A Paris Apartment (6 page)

Okay, so maybe April had one teensy problem with the ex-wife. It wasn’t about the gossip, either. Nor was it about Susannah’s looks (prettier, if not older) or that she birthed Troy’s two daughters. No one could compete with the warm bath of postbaby love into which every couple dunked, however briefly, however shitty the marriage. April had no ambitions to unseat the mother hen and could suffer steely Nordic looks and lithe, beautiful teens all day long. But April could not stand feeling dumb.

Susannah didn’t have a better degree from a better college or a superior job—or even a job at all—but what Susannah had was “knowledge.” She’d left. Moved on. Seen Troy for who he was. April was the blind and doltish second wife. There were entire sitcoms based on the likes of her.

“I’m not bad-mouthing Susannah,” Troy insisted. “I only mentioned her name because you brought up this friend of yours.”

“All I said was Melanie was there. You took it to some other place.”

Poor Melanie. One semidrunken text and she’d fallen smack in the middle of marital unrest. April pictured court documents with her friend’s name in them, subpoenas of old grad-school friends.

“All right,” Troy said. “You insist on avoiding this. Avoid it, then. Forever. I give up.”

“You give up. Fantastic. Glad I’m in the loop.”

“I don’t mean it like
that
. You know I don’t.” He made a choking sound. “I have to go. I can’t have this conversation right now.”

“Fine.” April knew she sounded petulant, but it was the only way to maintain a semblance of dignity. Any softness would’ve sent her straight into wrecked sobs. She’d seen him with his daughters. Troy had no patience for tears.

“For the record, April, in case you
were
wondering. Willow was also there. Okay? She was at the dinner-gala thing—”

There it was. The word April was waiting for.
Willow.
A punch to the gut.

“Troy, really. I have to go.”

“April. Listen. We need to talk about this. Willow was there.”

Another punch, harder this time. It was as if he were hitting her on purpose.

“Enough.”

“And because Susannah was also there,” he continued, “she was positively thrilled to assemble all the random pieces and form some kind of sordid story.”

“It’s an old story,” April grumbled. “Already been told.”

“I avoided Willow as best as I could, I promise. If we hadn’t been in public, I would have physically tossed her into the coat check. But I had to at least be civil for work’s sake, and she used every opportunity to make it as uncomfortable as possible. It probably looked disastrous. Willow can be so—”

“Can you stop saying her name?”

April hated that godforsaken name. It was a ridiculous moniker, probably not even real. In April’s head she was only ever the Consultant or, alternately, Get out of my brain you horrible slut.

The Consultant was a renowned “environmentalist” (please!), with long, scraggly hair and big saucer eyes and the proclivity to sit cross-legged when interviewed on national television. Willow freaking Weintraub. Or, more likely, Jennifer or Debbie Weintraub. Debbie Weintraub could never be a renowned environmentalist with fluttering Bambi eyes, but Willow Weintraub was a name destined for morning talk shows and glossy magazines.

For the last six months (of a twelve-month contract) she consulted on Troy’s version of the ubiquitous “green fund” at a rate of $375 per hour. Ms. Weintraub was contractually in bed with Stanhope Capital. And on one infamous occasion, also with April’s husband.

“Okay,” Troy said. “I’ll stop saying her name if you tell me what I should say.”

“Nothing, all right? I’m done talking about this. It sucks, but there’s nothing to discuss. It’s over. I’m over it.”

“Are you sure?” Troy asked. “Because you keep saying you’re fine, but sometimes I have to wonder.”

She was mad, but Troy was right. April kept saying she was fine, but like Troy, she also wondered. It was half the reason she’d leaped at the opportunity to go to Paris. The departure was sudden, but they’d been tiptoeing around each other for months. April needed to leave, find some other place to figure things out. She was pretty sure Troy thought she should go, too. He’d never be so rude as to say “get out,” given that he was universally At Fault, but they’d been in love, were maybe in love still, which meant April could read his thoughts.

From the few friends who knew about the mistake, the unanimous wisdom was that Troy should pack up and hit the bricks. But April understood the uncertainty in their marriage had little to do with whether or not
Troy
wanted to stay in their apartment or in their marriage. It was
April
who needed to leave. It was
April
who needed to give herself the space to decide whether or not to come back. Of course the problem with space was now Troy had it, too. Maybe he’d decide his transgression wasn’t a onetime blunder but the symptom of a larger problem.

Honesty was the best policy. But honestly? Some part of April wished Troy had never confessed. If he hadn’t, April could go on believing the life she saw before her: a funny, charming husband, two beautiful stepdaughters on Wednesdays and alternate weekends, a lovely apartment, and an occupation that was less like a job and closer to a hobby.

It was a onetime indiscretion, happening in some foreign country. A mistake. Troy was not caught but turned himself in. He didn’t have to tell her. Why, it was gallant, almost! Thanks for nothing, April sometimes thought. At least one of them could now sleep at night.

“April? Are you still there?”

Eyes closed, April held her breath for several moments, the sudden constriction of her jacket a comfort, almost like a hug.

“I told you, I’m fine,” she said. “But you’re right. I don’t really know.”

Two long beats.

“All right,” he said at last. “Fair enough.”

April could nearly see the pinch of his lips.

“I really have to go,” she said. For once not an excuse. “I’m actually very late for a meeting.”

“Yes, me too. One more thing. Your father called looking for you last night.”

“Oh, god, you didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“At this point
is
there anything to tell? But no, I didn’t say a word. We didn’t even talk. He left a message.”

“I left him a message, too, telling him I was headed out of the country. I guess he still hasn’t figured out how to work voicemail.”

April checked her watch. Seven after three; officially more than a few minutes late. She hustled out the door and onto the street, tote slung over a shoulder, papers jammed beneath her arm.

“I love you, April,” Troy said. “No matter what happens, I hope you know that.”

What could April say? Nothing. This was both a literal and a figurative truth. She was clutching a phone between chin and shoulder while simultaneously trying to navigate Parisian cobblestones as well as the future of her marriage. Opening her mouth would send the phone crashing to the street, perhaps also the same fate her marriage might suffer if she said what she truly wanted to.

But April’s lips, her brain—everything—felt gummed up. So instead of good-bye she gave a polite “Mm-hmm” and pressed the Off button with her ear even as she understood Troy was already gone.

Chapitre X

Luc was where he said he’d be, reclining casually on the patio of the Café Zéphyr, smoking a cigarette.

He nodded when April walked up and then stood to pull out a chair, the cigarette barely hanging on between both lips. April mumbled a thank-you and sat.

“I’m pleased you could join me,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering a plate of bread. I know you Americans like your snacks.”

April rolled her eyes.

“I’m glad my countrymen can be so predictable. It’s like we’re all the same person! You don’t even have to consider how to handle us individually.”

Warmed by her hurried walk to the café, April shrugged off her jacket and settled into the chair. Around them voices purred and dishes clinked. Cars and scooters whipped around the corner, screeching and honking their clownlike horns.

“So, are you enjoying your stay in Paris so far, Madame Vogt?” Luc asked and took a drag of his cigarette.

“Yes, it’s lovely. And please, call me April.”

“Ah, Avril, like the month. This is the perfect season for you. Your parents loved the springtime, non?”

“I think they only liked the name.” She pulled a pen and notepad from her tote bag. “All right, so I’m ready to discuss the apartment.”

“I’m curious. You do not wear a ring, but Olivier says there is a husband. Are you married, Avril?”

April suppressed a snort. Was she married? That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Oui.” It was the legally accurate statement, absent ring notwithstanding. “So, about your client—”

“Your husband, what does he do?”

“He works in finance,” April said, exasperation inching up her spine. “Je suis désolée, Monsieur Thébault, but I do not have a lot of time. I hate to rush this meeting, but I assume you are billing someone by the hour, so it behooves us both to address the topic at hand.”

Luc chuckled. “You really are worried about succumbing to my charms, aren’t you?”

“Not at this time. So let’s discuss the apartment.” April scribbled senseless notes on the pad to give her hands something to do. “I’m ready to listen to whatever you have to say about the woman in the painting.”

“You despise questions, non?”

“Questions are fantastic. I love questions. I have about a million of them for
you
.”

“Très bien. Then tell me, Madame Vogt—Avril—why
are
you so interested in the woman in the painting?”

“If it’s a Boldini we have a rather significant find. That portrait alone could go for a million euros or more. It’d make international news. ‘Continental furniture’ doesn’t usually make such waves. Lord knows it’s not one of the major grossing departments, or even a moderately grossing one.”

“I did not ask why you were interested in the
painting
. I asked why you were interested in the
woman
.”

“I’m only interested inasmuch as she’s related to the painting and the furniture in the flat.”

“Uh-huh. Then it makes perfect sense you’d read her private diaries.”

“As Marc and Olivier told you themselves,” April said and glanced around for a waiter. Luc sipped espresso, but it was obvious she was going to require something stronger. “The diaries will help with provenance, which will boost value. Buyers love a good story. You’ve seen the apartment and all the things in it. It’s extraordinary. I merely want to understand the history of the assets as well as why someone left them behind.”

“What does abandoning the flat have to do with value?”

“Valuable items, economically or emotionally, tend to stay in families. They are usually passed on.”

Usually, but not always, as April knew all too well.

“You want to know history from a purely academic standpoint,” Luc said, skeptical. “Vraiment?”

“Yes. Really.” Where was that damn waiter?

“Well, you were correct in your assumption about the family lineage. The woman in the painting was Lisette Quatremer’s grand-mère.”

“Really?” April’s eyes went wide. The waiter appeared behind her. Suddenly she wanted him to go away.

“Madame?”

“Uh, yes, hello. Bonjour, je voudrais du vin.” She pointed to the menu.

“Entre-Deux-Mers?”

“Oui. S’il vous plaît.”

“I thought Americans didn’t consume alcohol during daylight hours,” Luc said. “Your kind, a bit of teetotalers, non?”

“Non. Most
definitely
non.”

Suddenly ravenous, April reached for a piece of bread and spared no caution in slathering it with a thick coat of butter. She’d just proved Luc’s theory, that Americans loved their snacking, but April didn’t much care. It was worth it. Along with her memories of every café, every midnight dinner, the thousands of glasses of wine, April remembered the butter. It was creamier in Paris, saltier.

“Tell me more about the grand-mère,” April said and sat on her hands so she couldn’t physically take another bite. The thought of leaning over and lapping her baguette and beurre cat-style briefly occurred to her. Everyone knew Americans were animals anyway. “Are you certain it’s the woman in the painting?”

“Yes, quite. She’s very beautiful, non?”

“Amazing. She actually reminds me of … someone I know. Anyway, do you know her name?”

The waiter reappeared over Luc’s left shoulder. April exhaled. Oh, thank god. The wine was finally here.

“According to Lisette Quatremer’s family, her name was Marthe de Florian,” Luc said.

“Family? Madame Quatremer had a family?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking. But not in the manner you are thinking.” Luc sipped from his espresso, the tiny cup looking ridiculous in his big hands.

“Marthe de Florian.” April let the name settle on her tongue.
Marthe.
Or
Mart,
as one would say in English. “Who was she? Obviously someone important, given that Boldini painted her, not to mention the opulence and value of everything I’ve seen in her flat so far. Who was her family? Her husband?”

“Not married,” Luc said and winked. “Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. Madame de Florian was a well-known demimondaine.”

“Demimondaine?” April’s forehead lifted up into her hairline. “Madame de Florian was a courtesan?”

This was worthy of a drink for sure, and April removed her hands from under her legs in order to grasp the stem of her glass.

“Oui,” Luc said. “An impressive apartment for a prostitute, non?”

“Demimondaines were no mere prostitutes,” April said and took another long sip of her wine. “In Madame de Florian’s time there were certainly common streetwalkers. Filles soumises, literally translated as ‘submissive whores.’ Above them were les grisettes, usually working women, dressmakers and such, who used sex to supplement their incomes. Yet another level up were les lorettes. And then there were les demimondaines, a very singular breed.”