in front of
Déjeuner sur l’herbe
and the same enthusiastic attendant talks them through the scandal of the naked woman. She thinks how ironic it is that she now has her husband here, where she had wanted him this morning, and it is too late. It is all too late.
And eventually there they are, in front of the little picture.
She looks at it, and he steps forward.
‘“
Wife, out of sorts”
,’ he reads. ‘“By Édouard Lefèvre”.’ He studies it for a moment, then turns to her, waiting for an explanation.
‘So … I saw it this morning … this miserable, neglected wife. And it just hit me. That’s not how I want to be. I felt suddenly as if the whole of our marriage was going to be like this – me wanting your attention, and you not being able to give it. And it scared me.’
‘Our marriage isn’t going to be like that.’
‘I don’t want to be a wife who feels ignored, even on her honeymoon.’
‘I wasn’t ignoring you, Liv –’
‘But you made me feel unimportant, and on the one occasion I might have reasonably expected you to just enjoy us being together, to just want to be with me.’ Her voice lifts, becomes impassioned. ‘I wanted to stroll around the little bars of Paris and sit down and drink glasses of wine for no reason, my hand in yours. I wanted to hear about who you were before we met, and what you wanted. I wanted to tell you all the things I’d planned for our life together. I wanted to have lots of sex.
Lots
of sex. I didn’t want to walk around galleries alone and have coffee with men I don’t even know – just to kill time.’
She can’t help but be a tiny bit gratified by his sharp sideways look.
‘And when I saw this painting it all made sense to me. This is me, David. This is how I will be. This is what’s going to happen. Because, even now, you can’t see that there’s anything wrong in spending two days –
three
days – of a five-day honeymoon pitching for business to a couple of rich businessmen.’
She swallows. And her voice breaks. ‘I’m sorry. I … I can’t be this woman. I just – can’t. It’s who my mother was and it terrifies me.’ She wipes her eyes, ducking her head to avoid the curious glances of people passing.
David stares at the painting. He doesn’t speak for several minutes. And then he turns to her, his face drawn. ‘Okay, I get it.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘And you’re right. About all of it. I’ve – I’ve been unbelievably stupid. And selfish. I’m sorry.’
They fall silent as a German couple pauses in front of the painting, exchanging a few words before moving on.
‘But … but you’re wrong about this painting.’
She looks up at him.
‘She’s not ignored. She’s not symptomatic of a failing relationship.’ He moves a step closer, gently takes her by the arm as he gestures. ‘Look at how he’s painted her, Liv. He doesn’t want her to be angry. He’s still looking at her. Look at the tenderness of his brushstrokes, the way he’s coloured her skin there. He adores her. He can’t bear that she’s angry. He can’t stop looking at her even when she’s furious with him.’ He takes a breath. ‘He’s there, and he’s not going away, no matter how much he’s enraged her.’
Her eyes have filled with tears. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t believe this painting should mean the end of our marriage.’ He reaches out, takes her hand and holds it until her fingers relax around his. ‘Because I look at it and I see the opposite from you. Yes, something’s gone wrong. Yes, she’s unhappy right then, in that moment. But when I look at her, at them, at this, Liv, I just see a picture full of love.’
Chapter Six
1912
A thin rain had started as I began walking the streets around the Latin Quarter shortly after midnight. Now, hours later, it had soaked my felt hat so that the drops seeped down the back of my collar, but I barely felt them, so steeped was I in my misery.
Some part of me
Déjeuner sur l’herbe
and the same enthusiastic attendant talks them through the scandal of the naked woman. She thinks how ironic it is that she now has her husband here, where she had wanted him this morning, and it is too late. It is all too late.
And eventually there they are, in front of the little picture.
She looks at it, and he steps forward.
‘“
Wife, out of sorts”
,’ he reads. ‘“By Édouard Lefèvre”.’ He studies it for a moment, then turns to her, waiting for an explanation.
‘So … I saw it this morning … this miserable, neglected wife. And it just hit me. That’s not how I want to be. I felt suddenly as if the whole of our marriage was going to be like this – me wanting your attention, and you not being able to give it. And it scared me.’
‘Our marriage isn’t going to be like that.’
‘I don’t want to be a wife who feels ignored, even on her honeymoon.’
‘I wasn’t ignoring you, Liv –’
‘But you made me feel unimportant, and on the one occasion I might have reasonably expected you to just enjoy us being together, to just want to be with me.’ Her voice lifts, becomes impassioned. ‘I wanted to stroll around the little bars of Paris and sit down and drink glasses of wine for no reason, my hand in yours. I wanted to hear about who you were before we met, and what you wanted. I wanted to tell you all the things I’d planned for our life together. I wanted to have lots of sex.
Lots
of sex. I didn’t want to walk around galleries alone and have coffee with men I don’t even know – just to kill time.’
She can’t help but be a tiny bit gratified by his sharp sideways look.
‘And when I saw this painting it all made sense to me. This is me, David. This is how I will be. This is what’s going to happen. Because, even now, you can’t see that there’s anything wrong in spending two days –
three
days – of a five-day honeymoon pitching for business to a couple of rich businessmen.’
She swallows. And her voice breaks. ‘I’m sorry. I … I can’t be this woman. I just – can’t. It’s who my mother was and it terrifies me.’ She wipes her eyes, ducking her head to avoid the curious glances of people passing.
David stares at the painting. He doesn’t speak for several minutes. And then he turns to her, his face drawn. ‘Okay, I get it.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘And you’re right. About all of it. I’ve – I’ve been unbelievably stupid. And selfish. I’m sorry.’
They fall silent as a German couple pauses in front of the painting, exchanging a few words before moving on.
‘But … but you’re wrong about this painting.’
She looks up at him.
‘She’s not ignored. She’s not symptomatic of a failing relationship.’ He moves a step closer, gently takes her by the arm as he gestures. ‘Look at how he’s painted her, Liv. He doesn’t want her to be angry. He’s still looking at her. Look at the tenderness of his brushstrokes, the way he’s coloured her skin there. He adores her. He can’t bear that she’s angry. He can’t stop looking at her even when she’s furious with him.’ He takes a breath. ‘He’s there, and he’s not going away, no matter how much he’s enraged her.’
Her eyes have filled with tears. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t believe this painting should mean the end of our marriage.’ He reaches out, takes her hand and holds it until her fingers relax around his. ‘Because I look at it and I see the opposite from you. Yes, something’s gone wrong. Yes, she’s unhappy right then, in that moment. But when I look at her, at them, at this, Liv, I just see a picture full of love.’
Chapter Six
1912
A thin rain had started as I began walking the streets around the Latin Quarter shortly after midnight. Now, hours later, it had soaked my felt hat so that the drops seeped down the back of my collar, but I barely felt them, so steeped was I in my misery.
Some part of me
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