The house was awfully quiet without them. But I was still getting pedicures regularly, and wearing bright red nail polish so I could wear high-heeled sandals. I had given up dating a few months back, but not my new image. That summer, I cut my hair short. Helena was still wearing her mane like Farrah Fawcett. So be it. Roger loved it. And everything else about her.
And then, four days before the kids were due to come back, I made a decision. I had nothing else to do, no reason to wait around New York until they got back. It came to me at midnight on the fifth day of an unbelievable heat wave. I had seen every movie in town, all my friends were away, and it suddenly made sense to me to meet them in Paris. I decided to fly over on a special fare, and got a great deal for the trip back. And they made it so easy and so painless, it seemed worth it.
I made a reservation at a funny little hotel on the Left Bank, a place someone had told me about, owned by some fading French movie star who served divine food and catered to interesting and elite clients. I packed my bags before I went to bed, and flew out the next day. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle at midnight their time, on a warm summer night at the end of July, and the moment I arrived, I knew it was magic. It was the most perfect night that had ever been, in the most romantic city on the planet. The only trouble was that I was sharing it with a cabdriver who reeked of sweat, and was happily eating a raw onion. There was a certain Gallic charm to it, as long as I kept the window open. I did, but mostly so I could see the sights as we drove through Paris. The Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, Place Vendôme … and the Pont Alexandre III as we drove toward the Left Bank, where my hotel was.
I wanted to get out and dance, to stop someone, to talk to somebody, anybody, to be alive again, to share it with someone I cared about. The problem was the only man I'd cared about in twenty years was Roger, and he was still in the south of France with Helena and my children. And what's more, even if he'd been in Paris with me, I wouldn't have given a damn by then. I could no longer remember why I'd ever been in love with the man, and like him, I had finally begun to wonder if we'd ever loved each other. Or maybe I'd just been in love with the illusion of him, and how comfortable it all was, and he was in love with my trust fund. I had accepted that possibility long since, but I was also grateful to him that I no longer had to pay him alimony. That little opportunity for growth on my part had ended when he married Helena. Now all I had to do was pay him child support, enough to support a small orphanage in Biafra. Roger was a sweetheart.
Meanwhile, there I was in Paris, staring at the view, looking up at the Eiffel Tower, and admiring the bateaux-mouches on the Seine, all lit up like Christmas. Alone, which was essentially what I had been for the last two years, and possibly thirteen before that. What's more, I had not only lost my illusions, my innocence, my youth, when I lost Roger, I had also lost my flannel nightgowns. I had given up a lot for Roger. I had grown used to my own company, occasional solitude, and the slippery cool feeling of the satin nightgowns that had replaced my flannels. I had brought four of them with me to Paris, a new batch actually, since the first ones I had bought right after he left had already gotten tired.
I paid the cab when I reached the hotel, and carried my own bags inside, and when I saw the lobby, I was not disappointed. It was a little jewel, and the most romantic place I'd ever seen, run by a boy at the desk who looked like a porn star. Very pretty, but half my age, and I realized as he took me to my room, glanced sensually at me, and handed me the key, that he had recently consumed an extraordinary amount of garlic, and deodorant was not something he used often.
The view from my room afforded me a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and a corner of the garden of the Rodin Museum, and the room was blissfully quiet. There was no sound anywhere, as I climbed into the canopied bed, and slept like a baby until morning. And then, like a baby, I awoke starving.
Croissants and coffee the color of tar arrived in my room on a tray with beautiful linens and silver, and a single rose in a crystal vase. And I devoured everything but the rose and the linens. I took a bath, and dressed, and then spent the day wandering around Paris. I have never enjoyed a day more, seen as many exquisite sights, or spent quite as much money. I bought everything I loved, or liked, and even a few things I eventually decided I hated. I found a shop that sold extraordinarily beautiful underwear and bought enough of it to become a courtesan in the court of Louis XIV, and when I got back to the hotel I spread it all over the bed, bras and tiny underwear and garter belts I had no use for. I raised an eyebrow as I looked at it, wondering if this was a sign from God. Dating again? Oh God, no, not that … not the lions in the Colosseum again. I decided to wear it for myself. Maybe my son Sam would love it. It might teach him something. I could hear him thirty years hence … my mother always wore the most beautiful underwear and nightgowns. It would give the women in his life something to live up to, and Charlotte something to sneer at. I wondered if she would still want the nose pierce. All I wanted was to spend the rest of my life in Paris, in the underwear that was lying all over my bed.
The hotel had no room service that week, due to a problem in the kitchen, other than croissants and coffee in the morning, so I decided to wander down the Boulevard Saint-Michel and look for a bistro. I had had lunch at the Deux Magots, alone, listening to the Parisians and watching tourists. I felt incredibly grown up as I left the hotel. This was true independence. I had finally made it. Victory. In French underwear. I was wearing the pale blue set I had bought that morning, and stockings with garters. But who would know it? Only the police, if I had an accident, a cheerful prospect…. Like my thoughts of Sam earlier on, I could just hear the French gendarmes commenting to each other what fabulous underwear the corpse wore. But I managed to stay alive, underwear intact, all the way to the bistro. And then I saw him.
I had just ordered a Pernod, a bitter licorice-flavored drink I'd hated all my life, but ordered because it seemed so French, and a plate of smoked salmon. I wasn't really hungry but thought I should eat something, and I found myself staring at him when the waiter set the Pernod down. I was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and an old pair of black loafers. I'd left the high-heeled sandals back at the hotel in my suitcase. I wasn't trying to look sexy here, just enjoy myself until I met the children. I had left Roger a message that morning about where to bring them, so he didn't put them on the plane to New York.
The man I was staring at was tall and slim, with broad shoulders, and eyes that seemed to take everyone in. He was long and lanky, and had a way of sitting there, leaning back in his chair, as though he had a part in a Humphrey Bogart movie. I guessed him to be somewhere in his early or mid-fifties, and for some reason suspected he was either English or German. He had that kind of cool look about him. I knew he wasn't French, and surmised from his somewhat complicated exchange with his waiter that he didn't speak it either. And then I saw him reading the Herald Tribune.
I have no idea why, other than sheer loneliness, or boredom, or chemistry perhaps, but I was fascinated by him. With hordes of Frenchmen wandering nearby, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Something about him mesmerized me. He was handsome, certainly, but only slightly more so than other men I'd seen, but there was an aura of undeniable attraction about him, and worse yet, I suspected that he knew it. Even reading the Herald Tribune, he looked sexy.