.
'

‘When did that ever stop any of them?' Yvette said. ‘But you don't have anything to cry about,
chérie
, your English boyfriend stayed true to you, a proper gent, like I said. Not like some of the degenerates we get in here. Up against a wall in an alley one minute, the next they're knocking you about or mooching the price of a
vin blanc
off you.'

I rubbed my forehead, trying to block out the raucous sounds from the other tables. I had been wrong about William. How could I have doubted him? William, who as a boy had chased me through the orchard to torment me with a frog he'd found, and when I'd fallen and skinned my knee had comforted me and pressed dock leaves on the graze; William, who had listened to my dreams of becoming a sculptor and encouraged me to follow them; William, who was still the man I'd always known and loved. The pain that had been sitting in my chest lifted. I put more coins on the table and thanked the two women, but they had already turned their attention to the stage, where red velvet curtains twitched.

‘Oooh, look, Yvette, the show's about to start. The Irish tart is on tonight, the one who sings dirty nursery rhymes, you know, with the little cat. She made me laugh so much last time, I pissed my knickers.'

I went back to our table and sat next to Camille, across the table from Georges. She looked at me questioningly and I mouthed
research
at her. She nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to the stage. I was glad when the lights dimmed and I could press my hands to my burning cheeks to cool them down. Alone, in the dark, I faced up to what I had done with Georges out of anger with William, but also because I had wanted to. I could see Georges' silhouette across the candlelit table, his head turned towards me. Had he deliberately misled me? No, he must have been mistaken. Confused, I looked away and tried to concentrate on the show.

The curtain went up and the proprietor, Salis, jumped onto the stage and called for hush. ‘
Mesdames et Messieurs, votre attention s'il vous plaît. Je vous présente le formidable, l'unique Aristide Bruant!
'

A cold horror crept over me as I remembered something else – the letter! I'd dashed off a furious letter to William, telling him I didn't want anything more to do with him, accusing him of horrible acts of depravity, and, worst of all, telling him I'd fallen in love with Georges, that things had gone too far to back off now, that I'd compromised myself, that he wasn't the only one who could give into his base desires. Oh God, had I given it to Eugènie to put in the post? In my turmoil, I couldn't remember. If William read it, he'd assume the worst. He was an enlightened man, but he would never forgive me if he thought I'd lost my honour. I screwed my eyes shut and tried desperately to remember what I'd done with the letter. With relief, I pictured it where I'd left it, on my dressing table.

I opened my eyes and realised the crowd were going wild. They clapped and stamped and there were cries of ‘Bruant! Bruant!' A man in a black cloak lined with scarlet and a fedora swept into the spotlight and stood waiting for quiet, his hawkish features disdainful. In a harsh growl, he began to sing a
chanson réaliste
, one of the street ballads about the harsh lives of the poor. A hush fell on the café and I listened carefully to the story he was telling. Bruant sang about the
faubourgs
, about the prostitutes who loved their sadistic pimps and drank to forget their abandoned children, about an orphan wandering the streets, begging and performing circus tricks for a few
sous
before in turn selling his young body. By the time Bruant fell silent, I could see one of the women I'd talked to was sobbing, head buried in her thin arms while her friend looked stricken, her ghostly make-up streaked with tears. I rubbed my own eyes. The melancholic song had tapped into my own troubles and unleashed a torrent of sadness I had stopped up with anger. Soon I was crying as openly as the two prostitutes I'd so despised moments earlier. In the end, we weren't so different; I had been a snob to recoil from their touch. My life in England had been sheltered, but now I was experiencing real life, how we are all touched by pain and joy, no matter how lowly or highly born. This is what I needed to see, to feel, for my work to come alive, to breathe and move as Rodin's and Camille's did. When the lights came up, I clapped until my hands ached.