too,” she said. “Never women.”
“Women do not shout in France,” said Laurent, smiling down at her as he pulled open the shutters that they closed each night at dusk. Their bedroom windows overlooked the street; the windows in the living room faced the courtyard, where it was quieter. She read in there on some afternoons, stretched out on the sage-green canapé with its unyielding plum pillows that smelled of cinnamon. (“Couch?” Laurent had said when she’d first used that word. “How strange it sounds. Like someone clearing his throat! Canapé , Jayne, use that word instead.”) She sometimes carried her laptop into the living room (“The salon !”) and answered e-mails after breakfast, or she wrote in her journal after Laurent had left for his espresso.
“I’m sure that Frenchwomen shout if a man is attacking them,” she said.
“Frenchmen are gentlemen,” he said. “We do not attack our women.”
She raised herself on her elbows, rolling her eyes. “Really? What about Dominique Strauss-Kahn?”
“He is a rare case,” he said. “You must get New York out of your head to live fully in Paris.”
“And Chicago and L.A. too, for that matter.”
“One day we will go to Los Angeles, and you will show me where all the film stars live.”
“I don’t really know where they live,” she said. “You’d have to pay for a tour that would take you to their neighborhoods.”
He did not look convinced. “You couldn’t take me?”
“I really don’t know where their houses are. I told you that my dad’s a lawyer and my mom’s a high school teacher, didn’t I? We don’t hang out with movie industry people.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“My parents live in Pasadena, not Beverly Hills. Their next-door neighbor owns a dry cleaner’s. They have a nice house, but it’s not a glamorous neighborhood.” She hoped they would continue to live in the house far into the future, but if her mother did leave her father, Jayne knew they would likely have to sell it. (When she’d mentioned her worries about her parents’ marriage to Laurent, he had hardly blinked. “It is not easy. I was not a success as a husband. I don’t think that many men are.” “My dad isn’t like you at all,” she said, not realizing until the words were out how offensive they likely sounded. But Laurent had not looked offended. “I have never thought that he is, and to be frank, I would hope we are not at all alike.”)
“I can show you where President Hollande lives,” he said.
“Everyone knows where he lives. It’s not a secret, is it?”
He laughed. “You are supposed to be impressed.”
“You’re being silly, and I’m still tired.” She lobbed a pillow at him. He dodged it and laughed again, tossing it back onto the bed.
It was the beginning of her third week in Paris, the first official day of summer, and she did not feel at all homesick. No longer having to share a 450-square-foot apartment with walls so thin she could sometimes hear her roommate snoring, no longer having to rely on the wan light that filtered in through their unit’s four windows, if the sun was out at all—she did not miss this. She did miss her friends, but even that wasn’t so bad. They had e-mail and Skype and texts; she talked to them almost as much now as she had in New York.
The light in Laurent’s apartment was the most pure of any place she had lived—not as bright as Pasadena’s, but more flattering, softer. Pure was his word, but she thought it fitting. “It is a mood,” he had said, “and the most important element of any room, of any work of art too. I knew when I first saw this place that I would buy it. It is not very close to my gallery, but it was too beautiful not to have.”
“You raised your children here?”
He shook his head. “Frédéric was living with a friend from the university when I moved in. It was a year or so after the divorce. Jeanne-Lucie lived with her mother and visited me two nights a
“Women do not shout in France,” said Laurent, smiling down at her as he pulled open the shutters that they closed each night at dusk. Their bedroom windows overlooked the street; the windows in the living room faced the courtyard, where it was quieter. She read in there on some afternoons, stretched out on the sage-green canapé with its unyielding plum pillows that smelled of cinnamon. (“Couch?” Laurent had said when she’d first used that word. “How strange it sounds. Like someone clearing his throat! Canapé , Jayne, use that word instead.”) She sometimes carried her laptop into the living room (“The salon !”) and answered e-mails after breakfast, or she wrote in her journal after Laurent had left for his espresso.
“I’m sure that Frenchwomen shout if a man is attacking them,” she said.
“Frenchmen are gentlemen,” he said. “We do not attack our women.”
She raised herself on her elbows, rolling her eyes. “Really? What about Dominique Strauss-Kahn?”
“He is a rare case,” he said. “You must get New York out of your head to live fully in Paris.”
“And Chicago and L.A. too, for that matter.”
“One day we will go to Los Angeles, and you will show me where all the film stars live.”
“I don’t really know where they live,” she said. “You’d have to pay for a tour that would take you to their neighborhoods.”
He did not look convinced. “You couldn’t take me?”
“I really don’t know where their houses are. I told you that my dad’s a lawyer and my mom’s a high school teacher, didn’t I? We don’t hang out with movie industry people.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“My parents live in Pasadena, not Beverly Hills. Their next-door neighbor owns a dry cleaner’s. They have a nice house, but it’s not a glamorous neighborhood.” She hoped they would continue to live in the house far into the future, but if her mother did leave her father, Jayne knew they would likely have to sell it. (When she’d mentioned her worries about her parents’ marriage to Laurent, he had hardly blinked. “It is not easy. I was not a success as a husband. I don’t think that many men are.” “My dad isn’t like you at all,” she said, not realizing until the words were out how offensive they likely sounded. But Laurent had not looked offended. “I have never thought that he is, and to be frank, I would hope we are not at all alike.”)
“I can show you where President Hollande lives,” he said.
“Everyone knows where he lives. It’s not a secret, is it?”
He laughed. “You are supposed to be impressed.”
“You’re being silly, and I’m still tired.” She lobbed a pillow at him. He dodged it and laughed again, tossing it back onto the bed.
It was the beginning of her third week in Paris, the first official day of summer, and she did not feel at all homesick. No longer having to share a 450-square-foot apartment with walls so thin she could sometimes hear her roommate snoring, no longer having to rely on the wan light that filtered in through their unit’s four windows, if the sun was out at all—she did not miss this. She did miss her friends, but even that wasn’t so bad. They had e-mail and Skype and texts; she talked to them almost as much now as she had in New York.
The light in Laurent’s apartment was the most pure of any place she had lived—not as bright as Pasadena’s, but more flattering, softer. Pure was his word, but she thought it fitting. “It is a mood,” he had said, “and the most important element of any room, of any work of art too. I knew when I first saw this place that I would buy it. It is not very close to my gallery, but it was too beautiful not to have.”
“You raised your children here?”
He shook his head. “Frédéric was living with a friend from the university when I moved in. It was a year or so after the divorce. Jeanne-Lucie lived with her mother and visited me two nights a
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