Paris Kiss (18 page)

‘Jessie, thank God!'

‘I don't understand. Is it really you, William? I thought I was dreaming. What are you doing here?'

‘I wanted to see you after I got your letter. Such a strange letter, my darling. When I arrived, the house was in uproar – search parties, dogs, the whole village is out looking for you. They've been wading through the river. They said there have been drownings. I don't know what I would have done if –' He tightened his hold on me and I heard the break in his voice. ‘Jess, my Jess. I thought I'd lost you.'

Chapter 31

Villeneuve

Boxing Day, 1884

I slept dreamlessly through until the next evening. When I carefully made my way downstairs, my legs still weak from the ordeal on the moors, William was waiting at the Christmas tree. He was holding two glasses of champagne and handed one to me.

‘How is Camille?'

‘The doctor has bound her ankle and ordered bed rest.'

‘I have you to myself, then.'

He kissed me, his lips warm, and the shape of his mouth familiar. I thought briefly of Georges and the way he'd pressed his mouth against mine, the wild hunger we'd shared. I had been wrong to let him go so far. I'd pulled away from him just in time.

William looked down at my dress. ‘I've always liked you in that green velvet.'

‘I know it's your favourite.'

‘I'm glad you wore it tonight. I want to give you the rest of your Christmas present while it's still just the two of us.'

William reached into the tree, festooned with apples, ribbons and coloured gelatine lights in glass cups. He unhooked an ornamental paper box of the kind my mother filled with sweet treats every Christmas at home.

‘William, how did you know I'd be homesick for Ma's sugarplums? Don't tell me you made the box yourself? How sweet!'

Inside was a velvet box. And inside that an emerald ring. My hand flew to my throat. ‘Oh, William. I don't know what to say.'

‘Say you'll be mine, Jessie. I know it's always been understood we'd be together, ever since you were in pigtails,' he pulled a tendril of my hair loose and wound it around his finger. ‘But I want everyone to know. No more waiting. I was so worried when I got your letter. I didn't understand it, and why you kept saying you were sorry. Jessie, I know you've changed since you came to Paris. You dress more unconventionally, but it's not only that. You're more self-assured, more you, somehow. Paris has distilled you, and it's made me love you even more than ever. But I don't want to lose you.' He slipped the ring on my finger. ‘Will you marry me, darling Jess?' He smiled. ‘Forsaking all others and all that sort of thing? I've been offered a job, a good one, in Manchester, teaching chemistry at a new university. You should see the laboratories – all the latest equipment, and some excellent minds working there. You could still sculpt, maybe give some art classes, until the children come along. We can make a good life for ourselves there.'

I thought of Georges working on a sculpture with his sleeves rolled up and a frown of concentration on his handsome face. I thought of Camille and Rosa and Henri and Suzanne sitting in a Montmartre café, surrounded by a swirl of colour and music. I pictured Manchester: smokestacks belching into a grey sky and rows of houses, each one the same. William mistook my hesitation and laughed.

‘It's a surprise, I know, on top of everything you went through yesterday. But you must have guessed when I sent you the pendant. They're a set.' He frowned. ‘You aren't wearing it. I've always wanted to see you wearing Grandmamma's emeralds. Where's the necklace?' I glanced upstairs and his expression cleared. ‘Of course, in your jewellery box, I'll get it for you.'

I took out the ring and held it against the coloured lights on the Christmas tree. The stone was nearly as large as the one on the necklace. The necklace that was in my jewellery box, sitting on top of Georges' portrait. I turned and gathered my skirts and ran up the stairs two at a time. In my room, William was standing holding the drawing in one hand, the card in the other.

‘William, I…'

His eyes were in shadow. ‘I understand now.' I'd never heard him sound so cold. ‘Here, this is what you want.' The card bit into my palm and a nail from the wooden frame scraped the inside of my wrist. I watched it bead with blood as the door slammed behind me.

Chapter 32

The Paris Salon

August 1885

William didn't come back. He left France without another word to me and I didn't try to stop him. There was nothing I could say in my defence, nothing that would alter what I had done. I had lost William and it was only in losing him that I realised how much I loved him. I spent that summer in Norway with my parents, numb with misery as we walked through ice canyons, three tiny figures picking our way over turquoise glaciers. My parents worried about my silences but I was too ashamed to tell them what had happened. At night I left the window open and stared out at the pale Arctic sky, unable to cry. In the mornings my quilt was covered in snow.

Paris in August was hot and empty. I returned to a stifling studio buzzing with flies. There was a letter waiting for me: my piece had not been accepted for the Salon. I sank down on my valise and finally wept. When Camille came in some time later I wiped my eyes but she didn't notice I had been crying. She was breathless and laughing as she pulled off her hat and threw it in the corner.

‘Jessie! You'll never guess! I've been accepted, for the Salon, my piece. Can you believe it?'

I was crushed. A nasty thought crept into my mind:
no wonder Camille was accepted, she's sleeping with Rodin and he has power and influence.
It was unworthy of me but I couldn't help it. My best friend's victory was a dagger in my heart. First William, and now I had failed in this. I had been wrong about my talent; Paris had taught me nothing and I had lost William chasing an empty dream. Camille was looking at me expectantly and I mustered a smile.

‘But that's wonderful, simply wonderful!' I made myself embrace her but she broke away, too excited to be still for even a moment. She paced around the studio, restlessly picking up tools and shifting pieces. Suddenly Camille whirled around.

‘
Sang bleu!
The
vernissage
! It's today. Quick, quick, we must get to the Salon at once. Hurry, Jessie, we don't want to be late.' She crammed on her hat and we ran out of the door.

I paused on the stairs. ‘My gloves.'

‘
Dieu tout-puissant!
Forget your gloves. We don't want to be late for the first night of the Salon.'

The sky was a wash of violet and the evening air was full of conversations. The dead weight that had lain over my heart all summer shifted as we walked through the crowded streets. By the time we reached the Champs-Élysées, everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, to the
Salon de Paris
, the largest and most important art exhibition in the world. To have a piece accepted by the Salon's jury of established artists was like being given the key to a select club. We reached the steps and I stopped in front of the doors, wide open to let in the last of the light. I straightened my back. Just because I had failed to get in this year didn't mean I couldn't try again. Why, Rodin himself had been rejected over and again. Camille looked at me questioningly and this time my smile was broad and warm and from the heart.

I smoothed a curl behind her ear. ‘My dear friend, you deserve this.'

Camille wrinkled her nose and laughed. ‘Of course I do! Am I not the hardest-working artist in all Paris?' She linked her arm through mine. ‘And next year, Jessie, we will be showing side by side, you'll see.'

We were about to go in when an artist balancing a canvas on his head bumped into us.

‘A thousand apologies,
Mesdemoiselles
.' He lowered the painting and clicked his heels.

‘Sasha!' Camille said.

The Russian beamed at us and pulled us both into a clumsy hug.

Once I was free, I nodded at his painting. ‘For the
vernissage
?'

‘
Da
. I work on canvas all night, all day, but is not finish and now is too late.' He was unshaved and looked haggard, with dark shadows under his eyes.

I steadied Sasha's picture to get a better look at it, careful to keep my fingers away from the wet oils. A field of golden wheat stretched into the distance under a cerulean sky. Peasant girls with their skirts tucked into their waists were bent over sheaves, their faces and arms browned by the sun. It was well executed but hardly an original subject: everyone from Millet to Courbet and Bastien-Lepage had done it to death. The critics would love it. Sasha headed into the Salon, already busy with viewers and artists frantically varnishing their paintings and making sure they were correctly hung.

Camille grabbed my arm. ‘Are the judges blind, to allow such a boring painting and keep out your works?' I was comforted by her words. Camille was a harsh critic, but her judgement was unerring; it was one of the reasons Rodin consulted her before he made any decisions in Studio M. He trusted her. We all did.

Camille and I followed Sasha through the crush of elegant Parisians, the women preening in jewel colours, the men conferring in top hats and tails like crows on a fence.

‘Look at her,' I whispered to Camille. ‘Over there in the pink ruched silk skirt and burgundy jacket. Isn't she elegant?'

‘Ridiculous, I would say. They all look like they should be at the opera, not looking at art.' Camille was wearing a simple dark dress but somehow stood out from the crowd despite her plain clothes. Next to her I looked as overdressed as a tropical parrot in green velvet trimmed with yellow silk. My new dress – bought in London by Ma to cheer me up – was far too warm for the stifling heat of Paris in August. My back was soaking by the time we'd fought our way into the centre of the grand hall where paintings hung two, three and sometimes four deep, from floor to ceiling.

Sasha stopped at an enormous ladder that stretched the height of the hall, and looked despairingly upwards. ‘Bastards in Salon hanging committee put me nearly on roof. Am I Michelangelo?
Nyet
. Is this Sistine Chapel?
Nyet
.' He ran his hands through his blond hair and looked as if he were about to cry.

Camille patted him on the back. ‘
Courage, mon brave
.' She gripped one end of the painting and pushed him up the ladder in front of her, shouting abuse at him, using the coarse words of a workman. I held the ladder and called encouragement, shaking with laughter. A small crowd gathered to watch Camille's progress. There were gasps when she neared the top and wobbled under the weight of the painting, applause when she steadied herself and handed Sasha her half. Ignoring her audience, she carried on shouting directions, hands on hips, a small figure backlit by the blazing electric candelabra. Once the painting was in place and Sasha was engrossed in putting the finishing touches to the canvas, Camille began to climb down. I was worried about her weak leg and was so absorbed in willing her not to fall that I didn't notice Georges until he was standing right behind me.

His mouth was sulky. ‘I wrote dozens of letters, all summer, but not one reply.'

I noticed with a stab of desire that his hair was longer, curling around the collar of his black velvet jacket. William had taken himself away and left me to face the world without him. But here was someone who desired me, who didn't judge me and find me wanting.

He was looking at me intently, waiting for my answer.

‘Georges. You startled me.'

A surge in the crowd pushed us together and his lips brushed mine.

‘Jessie, why didn't you answer my letters?'

A space opened up behind me and I stepped back. ‘I, I only received them last week when I returned from my walking holiday. I spent most of the summer travelling in Scandinavia with my parents and then I was so busy getting ready to return to Paris, I didn't have time to write back. I'm sorry.' I bit my lip and couldn't meet his eyes.

He frowned. ‘What's wrong? Your face is thinner and you look as if you've been crying. What's happened?' Georges was always most irresistible to me when he was being kind. I found myself telling him tearfully about William finding the portrait and reading the note. How I hadn't heard from him since. When I finished I looked up and saw the triumph in his eyes.

‘Can't you see how awful all this is for me?' I said, irritated.

‘On the contrary, it is exactly what you need, to be freed from that Englishman. Now we can be together. Everything has worked out perfectly, completely to plan!'

I was puzzled. ‘What do you mean everything has worked out perfectly. The whole thing is a mess, and it's not as if you planned it.'

He grinned. ‘Didn't I? I suppose I can tell you now, you'll find it amusing no doubt. That painting – the one of William and the two prostitutes?'

I winced and nodded. Why had I been so quick to jump to the wrong conclusion?

Georges put his hand on his chest. ‘It was I who persuaded Henri to paint that scene, and then to hang it on his studio wall and take you there so you were bound to see it – and think the worse.
Géniale
,
non?
And as for the portrait and the love note, well, that was a stroke of luck.'

I stared at him while he laughed. I had been a fool, tricked like a child into believing fairy stories that hid the ugly truths of the cruel adult world. Georges stopped laughing.

‘Come on now, Jessie, surely you're not angry with me. You can't blame me for doing everything I could to win you.
Après tout
,
all's fair in love and so forth.'

I hissed at him. ‘Of all the low…'

‘
Salut
, Georges!' Camille jumped down the last two rungs. Her face was flushed with the exhilaration of her climb. ‘
Dis donc
, Duchamp, where have you been all summer?'

Georges kissed Camille three times on the cheek. ‘Dying of boredom in my parents' country house, of course. And you, Claudel?'

‘Villeneuve with my family,
comme d'habitude
. The country was dull, dull, dull after Paris. I would have gone crazy except for a visit from Monsieur and Madame Rodin. They came for lunch one Sunday.'

There was a short silence. Camille was as shameless as Georges. Rosa was right: the two of them were like wild beasts, ruthless predators who would stop at nothing. And they got away with their behaviour. Here was Camille, rewarded for sleeping with Rodin by exhibiting at the Salon, while I had lost William and the chance of a good marriage and endangered my reputation – for what? A momentary lapse from which I'd pulled back. And here was Camille practically boasting about having carried on her affair not only under the noses of her parents, but that of Rose Beuret. Virtue is its own reward, my mother had always told me. Well, bugger that. I glanced at Georges. He looked amused. I wondered how much he knew, but he folded his expression neatly away.

‘Really?' he said. ‘I wish I'd been there. Such an interesting mix of people.'

Camille answered carelessly. ‘Oh, the visit was a great success. Rodin, Papa and I discussed art while Madame Rodin and Maman talked about the best way to turn a seam and how to boil up bones to make soup.' She laughed. ‘They got on famously, those two old women. It's no surprise – they are both classic
bonne femmes
.' Her beautiful face turned ugly for a second and I realised how much she hated Rose Beuret. I understood that this petty cruelty was the only way Camille could strike back at the woman she could not best, despite being younger and prettier than her. Camille was the one to be pitied, not Rose. But what had Rodin been thinking? Camille and Rodin had grown reckless. I realised the affair had taken a dangerous turn and I feared for my friend.

She turned to me and took my hand. ‘The rest of the summer passed too slowly. You see, I missed my Jessie so very much.'

Camille had missed me! She had hardly written, not more than a few dashed-off lines, blotted with ink and misspellings and I'd begun to think she had forgotten me as she fell in deeper with Rodin.

Georges' tone was dry. ‘Oh, Jessie has been far too busy to think about us. She's been swimming in fjords and scaling glaciers. I've always suspected she was one of those terrifying English ladies who scale the Himalayas with only a donkey for company.'

‘Just as well she likes donkeys then, eh, Georges?' Camille said, punching him on the arm.

Georges rubbed his sleeve. ‘How ladylike! I wish I could say I've missed you,
chère
Camille, but although deadly tedious,
les grandes vacances
at least gave my bruises time to heal.'

‘Oh stop moaning, you're worse than a girl.' She linked arms with us. ‘It is good to be back together.
Alors, mes copains
, let's go and see where they've put my sculpture. What did you submit, Georges?'

‘I didn't have time over the summer.' He waved his free hand. ‘Besides, all this, the Salon, it's old hat. They say there's a new place,
Le Salon des Independants
, it's
where all the avant garde are showing. I might try there, when I'm not so busy.'

In the sculpture hall, Georges spotted his old tutor and left us to go and talk to him. Camille nudged me.

‘All that talk of the Salon being out of fashion, I don't believe it and neither does Georges. He's just jealous because I'm better than him, the phoney.'

I was furious at Georges but I couldn't let this pass. ‘That's unfair. He's well regarded in the studio, and you've seen his work – it's exceptional.'

She shrugged. ‘When he sticks at it, or I should say when Jules Debois makes him stick at it. Don't you remember his studio?' I looked at her sharply but her face was innocent. ‘It was full of half-finished projects. He's been the same all the time I've known him – lazy. Never mind him, this is my day. Let's find my sculpture.'

We found her
Giganti
peering out from behind a potted palm tree. A few idle stragglers looked up briefly from their catalogues and glanced in passing at it before moving on to the next exhibits. Poor Camille – all that hard work and expectation only to be ignored.