because I was going crazy wondering who she was, and why
she still had so much power over Marc.
I paid the bill and got
on the Metro, almost boarding the wrong train but getting to my stop
with the help of an Australian tourist. Back above ground, every
street looked the same – narrow, picturesque, and lined with
elegant stores and cafés. I walked in circles for ten minutes before
spotting a shop with a fluttering awning and a marble bench beside
the door.
Across the front window
was a single word etched in cursive – Désir. I had to smile.
I lingered on the
sidewalk feigning interest in the display, a couple of antique
dressmaker mannequins dressed in funnel-collar sweaters. Finally,
heart thrashing against my ribs, I walked inside.
At the counter stood a
woman in her early twenties with bobbed red hair. She seemed to be
the only person in the store. After we exchanged bonjours I sifted through a rack of blouses, feeling ridiculous and out of
place.
I was stalking my
dominant lover’s crazy ex-girlfriend and she wasn’t even here.
Meanwhile, I had loads of work stacking up and an editor who wanted
it all in her inbox yesterday. What the hell was I doing? When had I
become so pathetic?
I glanced up just as a
pretty, model-thin woman emerged from a back room. Her oval face was
all red lips and wide green eyes, with a slender, aristocratic nose.
She wore a black silk blouse with ruffled cuffs and a gray skirt
cinched at the waist by a wide belt. Her light brown hair was pulled
into a fashionably loose ponytail that fell to mid-back.
We looked nothing alike
– I was at least three inches shorter and curved where she was
straight – but there was something about her quiet manner that
reminded me of myself.
“Claire,” I heard
her say. “I have to leave early tomorrow. Can you stay until
closing?”
I studied the price tag
on a sequin top. She was British. She was about Marc’s age. It had
to be her.
I drifted toward a
table of carefully-folded t-shirts. The woman I assumed was Lydia
began folding scarves on a shelf a few feet away.
“Excuse me,” I said
before I could stop myself. “You speak English?”
Her mouth turned up in
a good imitation of a smile. “Yes. Can I help you find something?”
“I – I’m not
sure. A fitted blazer? Wool?”
“Certainly,” she
said. “Right over here.”
I followed her to a
rack and stood beside her as she pulled out a few pieces. “This
color would look fabulous with your hair,” she said, holding up a
cobalt blue collarless jacket.
“It’s very pretty,”
I said.
“Are you on holiday
in Paris?”
My heart picked up
speed. “I write for a travel website called Wanderlust .
I’m working on a story about the Marquis de Sade.”
Nothing changed on her
face except her eyes, an unmistakable shift in awareness. There was
no doubt now. It was her.
“You’re visiting
historical sites?” she asked, her tone falsely chirpy.
“And talking to his
descendants. I’ve been doing interviews and looking at old
documents.”
She raked hangers back
and forth. “He has living relatives?”
“Yes.” I hesitated,
my mouth dry. “But uh…maybe you knew that already.”
She drew a breath and
let it out in a quick huff. “I did, in fact. I know – I should
say, I knew one of
them.”
“Oh? Who?”
“His name is Marc.
Many years ago we were…friends.”
I suddenly wanted to
turn and run. There was nothing I could say without giving everything
away.
“Have you interviewed
him?” she asked, a strange, frantic note in her voice.
“Yes.” I cleared my
throat and glanced up. She stared at me intently.
“And how –” she
began, but stopped as the realization came to her. For a long moment,
neither of us spoke.
“I found a note,” I
said. “A handwritten note. Do you know anything about it?”
Seconds passed. She
frowned as if deciding whether to tell the truth. “My name is
Lydia,” she said, putting out her hand. It felt cold and
she still had so much power over Marc.
I paid the bill and got
on the Metro, almost boarding the wrong train but getting to my stop
with the help of an Australian tourist. Back above ground, every
street looked the same – narrow, picturesque, and lined with
elegant stores and cafés. I walked in circles for ten minutes before
spotting a shop with a fluttering awning and a marble bench beside
the door.
Across the front window
was a single word etched in cursive – Désir. I had to smile.
I lingered on the
sidewalk feigning interest in the display, a couple of antique
dressmaker mannequins dressed in funnel-collar sweaters. Finally,
heart thrashing against my ribs, I walked inside.
At the counter stood a
woman in her early twenties with bobbed red hair. She seemed to be
the only person in the store. After we exchanged bonjours I sifted through a rack of blouses, feeling ridiculous and out of
place.
I was stalking my
dominant lover’s crazy ex-girlfriend and she wasn’t even here.
Meanwhile, I had loads of work stacking up and an editor who wanted
it all in her inbox yesterday. What the hell was I doing? When had I
become so pathetic?
I glanced up just as a
pretty, model-thin woman emerged from a back room. Her oval face was
all red lips and wide green eyes, with a slender, aristocratic nose.
She wore a black silk blouse with ruffled cuffs and a gray skirt
cinched at the waist by a wide belt. Her light brown hair was pulled
into a fashionably loose ponytail that fell to mid-back.
We looked nothing alike
– I was at least three inches shorter and curved where she was
straight – but there was something about her quiet manner that
reminded me of myself.
“Claire,” I heard
her say. “I have to leave early tomorrow. Can you stay until
closing?”
I studied the price tag
on a sequin top. She was British. She was about Marc’s age. It had
to be her.
I drifted toward a
table of carefully-folded t-shirts. The woman I assumed was Lydia
began folding scarves on a shelf a few feet away.
“Excuse me,” I said
before I could stop myself. “You speak English?”
Her mouth turned up in
a good imitation of a smile. “Yes. Can I help you find something?”
“I – I’m not
sure. A fitted blazer? Wool?”
“Certainly,” she
said. “Right over here.”
I followed her to a
rack and stood beside her as she pulled out a few pieces. “This
color would look fabulous with your hair,” she said, holding up a
cobalt blue collarless jacket.
“It’s very pretty,”
I said.
“Are you on holiday
in Paris?”
My heart picked up
speed. “I write for a travel website called Wanderlust .
I’m working on a story about the Marquis de Sade.”
Nothing changed on her
face except her eyes, an unmistakable shift in awareness. There was
no doubt now. It was her.
“You’re visiting
historical sites?” she asked, her tone falsely chirpy.
“And talking to his
descendants. I’ve been doing interviews and looking at old
documents.”
She raked hangers back
and forth. “He has living relatives?”
“Yes.” I hesitated,
my mouth dry. “But uh…maybe you knew that already.”
She drew a breath and
let it out in a quick huff. “I did, in fact. I know – I should
say, I knew one of
them.”
“Oh? Who?”
“His name is Marc.
Many years ago we were…friends.”
I suddenly wanted to
turn and run. There was nothing I could say without giving everything
away.
“Have you interviewed
him?” she asked, a strange, frantic note in her voice.
“Yes.” I cleared my
throat and glanced up. She stared at me intently.
“And how –” she
began, but stopped as the realization came to her. For a long moment,
neither of us spoke.
“I found a note,” I
said. “A handwritten note. Do you know anything about it?”
Seconds passed. She
frowned as if deciding whether to tell the truth. “My name is
Lydia,” she said, putting out her hand. It felt cold and
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