Martin stood me up.

I sit at the corner table at ten past eight, and my wine is warm. The waiter is discreet, but this time he looks at the empty chair. The other diners are oblivious, and that is the only saving grace. I do not want them to know I care.

It is three years since Christmas in Sainte-Maxime. In Nice, we are mother and daughter with two easels, and one day her art will surpass mine. In Paris, my apartment feels lived in, a fusion of new colours, inherited furniture, and the things I have collected along the way.

Cami and I have lunch on Wednesdays. Her voice is the honesty of my conscience. We have our other days, too. Her body is an inspiration. My thoughts can match her needs - most of the time. The weekends are a laissez-faire arrangement. I can afford to be choosy.

And Martin? From a glimmer of permission and our Christmas confessions, the mists of history meet today’s weather. Ice melts, and deep waters warm. We are libertines together, and with a look between us, it is there unspoken. For months, it was sunny and fine.

Recently, dark clouds threaten.

Valérie, his personal assistant, keeps his diary. Her matter-of-fact attitude always risks provoking me.

This morning, she messaged me: Le Cinq, seven-thirty, booked in your name.

Cami and my friends think he is deliberately elusive. I was sure they were wrong. Now? I worry they are right.

My phone on the table illuminates.

I am so sorry. My meeting ran over. I cannot make it. M x

The hovering waiter understands my gesture, and I pay for the wine.

-=- 91 -=-

Outside, the plane trees are black against the streetlamps. I walk to the corner of Rue Saint-Dominique and call Cami.

She answers at once.

“Elodie. Everything okay?”

“No. He didn’t turn up.”

The sound of the bar fades, and I can hear slow-moving traffic.

“He did it again?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did he call?”

“No, he messaged me.”

“Shit. That man. He stands you up there of all places.”

“He is busy, Cami. And I am not chasing after him.”

“You don’t think?” She sounds hesitant.

“What? Valérie? No, I know Martin.”

“Elodie, please. She can move meetings. He can send a message before you arrive.”

“Cami… I thought…”

My voice cracks. I will not bare my emotions.

“I know.” Cami pauses. “It’s Le Cinq. I don’t blame you for thinking that. You can’t though until he stops doing this to you.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“Listen. Drop by my office tomorrow. Say, twelve-thirty? We’ll have lunch.”

“I will, and thanks again. Ciao-ciao.”

“Ciao-ciao.”

My apartment is dark and empty. I switch on my beautiful lamp and play some Billie Holiday. In the kitchen, I pour a glass of chilled white wine and unwrap some crudités. I will eat something despite my lack of appetite.

Reclined on the chaise, the velvet is cold. I cannot help but think of him. Martin was only here last week.

Valérie moved meetings for him then.

-=- 92 -=-

I would not let him stay in a hotel during Paris Fashion Week and pay their inflated prices.

I had an ulterior motive, too.

His new offices near the Bourse smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. With three staff members, he looked so proud. He introduced me to Valérie, fresh-faced, aloof, efficient, and plainly dressed to match. Whilst she spoke, I looked at Martin’s hands. They did all this. We were far away from the nervous young man with a vocabulary of ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Merci’.

We rode a taxi together, and I slid my hand into his. I wanted to be something that those hands held and wanted.

His case stood by the bedroom door. I was too proud to give him space in my wardrobe. There was a place for him in my bathroom cabinet. I did not offer it. A toothbrush in the holder would have been a presumption. I wanted him to ask.

In the morning, he took a fresh shirt out of his case. He left for work, and I painted. Using my palette knife, I deliberated on how I should behave that evening.

When he returned, I did not greet him with a kiss at the front door. He told me he was tired of speaking French all day. We switched to English. He looked overworked, and I worried that light in his eyes might go out again.

I wanted to cook, and I fed him, hiding how proud of him I was. I served wine and watched his worries ease. We talked about Aurélie’s maths attainment, his new client in Lyon, and whether these apartment windows needed blinds and not curtains.

When they visited, Sophie and Laurent could not decide.

Martin sat reading one of my English books - Kingsley Amis. I rose and rummaged through my CD collection. I preferred the mellifluousness of vinyl, but this would do. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours. Stevie Nicks looked so beautiful on the cover.

When it started playing, his hands came up to my waist. I turned and faced him. Caressing his cheek, I gazed into his eyes. I had my chance to say something then. Yet, I was a coward. His mouth tasted of the wine we opened but had not finished. These kisses were never goodbye. They were always hello. I loosened his tie, changed my mind, and pulled him to my lips with it. I stifled his laughter and would not stop until I heard his first gravelly moan.

We eased onto the chaise longue. His tie was off. Our kisses were the soft September rain. His trousers opened, his belt off. Everything hit the floor with a clatter. His shirt rested open, and my hands had to explore all of him until I knelt between his legs.

I took him in my mouth.

Now, I saw the light blazing in his eyes.

“Christ. Go easy on me.”

I held it and kissed it, with cunning eyes full of need. “Never.”

Standing, I pulled my dress up and tugged my panties aside. He reclined on the Chaise, and I sank onto him. My eyes flickered. I had the full girth of him to the hilt. Now, I showed him what I wanted.

The soft piano stayed gentle until the next song played. I rode him in short strokes, then longer. My hands on his chest, posed on him for what I craved. The velvet caressed my knee. I slid my hand to where we joined, and revealed where my fingers danced. This was my mood. I wanted him to see all of me.

I came first, searing it into his mind.

He turned me, laid me down and took me. My leg rubbed against his. My hand pulled, trying to take more. Screaming guitars inspired us, and I pleaded for him to keep going. My lips sucking on the crook of his neck as each thrust tried to knock the air out of me.

Gazing into my eyes, I came harder.

“Sit on the edge…” He would not halt.

“…Martin.”

I wanted to believe in miracles. Perched on his lap, my silent lips pressed to his and spoke for me. Rolling my hips, I placed my deepest secret there. It lived in my gaze as I held the back of his neck, and I plunged for him.

I felt him swell.

“Cum for me.”

In my arms, Martin held me tight. I took it all.

Glowing with a saturated heat, he added to it.

“Better?” It was all I could manage.

“One way of putting it.”

I kissed him. “We needed that.”

He kissed me. “Well, I wouldn’t have got that at the Hilton.”

I tried to laugh. “So romantic.”

“You taught me everything I know.”

“Touché.”

We lounged on the chaise. He stroked my hair as Songbird played. I closed my eyes, wishing he would listen to Christine’s words.

“Elodie, I have to go tomorrow.”

“I know.”

I looked up, and he smiled.

We slept, and I clutched his arm, refusing to let it go. In the morning, I did not give him a reason to leave. I watched, amused, as he dressed in a hurry. Valérie had to cancel his first appointment. Martin tutted as he held out his shirt cuff, lamenting that it had snagged some vermilion left on the floor. He draped it over a chair and kissed me. I learned to hate the sound of those suitcase wheels.

After the door closed, I put on his shirt. Naked underneath, it smelled like him, and I carried him inside me. I ached because of him.

At my easel, I moved on from my palette knife to a rigger brush. The light was excellent. I kept looking at the door. I hoped he forgot something. I wanted him to come back and see me like this. He would know so much more than he did last night.

He did not come back.

I painted until the light cooled.

Then, I hung the shirt in my wardrobe, on a hanger.

-=- 93 -=-

It is mid-morning when my phone lights up, and I see his name. I let it ring several times before I pick up.

“Elodie, I am so sorry.”

“You wrote that last night. Wrote. That.”

“I am saying it now. They insisted on drinks afterwards, and I need their business.”

“Did you get it?”

There is a long pause. He knows this is a test. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Then the night was worthwhile for one of us.”

He does not reply. I hear his office behind him, and someone calls his name in French.

“I’m in Paris next week.”

I remain silent.

“Elodie. Please. I will tell Valérie to block an afternoon and evening for us.”

“Tuesday, then. Tell her.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“See you, Martin.”

“Oh,” he paused. “Bye.”

On Tuesday, I was in Nice, holding Aurélie's hand at the dentist for a tooth extraction. I winced with her. The dentist talked about the molar, two dissolvable stitches, and antibiotics.

Valérie messaged me that he was in a taxi on his way.

I messaged Martin: I am in Nice. Don’t wait for me.

Now, he knew he was under my skin.

I felt small and stupid.

-=- 94 -=-

Walking from my front door, I carry the bouquet in my arms. There are too many to count right now. They are English Roses in deep crimson, with a single word on the card – Martin. The florist is on Rue des Martyrs, so he chose these himself. I put them in the jug Grand-mère used to hold meat stock. They are good flowers too.

This makes me feel worse.

He rang just before dinner.

“Hello, Elodie. Did you get them?”

“I did.”

I will not thaw in the pause.

“Can I see you again soon? I can stay if you want, say Thursday into the weekend? I owe you dinner.”

I look at the jug. “Come here. Forget about dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, Martin. Thursday evening is a Gallery event. I have to be there.” I pause. I know he hates those. “So, you could come on Friday if you prefer.”

“No… no… I can do that.”

“Okay. Ciao-ciao.”

“Yeah, see you soon.”

As I hang up, my heart decides to speak up and argues with my head. My stunt in Nice was cruel. I should have said so. The apology was mine to say. I broke my own promise, too.

My diary as my witness.

I eat, but my appetite fights me, too.

I call Cami, and she is stuck in her office, working through her accounts. I listen to her complaints and why keeping invoices is a good idea.

“So, any progress with you-know-who?”

“He sent me flowers.”

“What kind?”

“Red Roses, twenty-four.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath, “Oh-la-la.”

“I told him he can stay for a long weekend.”

“After you stood him up? Did he say anything? Did you?”

“Yes. No, and no.”

Cami is quiet for a moment.

“Elodie, what do you want from him?”

I sigh, “I just want to know what I mean to him. I played a certain album last week. He should know what it means.”

“An album?”

I stop myself. “Oh, God. It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassed? You?” She pauses. “You do remember that night a few weeks ago, don’t you?”

She whispers, “The word for what we took part in is ‘Orgy’.”

“Cami…”

“Spill it, Duprix.”

“It’s the album I played our first night when we… oh God, Cami, it was years ago.”

She laughs. “And he didn’t notice?”

“If he did, he should be an actor.”

“It sounds like you are stuck. You want my advice?”

I am hesitant. “If it’s fuck his brains out and then ask him. I got halfway there.”

“With the album?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…” She pauses. “You could just ask him, and then fuck his brains out.”

“I…”

“You scared?”

“Yes! Terrified. I can’t ask. I daren’t.”

“Listen. He paid for missing dinner. Walk a few steps in his shoes. You’ve never made it easy for him.”

“I know.” My shoulders wilt.

“You do, so you can work it out. Look, I need to go. Eva is hovering. She wants to go home, and so do I.”

“Okay, thank you, Cami. Really. Ciao-ciao.”

“Lunch, and tell me what you’ve decided. Ciao-ciao.”

-=- 95 -=-

Years ago, this was our little game. I was de Beauvoir, he was Camus.

Sartre could fuck off.

My cover was a week-long artist workshop in Roquebrune-sur-Argens. Instead, we travelled to a windswept Rouen, remote and far from anyone who might know us. The hotel pretended it did not know what we were doing. It had many names and all of them required Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

We walked, ate, laughed, and fucked. No call home left me feeling guilty. My sense of liberation was too great to overwhelm it. For a week, I remembered what being with Martin felt like.

It was our last day, and the heating in our room was fierce. We were naked and sheened with sweat. I claimed him and took him in my mouth. His taste lingered until I finished my wine glass. He wanted more. I wanted him because he wanted more.

Martin had his mouth on me with that swirling tongue, lips, and the friction from his fingers. I stretched out, grabbed the bedstead and arched for a big one. I pulled him up by the hair. I wanted his weight. I wanted to be full of him instead of an afternoon of acrylics.

He fucked me hard. I held the bedstead bars and met him thrust for thrust. I did not want faked tenderness with the lights off, and five minutes of shoving. His hand covered my mouth when I got loud. I bit his hand. He swore. He knew everything about me, and used it all without mercy. The lust I had for him had to go. I could not wear its stain back in Paris. I had to burn it off, and he gave me everything he had left. The bed rocked, the springs complained. I clamoured for him, and he would not stop. I crossed my heels around his back until I croaked, seized and came harder.

Martin turned me over and took me from behind, hauling me back with both hands on my hips. I pushed to meet him. He was a man in the truest sense, and I would not go down without a fight. He talked the way that only an Englishman can. Calm, aloof, with filthy words he only used for me.

He made me feral, wanton, abandoned in a way that only my tawdriest fantasies allowed. I dressed for this occasion: stilettos, stockings, suspenders, and the rest of it lay scattered on the floor.

I did what he said. I gave everything to him as well.

My hair was wet through, matted into lashes which swung in time. I played the provocateur, and this was my punishment. I lurched, and my head fell. He gathered my hair and used it as a leash, driving into me.

My demands were rhetorical. “Do it, Martin. It’s yours.”

I wanted him to hear it. I wanted more as his body tied up, and he was swollen, squeezed inside me. Martin came hard, bucking until he was spent. We collapsed onto the bed and lay there in silence. He gathered me into his arms and held me close. My fingers toyed with his bicep as I lay with him, contented in the silence.

“Leave him.” I felt his coarse, gravelly voice inside me.

“Martin?”

“Divorce him. Both of you can live with me.”

“I cannot.”

“You can.”

I leaned up and looked at him. “Martin, I cannot do that.”

“No, you will not.”

He was right.

I did not cry and let a cold chill settle between us. If I cried, he would hold me and reach the truth I buried deep inside. I got out of bed and looked at him. In his wounded eyes, I saw my betrayal.

Our affair ended that night.

At the train station, he asked me again. I shook my head, and my hand slipped from his. This was forever, and I wept all the way home.

In my apartment, it is dark now, the windows black with the night. I sigh deeply, rising from the chaise longue.

The flowers in the jug are an insult.

I switch on my beautiful lamp in the window. Walking through my apartment, I add more light. My crystal vase is under the sink. I wash it, and it shines, filled with tiny rainbows. Rescuing the bouquet, I arrange the roses carefully.

The vase goes on the mantel where it belongs.

My grandparents would be proud of me.

If anyone were going to ask, it would be me.

On Thursday.

No ifs, no buts.

-=- 96 -=-

On Thursday, Martin is late. The afternoon turns into early evening. My guts twist and then knot.

Valérie messages me: His Eurostar is delayed. Give me the gallery address. I will get it to him.

My heart sinks. I want to deny it, but my intuition says something is wrong.

Very wrong.

I call him and get his voicemail. All I can do is hope he is on his way. I ride the taxi to Montmartre alone in my Mondrian-patterned dress. It still fits perfectly. This is another emblem, and one I hope Martin notices this time.

The gallery is full when I arrive, spilling out into the street. The walls and art are obscured. A dealer uses my surname when buyers are near. Someone laughs at the price. My dented confidence takes another knock. My Florac canvas of the pond is upstairs. I head there, hoping for good news.

Cami sees me at the foot of the stairs.

“Hi.”

She looks concerned. “You look as if you are going to be sick.”

“I think Martin is going to end it.”

“Because of last Tuesday?”

“Because of that, because I have been cold toward him… and cruel. Because I have not asked him. If he wanted this, he would have told me by now.”

She embraces me. “I’m here, okay?”

“If it happens, just get me out of here.”

A handsome man steps out from behind her, and he looks nervous. He holds Cami’s jacket, draped over his arm.

“Pierre, this is Elodie. Now, try a sentence, and then stop.”

“Hello.” He offers the wrong hand, but I shake it anyway. “Sorry. I’m Pierre.”

I look at Cami, a little confused. She nudges him.

“I’m Cami’s… oh, that sounds like I’m her pet dog. I’m with Cami. You’re the artist. I saw the pond, it’s beautiful. I don’t know what else to say about pictures.”

“That will do,” Cami reassures him.

She leans in. “He’s easily overwhelmed by people he doesn’t know.”

I nod along. “Is this the man you were telling me about?”

“Yes. He’s wonderful and kind. Be patient until he gets to know you. He’s got a fantastic cock...”

“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter and roll my eyes.

Cami nudges me. “There he is.”

Martin stands in the adjacent corner, parking his case behind the counter. In a grey suit and one of his blue shirts, he takes a glass of wine from a tray. His kindly smile vanishes instantly. With a sixth sense, he looks in my direction. I watch as he approaches for any signs, and three becomes four.

Cami flashes me that look. She is impressed. I ignore her.

“Hello, Elodie.”

This is all the greeting I get.

“Martin. This is Camille, and Pierre.”

“Hi.” She embraces him and gives him an air kiss on both cheeks.

Pierre should have shaken his hand. He does the same.

Martin takes it well.

“So, you’re the Englishman.” Pierre is flustered. “Cami says you are never where you say you will be.”

Martin looks blankly at him.

“Erm, I don’t mean that as...an insult.” Pierre swallows. “Erm, it’s only what she said.”

He looks at Martin, then at me, and laughs at nothing.

My wide, horrified eyes fix on Cami.

“Okay. More wine.” She takes Pierre’s elbow.

“Yes… erm, good idea,” he adds.

“You have done enough,” she hisses, and whisks him away.

Martin sips his wine. “Does anyone else know about what is happening between us?”

I shake my head.

“Martin.” My wine glass trembles. “If you are going to finish this, you can say it here, right now.”

A tray floats past. He puts his glass on it. “Come outside.”

“So, that’s it then. It ends where it began.”

“Not here.”

“Martin,” I plead.

“Please, Elodie.”

-=- 97 -=-

I follow him, and we venture into the cooler night air, close to Place des Abbesses. Two mopeds rattle past, noisily. I watch indifferent people walk on by as Autumn pivots toward Winter. We walk into the park, close to those precious words in three hundred languages.

We stand in front of them. Martin reveals nothing and dips into his jacket pocket. He holds something small and cylindrical.

His eyes drop to it, and mine follow.

It is the music box, and its poisonous song.

I look up.

He puts it in my hand. “If you can wind it up and play it. I have something to tell you.”

“Martin...”

I know I look afraid, and my trembling hand takes it.

The key winds for the School gates and easels. It turns again for the battle between the careful woman and the libertine. I will keep the two sides of me in balance. I do this for Julien, who lit the flame, and Marthe, who told the truth. It clicks because I will never forget Manon, and the fear I can hurt others. I keep going for Sophie and Laurent, and the ugly lamp that now lives in Florac.

I sought redemption in Avignon and played matchmaker in Le Brusc. I realised the scar on my heart never healed. I wrote the water-stained page and reached out to Martin in Sainte-Maxime.

I will never apologise for who I am.

And I do this for the faint hope of love. An unconditional love that I thought I lost forever.

A tear comes, and I am too slow to wipe it away.

The spring is tight, and I gasp at its mercy.

I look at him, and the tune comes out thin and melodic.

La Vie en Rose.

I hear it in the street, and no one cares.

Except him and me.

That evening of seafood on ice, and the accordion player who played this song just for me. We rode the funicular. I was desperate for him to kiss me. I bought this for him in Place du Tertre to touch his hands. Then, he kissed me like no other man ever has.

“Martin…” I am helpless.

He takes a deep breath, “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Y’know I had a speech prepared and everything.” He does not smile. “I love you, Elodie Duprix.”

I gasp, “Again.”

“I love you.”

He opens his arms, and I throw myself into them. He staggers a little.

I hold him tight. “I love you, too.”

I feel it everywhere, all at once. My lips place it on his, a new emotion, wiser and smarter.

“I love you so much.”

The music box plays on until the spring tires. A man with a dog walks around us. We do not move. Martin looks down at me and wipes my tears away.

“You and your gestures.” I kiss him.

“Well… someone has to be romantic.” He grins.

“Meaning?”

He looks around, and then back at me. “This place. Paris, and you. You taught me that. A long time ago. I never forgot it, y’know? You are the only woman who deserves it.”

I kiss him again. “That’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever said.”

“Come on,” he smiles, and gestures back the way we came. “I’m taking you home.”

Martin retrieves his case. I see Cami, and blow her a kiss and smile. She raises her glass and makes a phone call gesture. Pierre smiles too and gives me a thumbs-up.

He looks more relaxed - thank God.

-=- 98 -=-

In my apartment, I lock the door. Martin sets the music box on the dining table.

“The Mondrian dress.” He raises an eyebrow. “Nice touch. Our first rendezvous at the Palais Garnier.”

He grins widely. “You had me at Rumours. Songbird?”

I purse my lips. “Why you!”

He holds me close and kisses the fight out of me until I lose count. I ease his jacket off him. I allow my dress to fall to the floor.

I take his hand, and the bed holds us. The layers we remove are the years that kept us apart. Every kiss opens another door. Light-headed, my feelings run free and lift like the scales from my eyes.

I slide down and taste him. The light in his eyes is there as a beacon to follow. I look at him and will never look away. I am one woman, here, with one breath, one heartbeat, knowing that I have his love. He will know that I treasure it. He will always feel wanted.

When he enters me, the pause is the emotion. My beautiful man says those words again. They flow easily through me. My words reply. My body and soul answer. We move. We stay close. No distance, no denial.

We are true to ourselves – together.

It arrives as heat, and the knowledge that I am his. My climax reaches beyond the physical as my body might quake, but my mind rejoices. There is nothing left to count. No scores are kept that make me cry. There is nothing to run away from, but everything to run towards.

I hover over him, as my wet kisses beguile. I hunch over him and drive on, watching his surrender and triumph.

“Martin. What you said in Sainte-Maxime?”

I kiss him.

“You are the love of my life, too.”

I kiss him again. No more years of almost, nearly, and not quite. I found the courage and wound the music box. I let the tune play. In the half-light of this room, I name what I need.

Him, all of him, always him.

The light in his eyes is mine. He waited. I waited. Neither of us waits any longer.

As he arches, and my lips are on his.

“Yes,” I plead, “for me.”

I take him there, and move until he cannot anymore.

We lay still. I am safe in his arms, still hearing those words from the park.

“Stay tonight,” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Martin.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stay forever…”

-=- 99 -=-

It is Saturday.

The blinds and curtains block the light, leaving only a halo around the window. His arm rests across my waist. I pry myself away and look back. I caress his face and feel the smooth and rough of a midnight shadow. He rouses, and I shush him. He works so hard.

“I’ll bring some tea.”

His shirt rests over the back of a chair. I will not steal it. I am not a habitual thief. He finds me naked underneath one while I paint. It is a dangerous game to play. The sunlight in front of me illuminates them, revealing my body. Then, we play a guessing game. I never know if he might fuck me there and then. Sometimes, I cannot wait and pounce. I love that.

The parquet floor holds the summer heat beneath my bare feet. I put the kettle on.

Aurélie left me a message at seven. She will be here for eleven-thirty. My daughter starts University in September. We found her some accommodation in the Latin Quarter, and she wants to see it.

I have tea mugs. I frown at them. I drink it, too, but I draw the line at sliced bread.

In the bedroom, Martin opens one eye. It follows me as I place his tea on the nightstand.

He lumbers to sit up, bleary-eyed, his hair a little crumpled. I kiss him, propped up in bed next to him.

“Good morning, my beautiful husband.”

He frowns. “Good morning, beautiful wife.”

He looks suspiciously at me. I laugh. I wear my engagement ring from all those years ago. We added a wedding band only last week. We are complete.

“All good?” he asks.

“Yes. We must be at Gare de Lyon for eleven-thirty, then the Latin Quarter, and a late lunch.”

Martin nods. He holds his mug and softly blows on it.

He sips. “Perfect.”

He glances at me. “Looking forward to today?”

“Very much.” I beam at him.

“She’s coming home.”

- FIN -