The Last Dress from Paris(45)
He unrolls the sketch again for her, close enough for Alice to see every movement his pencil has made, every mark where he has corrected himself and reimagined her. This time, her arms have fallen open at her sides, her head elevated, her face composed and gently smiling, looking toward the sky, as if it is the last remaining place to appeal for strength and inspiration. If before she looked defeated and lost, now she looks more capable, almost content.
It is the most moving and intensely personal thing she has ever seen. For a second or two she is completely lost for words.
“I’m crying,” she whispers. Despite the smile, her eyes in the sketch are closed and there is a single swollen tear balanced on her otherwise smooth cheek, on the very cusp of falling. She feels those same tears press at her eyelids now.
“Do you think it’s accurate?” There is barely any space between their faces now. He is giving her no chance to avoid the question.
“It’s not what I expected. This level of scrutiny.”
“But do you recognize yourself?”
“Yes. It’s . . . alarming in its accuracy.”
“For me, it’s the honesty of the image that makes it so beautiful. You are human, Alice, you are allowed to feel things. I didn’t seek to erase your emotions. It’s how I see you. You have spirit. When will you allow yourself to use it?”
Alice swallows hard. “I don’t know what to say to you, Antoine. I can’t answer your question. Your sketch is beautiful. In one sense, it’s the most beautiful anyone has ever made me look, made me feel. But I’m married. You know I am. Just meeting you here is a huge risk for me. This won’t be an easy thing to explain.” She needs him to understand the significance of what they’re doing, the impact it could have on her.
“Do you have to explain yourself? Does Albert explain himself to you?” There is an indignant edge to his voice that makes her recoil slightly.
“That’s not how it works, is it? You know that as well as I do. I don’t have the choices or freedoms open to me that he does. He doesn’t stop to consider the rights or wrongs of meeting another woman. But I must.”
“And yet you are here?” His boldness gives way to hope.
“Yes, I am. Please don’t make me feel like I shouldn’t be.”
Antoine finishes his coffee in serious silence while Alice worries she has said the wrong thing again. That he’ll realize it is a mistake to bring her here and suggest they go their separate ways home. She braces herself for the disappointment. He slowly replaces his cup onto its saucer.
“I want you to sit for me, Alice. I want to see all of you. I want to know all of you. And I want to capture it.” If it were merely a question of him saying the right thing, Alice knows she would already be in his bed. He has understood perfectly what she needs, what’s lacking in her life: the freedom to be completely herself, to drop her guard, to say precisely what she thinks and feels with no sense of right or wrong, to be equal in every sense. For a man to put her pleasure before his own. But as strongly as she feels it, she can’t say any of it.
“How, Antoine? How can I say yes to any of these things without risking everything that I have?”
“Would you really consider it such a very great risk? Is it so much to lose?”
Her mouth instinctively moves to say yes, but she stops herself, not wanting to give a predictable, expected answer rather than a truthful one.
Antoine releases a huge sigh and looks toward the café door.
“The car is waiting where it dropped us off. I think I should get you home. It will be getting light soon, and I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
She feels she has let him down. That he waited all those hours in the cold and all he wants in return is some sign that she is brave enough to perhaps just try. To open her mind to what might be. To a happiness that might exist beyond the fickle glamour and privilege of embassy life and its cliché cast of characters—and a husband who has probably not even paused to wonder where Alice might be at this hour, whether she is sleeping soundly in their bed or not.
Antoine sees her into the car, then closes the rear passenger door behind her, remaining on the pavement as she lowers the window.
“I’ll walk,” he tells her. “It won’t help if anyone sees me when you get dropped off.” He leans in through the open window and cradles her chin in his hand, angling her face toward him so he can place the softest of kisses on her cheek. It’s fleeting, gone before Alice has time to turn and offer him her lips instead.
“Try to love me a little, Alice,” he whispers, “because I think I already love you too much.”
Then he bangs on the side of the car, signaling the driver to pull away—an act it takes all of Alice’s strength not to stop.
11
Lucille
WEDNESDAY
PARIS
I wake late with a parched mouth and the sort of headache I know will take a fistful of painkillers to shift. In hindsight, that third bottle of wine last night was probably not the smartest move. Where’s my phone? I grope around for it, knowing it will be buried in the plume of duvet somewhere. Wednesday morning. I should be sniffing out the last slice of mold-free bread to toast for breakfast. Or standing in a piping hot shower, giving myself the usual midweek pep talk about remaining positive and how everyone has to do a job they hate to get where they want to be. My time will come, et cetera.