This is my Paris. The radio is on low, and I am singing along to Indila. Badly. On a changeable day, the sun peeks through and shines on the grey zinc roofs. Its long rays rest on the parquet floor.

The last of the stripped wallpaper sits in a rubbish bag. My easel stands proudly in a corner, happiest in a Northern light, full of stories from those months away.

Peering through the window, I look down on Rue de Caumartin. It is thriving for a Monday. A moped hesitates around a delivery van. Someone laughs too loudly for the start of the week. This place was my grandparents' idea of solace. Now it is mine.

Looking at the stripped walls, I know Grand-père would have hated the mess. He swore in English as if I did not know any of those words.

I did.

Grand-mère kept the good china in the cupboard with a sticking door. I found the saucer with the tiny crack, and a menu from a restaurant that no longer exists.  

They always had guests. My parents were busy, or I was being too much of a brat, so they left me here instead. I would eat the Mille-feuille my Grand-père bought for me. I sat here, engrossed, listening to grown-ups talk, sometimes in French, sometimes in English. I liked to surprise them by replying in English, too. They called me precocious, and I like to think they meant it as a compliment.

Afterwards, Grand-père would ruffle my hair and congratulate me on being patient. We would walk to the park with some boules and play until the sun went down.

I have not sold their furniture. I love the Chaise Longue too much. Its prone ghost lies under a large white sheet. I pick up something to wipe my hands on. A letter, an estate agent chasing death, tells me how much this place is worth and what their commission is. I use it to wipe the paste off my hands.

The ugly lamp sits in the window. It needs to stay until Sophie and Laurent get here. I will value their opinion on it and the curtains.

Surveying my work so far, I sigh.

This is my Paris. I do not fear her.

-=- 81 -=-

Sipping the first from a fresh cafetière, I linger at my easel. Aurélie is a budding artist, taught by me until the money ran out in April. She is in a classroom right now, annoyed at a teacher or delighted by a friend.

The business card Sophie gave me rests on the mantel. It does not look out of place on the Art Deco fireplace. I stare at it: Camille Barreau in blue embossed ink and a number. On the back, an address for a street I know well.

I am a libertine, and a mother. These threads come in different colours. The fabric of my life has them as its warp and weft. I am not silk or cotton, or rough mixed with smooth. But I feel stronger when anything tries to pull me out of shape.

I am me.

I call the number on the card.

A woman answers on the second ring, as if she's had the phone in her hand.

“Camille Barreau.”

“Hello. I'm Elodie Duprix. Sophie gave me your card. She’s married to Laurent.”

I wait for a warm sound of recognition.

“Sophie and Laurent! How are they? They owe me a visit.”

“They were well.”

“You visited them? In Florac? I have not had the chance. So, why are you calling, except to say they spoke highly of me, I presume.”

“They do.” I do not have the heart to say they almost forgot her. “I'm an artist, with bills to pay, and I’m wondering if you can help.”

A cup touches a saucer.

“And how do you know them?” I can hear her smile.

“I painted a picture of the fig tree in their courtyard.”

“Is that all?” she purrs.

It flushes my face. “Erm….”

“Well, Elodie. Before we meet, answer me this. Are you a libertine?”

I choke with surprise. “That's direct.”

“Well, you know them well enough they gave you my card. You can bristle, but I like the sound of your voice as it is.”

I look at the naked walls. I can empathise.

“Yes. I am.”

She snorts, and then laughs.

“Bravo. So, what are you doing on Wednesday, eleven-thirty?”

“Nothing.”

“Excellent. Bring a folio of your best work. You have my address?”

“Yes. And, Camille?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I count on your discretion… about...”

“Of course. Ciao-ciao.”

She hangs up.

“Ciao-ciao,” I mutter.

The radio drones on about the strike on the RER.

-=- 82 -=-

Her second-floor office comes with a customary bored-looking assistant. In the reception, photographs of commissions sit in the glass-and-steel hulks typical of La Défense.

I am early. Camille resents it, but forgives me as her eyes settle on mine. She is raven-haired and striking. Her neutral expression smoulders like hot embers. She wears a black trouser suit, cinched and snug to her slender figure. The royal purple satin blouse hints at her personality. It doesn't hide the crease of her décolletage either.

I thrust my hand forward. Instead, we embrace and exchange two air kisses.

“Eva, two coffees, good ones.”

Camille raises an eyebrow. “How do you take it?”

“Oh, as it is. No milk, no sugar.”

She grins. “You like it bitter?”

I grin back. “Like my heart.”

She laughs.

I lay out the folio's contents on the table under the skylight. She tilts her head and moves silently over the sheets. She steals glances at me, and I pretend not to notice. Once, she clicks her tongue. Then, she goes back a sheet and stays.

“This sketch is the best. It wasn't a holiday, was it?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Hmm. Collioure requires inspiration. Love, death, something from life. It cannot be taught.”

I look at her. I dare not test her patience. “A secret love.”

She smiles. “I thought so. It is excellent.”

“And these.” She taps the Salins of Aigues-Mortes. “Competent. This is how you starve while everyone is being nice to you.”

I agree.

“This one,” she gestures to the fig tree. “People will want to sit under it.”

“I painted it in oils.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes. I had two commissions on my travels.”

Already, we have an understanding.

“For how much?” she asks.

“Eleven hundred for the Camargue. The fig tree was free.”

“Free?” She frowns.

“For Sophie and Laurent.” I blush a little.

Camille stares at me, not letting me look away. “Ah. They paid another way.”

She is amused. I take a sip of coffee to compose myself.

“And this,” she taps at Mont Boron. “What is the appeal of Nice? It is overrated by many artists.”

“My daughter. She lives there with my ex-husband.”

“Ah.”

This seems to curtail her verbal jousting. “Listen. I didn’t expect you to be this accomplished. Can you stay for lunch?”

“Yes.”

She smiles. “We can talk some more.”

-=- 83 -=-

The terrace is full of people enjoying the first hint of the summer to come. The light is the pale gold of spring, illuminating pallid skin that needs sunshine. A man reads a newspaper as a prop, using it to steal glances at a woman at another table. I order a salade Niçoise, a healthy habit I picked up on my travels. Camille orders fish and a pichet of white wine. She asks for two glasses.

Her curiosity about so many different places in my paintings breaks the ice.

“So, you're not nervous?”

“Of lunch?”

“Of being back here after such a long break. Have you apologised to any waiters?”

I smile. “I was born here. If Aurélie, my daughter, needs me, I can leave early and be back late in one day. She is settled now at high school.”

“Practical.” Camille tears some bread. “My son is all grown up. He's in Lille. A railway engineer.”

I am perplexed. “If I can say, you don't look old enough.”

She gestures to accept the compliment. “I was eighteen and stupid. Still, he’s a credit to me. He's nineteen in December.”

“And now I know your age,” I muse, sipping more wine.

She shrugs. “And you are younger than I am.”

I shake my head. “Two years older.”

“You have been outdoors too much. You look ridiculously healthy.”

I laugh. “You’re the third person to say that.”

“Artists.” She rolls her eyes. “I admit, you are interesting. I was expecting at least a small speech about the excellent light in the south.”

She eats more bread.

“The artistic temperament,” she grumbles.

“Oh, I left all my speeches there. They were emotional and cumbersome.”

She tells me about a dealer who only buys pictures of windows. I tell her I despised those in Aix, but I can paint plenty of them from there. She laughs with her eyes first. The man at the table approaches the woman at the other table. He flatters her clumsily. She asks for the bill.

Camille leans in. “He'll pay in a different way later.”

We giggle.

I cannot help but let the smile linger. “You like it here?”

“I like this place in the same way I like the circus. And, you're about to be looked at, and I want you to pay attention to it.”

Now I am confused.

She reclines, and I see her hunger. Enjoying her overt nature, I smile back and feel that heat rise. It is not on my face.

“You are definitely not the typical artist.”

“No, I am not.”

We share the moment.

Camille leans in. “Now. I have a good friend. Solène. I think we should meet her together.”

She holds up her finger. “But. This is not a poster and print shop. Solène has her own network. She is not part of the Hundred, but you will do well.”

“Camille, sincerely, thank you. That’s very good of you.”

“It's Cami to my friends.”

I smile. I am taken by her. “Okay, Cami.”

She orders another pichet. The sun turns its face onto the terrace. Our waiter performs with an elegant competence. He is raffish, handsome, and I am tempted. She watches me notice. Her lips curl in approval, and I know where the wine has gone. My mind races with the possibilities.

Cami sets her glass down.

“Two more things, and then you can tell me to shut up.”

“Go on.”

“Solène is difficult. Not sentimental, which is why what she exhibits sells. You show her the Camargue watercolours, and she will buy one, maybe two. When they sell, you offer an oil painting from one of the sketches. She will be interested.”

“Thank you.”

“That's one thing.” She looks at the other patrons, then at me. “The next one is not a condition of introducing you to Solène.”

“Oh?”

She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Come back to mine this afternoon. I don't want to walk back to the office second-guessing you.”

Careful words hover on the tip of my tongue. I know I look hesitant.

“I'd like that, but… I am a little rusty.”

“Rusty is fine. Say yes, before you talk yourself out of it.”

I see a kindness in her expression.

I like it.

-=- 84 -=-

Place des Abbesses sits at the foot of the Butte, and Montmartre on the hill smears into Paris. The ground slopes, and the café tables are angled to look level. Guimard's Metro arch stands in jade-green iron, like whip lashes and flourishes. I pass the carousel and admit I rode on it when I was twenty-three, but she does not ask who with.

We walk through the little garden. Cami tells her assistant firmly to postpone her afternoon appointments. I pause at the wall where "I Love You" is spelt in three hundred languages. The words are faded where hands have touched them.

Including mine… with Martin.

Cami looks at me and sees the wistfulness in my eyes. “The same man as the carousel?”

I nod. “A long time ago.”

She does not pursue it.

A moped buzzes by. Cars are head to toe in traffic. An older couple quarrel about a dog. The dog looks bemused. The woman wears an ancient red coat and sounds like she has never been wrong.

I look at the honey-coloured oak door, and then at Cami.

“You can still say no.”

“I won't.”

It is cooler now in the gloomier corridor light. I am glad of my jacket. Camille's apartment smells of bergamot and black tea. Paintings lean against the walls. A Ranunculus has already begun to drop a petal. She throws her keys into a dish and does not turn on the overhead light.

She waits, one eyebrow lifted.

-=- 85 -=-

Cami kisses me in the bedroom doorway. Not deep. Her lower lip asks, and for a second, I answer. My stupid hands rest at my sides, as if lunch had not happened.

She draws back. “Elodie?”

“Sorry. It’s been a while.”

“Shush.” She pulls me closer. “Show me who you are.”

I take her face in my hands and kiss her. She makes a noise into my mouth, surprised and not surprised. Then again, and she replies. I succumb to it. Elegance slips away as our need intensifies. The sound is wet in the quiet room. Her fingers find the buttons of my dress. One ticks onto the parquet and rolls under the bed.

“Leave it.” she whispers. “I want a souvenir of you.”

Her jacket hides her curves. It goes, revealing them one garment at a time. Her blouse follows. The afternoon light gilds her naked skin. My lips chase hers. My hand follows the curve of her shoulder, down her arm.

I kiss the top of her breast. Her brassiere strap catches. My heel knocks a picture frame. I linger on her cherry nipple, looking up for approval, and she presses me to it. She swears, softly, and her laugh goes straight between my legs.

“You wanted this since you came to my office.”

She holds me close, exposing my neck to kiss it.

I murmur. “Since I had your card, I wondered what you looked like.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, far from it.”

“On the phone you sounded like you wanted to slap me.”

“Maybe I did.”

Pushed onto her bed, I squeal with laughter. My limbs are crooked. She prowls, and I try to say something clever. She presses a finger to my lips. She is right. I kiss it. Smiling, she traces the outline of my mouth.

I stare at the picture on the wall until a tender vacuum nuzzles my neck, and I close my eyes. I can feel her heat against my leg, and my hips need the friction of my sex against her thigh. She places her weight on me, our heads tilt toward each other, and restless hands tempt. My fingers trace the canyon of her spine and slide down to clasp her behind. Her body twists. Her limbs push back. It is playful, and I relent.

Plucking my nipple adds to my restlessness. My arms rest above my head. My eyes track hers as she descends my naked body.

I am lost in her willful gaze. The swish of skin against skin, the smooch of her kisses, the delicate scent of her perfume. The tip of her tongue draws a spiral around my breast in an ever-decreasing circle. Her fingers foreshadow her intentions. The tingling pleasure pools at my core as she toys with my erect nipple, and when the other is engulfed, I whimper. I open my thighs, and my hips will not be quiet.

My back arches. I reach out and caress Cami's face. She turns into it and kisses my wrist. The time and the failing light mean nothing. We are alone in the room. Her fingers roam, and I ache to be touched. They trace around the mound of my breast, along my waist, and rise over my hip to where I need them most.

When she presses them there, I deflate with a long groan, elated that I am no longer teased. I pull her to my lips, easing my tongue into her mouth. She breaches me, her two fingers curve, and my whimpers let her know she is there. Her thumb chases my pulsing clit.

This is not transitory, or a test. I am watched from above.

“Show me,” she commands, and flicks at my nipple. “I want to close my eyes tonight and remember the look on your face.”

This is different, and her confidence intoxicates me. I have to bite my lip as their soft pads graze that place within. It gathers in the distance. She is there, enjoying this intimate spectacle as I show her how much I want this. It rises louder, escalating. I am flooded as she enjoys the reveal of my sexuality. It rumbles stronger until I cannot hold myself together.

My hips lift and fall. My limbs begin to shake. Peering up to see me so lost, she dives to suck on my nipple. I am wound up so tight, my eyes lock on hers. Her slippery tongue flicks again, and I am mindless.

She is more than a provider of the sublime. I see it deep in the reflection of her gaze.

At the pinnacle, my mouth opens, my features soften, and I quiver to a halt. I am revealed, and I show her who I am. Seizing on her, I cry out and pull at the sheets. I bury the sobbing cries in the crook of her neck, holding on tight, or I will come apart across the bed.

We lie crooked, glowing, hunting air. A careful finger sweeps a damp strand of hair from my face.

Cami's flushed cheeks dimple. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Like that? Yes,” I gasp.

She takes a sip from the glass on the nightstand and shares it with me.

I try to speak. She presses a finger to my lips.

I kiss it again.

-=- 86 -=-

My head rests against her. Twilight beckons, and my button is still under her bed.

“Elodie, you flinched in my office, looking at the Collioure sketches.”

I glance at her. “I sold a picture of a girl in Nice. Manon.”

“You don't have to say any more.”

“I do. I made a promise to myself.” I gaze at a hairline crack in the ceiling. “She was an art student. She asked me to teach her a painting technique. I taught her something else.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. She was twenty, knew what she wanted and never apologised for it. I envied her. I stayed at her apartment for a few days.”

“And there’s a but.”

I nod, and then I sigh. “I fell for her. She fell for me. I wasn’t ready. I would have hurt her if I stayed or left. I left.”

I swallow, on the edge of tears. “I never explained why, and still feel guilty about it.”

Camille is silent for a moment. “I did that, too.”

“You did?”

“After my husband taught me lots of terrible words. Then, he cheated on me. So, I told him to fuck off on a Tuesday. He was shocked.”

I turn to look at her. She grins, and I know I can, too.

“There was a woman who was kind to me. I was starved of that.” Her tone is serious again. “I knew it wouldn't last. I didn't say so until she had moved in with me.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Oh.” Cami holds my hand as a gesture of solidarity. “For six months, if I'm going to be accurate.”

She takes a deep breath. “I hate being accurate.”

I turn my head. She will not look at me.

“Cami, I thought you were going to call me a coward… or worse.”

“You were. So was I.” She rolls to face me. Her hand finds my hip again. “When our hearts are broken, we are not careful with others.”

She pauses, and then kisses me. “Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“I said that to a woman in Avignon, thinking I would redeem myself.”

“It didn’t work, did it?”

“No.”

My shoulder aches where she bit me. I slide into her embrace, and she holds me close.

“You know what struck me about your expression in my office?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“I was looking in the mirror at myself.”

“Is that good?”

She kisses my forehead. “Yes, but we are not good. You are like me. We try our best.”

-=- 87 -=-

Solène happened on the Friday. Difficult, as advertised, but she sold the Camargue watercolours in a week. I offered an oil painting of the Collioure. She agreed.

I called Cami.

“Do it, and meet me Tuesday night. My apartment, and bring something to stay overnight.”

I held the excitement in for four nights. That evening, we exhausted it in an intense hour. Our stories continued. Words came easily. I kept my promise to myself.

I told her what happened between Martin and me.

He calls occasionally, and he is married to his business interests. We talk. I await a visit from him, but so far, nothing. My glimmer of permission remains. It is all I can offer.

In the weeks since, Solène hosted a Gallery soirée. I called Cami my best friend. She liked that, a lot. I ached the day afterwards.

Right now, she sits in my lounge.

The Collioure painting cures against the wall. I do not give her the cracked saucer. My coffee is too strong, and she pulls a face. I take it from her, tut, and add more water. She tells me her son called her from Lille. She does not always know what to say, but says it anyway. I am more fortunate with Aurélie. We can paint together. We eat a quiche off the best china, and green leaves in a bowl. My wine choice complements her tastes.

Sophie wrote to me, and I share the excitement of writing something tawdry in ink on paper. Cami leers. I do the same, and explain that my invitation will spur me on and finish my apartment.

She reads it from the bureau and snorts. “They will want the lamp. Don’t let them have it.”

“They will want us both. You will gladly hand that ugly thing over in exchange. I know I will.”

-=- 88 -=-

We drink more wine and loosen our inhibitions. We do not need to, but our fantasies live there. Water seeks the path of least resistance. We are no different. Cami defines the struggle between patience and lust. I am hot, glowing inside, half-sated, and we gorge ourselves on each other again.

Side-by-side, my legs open, her mouth kissing my sex, lapping at it with her tongue. I am doing the same, chasing her clit. I roll her underneath me, and hold her thighs open for more. She pulls on my hips, and slides her tongue inside me.

“Fuck!” I exclaim.

If I let her, she will make me cum again. I have other plans. I ease away from her, turn to face her, and get my sweetest revenge. I watch Cami as my fingers glide over the broad expanse of her breast. I kiss the comma scar. Its nipple hard against my flicking tongue. With two fingers inside her, she takes them with a grunt.

“Deeper,” she pleads. “I am not a china doll.”

The heel of my hand meets her. My mouth stays at her breast. She rolls her hips and takes my fingers deep, hot as wet silk inside her. I twist them and enjoy how she writhes, too. I watch her face in the way she watched mine.

“Come here,” she asks. It is barely a whisper.

Her hand reaches to the back of my neck, pulling me down, mashing her mouth to mine. There is no politeness now. We devour each other and snort for air, pushing and pulling as she shows me her strength. I have her as she takes me. We are both natural leaders, both assertive with our lovers. One of us has to give. I am not in that mood.

Her cunt flutters. Suddenly liquid, my fingers hook, they twist, they press deep. I keep her guessing. I push my tongue into her mouth and feel how she presses to push out the tension. She catches my wrist, holds me deep. I know what she needs, goading that place inside her. I am playing with fire.

Her teeth press into my shoulder. The bite blooms hot. I do not stop.

Cami flails, and then shakes. Her legs stiffen and tremble as her hips twist. She is sensitive, gasping softly, then slowing into silence. I show her how slick and shiny my fingers are. I feed them to her, grin, then taste them myself.

“Look at you.” I kiss her, sharing it.

I see her devious gaze. “You did this.”

Tempting fate, I smile back.

Cami leers at me, “My turn.”

She slides herself between my legs and grazes her sex against my aching cunt.

Our two rhythms miss. There is no choreography. She towers over me, pressing down hard, waiting for me to grind back. I do, and we meet. We swell and fall, finding the pace set by her fiery gaze. It builds as we arch, our bodies unable to restrain themselves. Her eyes smoulder. My body burns. My fingers sink into her flesh to haul her with me.

Her confidence is the most potent aphrodisiac. My ascent is unstoppable, and I let her know it. My long, impassioned cries answer how easily I am undone. I am flushed, sweating, and we skid together.

I climax, messier, all my sinews tight, and they recoil when I convulse. Neither of us is arranging the other. We are a frantic tangle. This is need and want, and I watch it take hold of her. Now, I see her eyes ablaze, searing into mine. She is a canvas I want to paint, a woman deep in the throes of intense orgasm. Her thighs shudder, her body spasms. Her groans break over her shallow breaths.

Cami collapses onto me, pressing her mouth to mine. She hunts for air, still kissing me.

I lie abandoned, my limbs scattered as she looks at me as a feast to devour. My breasts heave for air. She kisses them. Her lips rest close to my mound. A string of saliva drips onto the smooth skin.

The air is snatched from me when her mouth cups my sex.

I am mindless.

-=- 89 -=-

Cami rings at six, as the tawdry June heat finally decides to wane.

“Put a dress on, and not the one you wore for Solène. Do you have a little black number?”

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“The blue door.”

My heart leaps and then pounds, drying my throat. “Cami…”

“Wear your best lingerie, the black and red. Slutty, but elegant.”

“Erm…”

“Do what else you need to do,” she mutters. “Oh, and I shaved it all off. I can’t stop touching it.”

“Oh fuck, you will be the death of me…”

“Do the same. I dare you. Oh… yeah, you already do.”

“Cami… I…”

“We are going, no more chickening out.”

I swallow. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do, and Elodie? Your commission came through. La Défense.”

We scream at each other in celebration, then I remember how old I am.

“It’s a big deal. So don’t fuck it up,” Cami is suddenly serious. “And… I’m paying tonight. Call it a refund on my usual fee.”

I laugh, “Well, if you put it like that.”

Rue Thérèse is a short taxi ride and a far more distant memory. The night is young, tipping into the double-digit hours. Cami can see how nervous I am, and she is delighted, the wretch.

We are discreet and walk for the last few minutes.

The streetlight casts long shadows on the portico. In this light, the unsigned door is midnight blue. Rough, hewn sandstone and vaulted ceilings lie beyond it. Soft-lit mirrors frame the restaurant and bar. Beyond the crimson velvet drapes, there is fucking… lots of fucking.

The doormen only smile for regulars.

“Ready?” Cami offers.

“I knew this place before you did.”

“I know.” She stands, her chin proud. “You seem to have forgotten, though. Now is not the time to be a prude.”

I give her enough side-eye to signal my exasperation.

Opening her bag, Cami pulls out a black filigree mask and hands it to me. It is velvet, well made, with a little weight to it.

She holds it out. “It makes sense to have your own to keep.”

She laughs at my expression.

“Very funny.” I join in.

We knock, and the door opens. I conceal my mix of excitement and trepidation.

The doorman sees Cami, and he gives her a small smile.

She turns to me, winks, and takes my hand.

“Welcome home.”