Leonie (27 page)

She could feel Alain’s eyes on her and she met his gaze, raising an eyebrow as he took her in from head to toe. “Do I take it that your work is autobiographical?” she asked.

Alain threw back his head with a shout of laughter. “They’re all girls from around here, some are professional models—others just came along.”

Léonie turned back to the paintings. They were of girls like she had been—poor, yet attractive, working girls. She didn’t blame them for accepting what Alain Valmont had to offer. Life with him, she thought with a pang of envy, though it might have been for a short while—maybe only for as long as it had taken to paint them—would have been interesting, and real. There was a down-to-earth quality about him that was very appealing. “I would like you to paint me, Monsieur Valmont,” she said. “Of course, I shall pay your fee. But I want a portrait exactly like those.”

He wiped his hands on an oily rag. “You bought my painting from Marechaux?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good one. It’ll be worth some money one day. Meanwhile, of course, he overcharged you. This one will be cheaper.”

“I want it to be a large painting,” she protested.

“The size has nothing to do with the quality, you know,” he said scathingly. “I don’t paint the kind of nudes you find over the bar in a cheap gaming club.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, of course. It’s up to you what you paint.”

“Léonie Bahri, I shall paint exactly what I see.”

At first it was difficult because Léonie was surprisingly shy about taking off her clothes. She had lingered behind the screen. Only after Alain had called her impatiently had she emerged, clad in a robe of soft gray cashmere that covered her from neck to ankle like a monk’s habit, except where it clung to her curves. It was probably the sexiest garment he could ever have imagined, though she had obviously worn it for precisely the opposite reason.

He sat her on a chair and sketched her face while she held the robe closed around her neck, staring out of the window expressionlessly
until he threw the charcoal to the floor in a rage. “For God’s sake, where have you gone?” he asked her.

She looked at him with concern. “Did I do something wrong?” There was a length to those amber eyes, a slumberous upper lid, and he sketched quickly.

“Keep quiet and keep looking at me like that.”

Finally he’d gotten something on paper—just a glance, but it was a start. “Right, just loosen the robe a little, ease it off one shoulder.”

Léonie arranged the robe neatly around her shoulders and Alain tugged at it, until it slid sensuously down one arm, revealing just the upper curve of her breast. He tilted her head so that she looked over her shoulder at him, warily, chin slightly down. Perfect—he caught the expression in rapid strokes, smudging the curves with his finger to soften the line.

“Now take off the robe,” he said, walking to the littered table and choosing a brush. He’d prefer to sketch her body in water-color.

She couldn’t do it
. With a shock she realized that she had only undressed for two men in her life and they were men she had made love with. This man was asking her coldly and dispassionately to stand naked in front of him and she couldn’t do it. She’d thought it would all be so easy, she’d just lie on a bed while he painted. She hadn’t thought beyond that.

“Well?” Alain had the paper already dampened and was impatient to start.

She stood frozen in front of him, clasping the robe around her. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Valmont,” she said in a small voice, “but I don’t think I can.”

He threw the sketchbook on the floor. “Goddamn it,” he yelled at her, “you’re wasting my time! Why? Why can’t you take your clothes off? You must have done it for a dozen other men!”

Léonie drew back, stung by his remark. “What do you mean?” she glared at him angrily.

“You
know
what I mean! There’s a body under that robe and I wouldn’t be the first to have seen it.”

She turned on her heel and stalked across the room to the screen, kicking at it angrily and remembering too late that she was barefoot. “Oh, oh,
damn
it!”

“That’ll teach you to keep your robe on in my studio, you stupid woman. All I wanted to do was paint you!”

Léonie pulled on her clothes hastily, before he could reach her, fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, and tugging the skirt over her hips. He leaned companionably over the screen, resting his arms on top, watching as she thrust her feet into her shoes. “You’ve got big feet,” he said with an amiable grin, “but then I suppose every goddess has to have one flaw.” His anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had come, but still she eyed him warily. He was unshaven and the blue workshirt he wore was splattered with paint. He had rolled up the sleeves and she noticed the fine dark hair growing smoothly on his forearms.

“Léonie Bahri,” he said, “I think what you and I need is a nice relaxing lunch. A glass of wine, a little pigeon pie … I know just the place.” He headed for the door, turning as he opened it. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked with a grin. Léonie picked up her purse and hurried after him. “Oh, by the way,” he said as he followed her down the stairs, “you’re paying!”

He supposed it was the café and the wine that had relaxed her more than anything else. Monsieur Lucien’s carafe red was potent and fruity and she had blossomed as he knew she could in the steamy little café with its mirrored walls and tiled tables. They had paused by the door to watch the chess and domino players, and they scanned the blackboard, choosing the dish of the day which, as he had known it would be, was pigeon pie. Alain had grabbed the carafe of red that Monsieur Lucien pushed across the zinc counter and swept her to a table by the window. It was early and still quiet and Léonie sniffed the atmosphere like Bébé, smelling the sawdust on the floor and the garlic from the kitchen, the cheeses on the counter and the coffee constantly on the brew. She settled back against the faded leather banquette and smiled at him. “I used to work in a place like this,” she said.

Nothing she said could have surprised him more. She was, then, a girl with a past! “I assume it wasn’t by choice,” he said, examining her face intently—had he got those eyelids quite right, weren’t they hollowed a little more right there, by the nose?

Léonie laughed. “No, it wasn’t by choice.”

“Tell me why you wouldn’t take off the robe.” He was leaning toward her, elbows on the table, resting his head on his hands; his young face looked almost haggard, he was so thin. His greenish eyes grew darker when he was angry.

“I don’t know. Yes, I do. I’ve only taken my clothes off for the men I loved.”

“Then you had to love them … to make love I mean?”

He was too inquisitive. “You know what I mean,” she said lamely.

“We could have done that,” he said with a grin. “I’d do anything to sell a painting.”

She laughed and drank her wine. “Here’s our pigeon pie,” she said, as Monsieur Lucien appeared bearing steaming casseroles.

“So fresh they’re almost flying, madame,” he said, presenting her plate with a flourish and placing a second carafe of wine on the table. “Here come your friends, Monsieur Valmont.”

The table was suddenly crowded and extra chairs were dragged forward as a group of young people shouted hello, calling their orders to Monsieur Lucien and darting back and forth as they greeted other friends.

Léonie sat quietly, watching the activity with eager eyes. They all seemed to know each other intimately and were immediately friendly, treating her as part of their group. “I’m Laura,” said the dark-haired girl, squeezing in next to her on the banquette, and Léonie recognized her immediately as the girl in at least four paintings in Alain’s studio.

“And I’m Jacques.” A blond boy, no more than nineteen and thin as a reed, pushed in on her other side. “Sorry, but there’s not much room. I made a sale this morning. What’s everybody drinking?”

There was a camaraderie and an intimacy about them—and the café—that felt warm and comfortable, in the same way the inn did. It was a place that put people at ease and made them welcome and where they knew they would always find a friend just to talk with, or to listen to their complaints and problems and offer consolation. This wasn’t fantasy, they were real people with real lives, struggling to succeed in a perilous vocation, gambling on their talents. How she envied them!

“We must go,” said Alain finally, “I’ve got work to do.”

Her feet felt lighter, and smaller, she thought, still stung by Alain’s remark about them. “What are we going to do now?” she asked, as he took her hand and walked across the street.

“We’re going to take your clothes off,” he said with a grin.

And he had. Discreetly at first, dropping the robe low over her back, so that he could sketch the spine and the twin hollows at its base and the lean curve of her hip. “Further,” he had commanded, “just drop it a little further, Léonie.” And she had, holding it
behind her in her hands so that she stood naked, her head tilted so that her hair flowed back, almost touching her waist. “Wonderful, wonderful … you’re lovely, Léonie, now move around just a little, let me see your breast, raise one arm. Perfect, my darling, you have perfect breasts … rest your foot on the chair … ah, you’re a wonderful model … throw your head back, my beauty, feel how lovely you are, don’t you feel it?”

She felt it and it was marvelous. She was loving it—posing for him, flaunting herself as he directed her, adding a little extra, a provocative gleam in her eye, an arch to her back so that her breasts pushed forward, lifting her rib cage until her belly was one taut lovely line. She trembled with the excitement of it, and he sketched her, capturing her flagrant arousal. And then, inevitably, he made love to her.

She spent all her time with him, arriving at eight every morning and tumbling into his bed with hugs and kisses and laughter, bringing with her fruits and cheese for their breakfast. They’d hide naked under the covers, nibbling on the peaches and licking the juice from their chins, gossiping cheerfully about their friends from the café, and then he might make love to her, or he might be too anxious to get on with his painting, and either way she was happy. Although she didn’t know if she was too happy with the pose. He had arranged her, finally: stretched out on the bed, covering it first with a ratty piece of bronze fur borrowed from a friend. “You’re an animal,” he said, “and I intend to paint you that way.” Léonie was afraid to imagine the result and he wouldn’t allow her to look. She’d thrown her heavy hair forward and then tossed it back, so that it tumbled and flowed around her shoulders, partly covering her breasts, and she’d rolled onto her side, like a contented cat after some enormous meal, stretching her long legs. It wasn’t difficult to be naked in front of him now, laughing as she posed, until their excitement was too much and she pulled him onto her.

Sometimes, she thought, as they sat in the café at night, I think this is what I like most. I like the bustle and clatter and the plat du jour and the rough red wine and Alain’s friends. They had accepted her as Alain’s new girl and that was all that was needed to belong. And she’d always wanted to belong. Sometimes she would slip in there alone and share a glass of Pernod with Monsieur Lucien, who was always glad to see her, for she would discreetly
pay off their outstanding tabs and for once the slate behind the bar would be clean.

Caro had been waiting for Léonie all afternoon, pacing the lovely salon and staring anxiously out of the windows. At last she heard her footsteps and ran to meet her. In a simple blue dress with her hair tangled and windblown, Léonie had the aura of a woman who was enjoying herself. There was a secretive gleam in her eye as she greeted Caro.

“That look can mean only one thing,” Caro groaned. “You’ve got a lover.”

“It’s not the way you think,” began Léonie defensively.

“Léonie, don’t you realize that Monsieur will
kill
you if he finds out.”

Léonie shrugged. “He won’t find out, Caro,” she said confidently. “I have a perfect alibi. I’m having my portrait painted.”

“That’s funny. I always thought painters needed good light for their work, unless of course your artist works by moonlight.”

“Well, naturally, we have a little dinner and some drinks afterward—but always with his friends. We’re never alone.”

“And you’re never alone in the studio?”

“Oh, yes … yes, Caro. We are.” She laughed at Caro’s startled face. “I can’t help it,” she said triumphantly. “Monsieur always said I was a wanton woman. And Alain is … oh, Caro. It’s different from me and Monsieur. It’s … it’s sort of friendly. It’s just … fun,” she added lamely. “That’s all.”

“Monsieur gets back next week,” said Caro, “and I suggest you have your portrait finished by then. Otherwise, I’m afraid there’ll be trouble. Please take care, Léonie.” She put her arms around her friend and hugged her. “I love you, you know, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“Like what, Caro? Nothing bad will happen to me, I promise you. This has been good for me. I feel better. I’m even looking forward to Monsieur coming back … although I’ll miss my evenings in the café,” she added wistfully.

“I’ll need a few more days to complete it,” said Alain, standing back from the canvas and eyeing it critically.

She swung her legs off the bed and came toward him. “Let me look, please?” she begged him. “After all, I’m the one who posed—it’s my picture.”

He wiped his brush on a rag and shrugged his shoulders. “Take a look then.”

She stared in surprise at her painted image. It was her all right, stretched full length with her arms in front of her and her chin resting by her shoulder, staring slumberously out of the canvas from a tangle of hair that partially covered her breasts and matched the soft triangle just revealed by the curve of her leg. But it was the light that was so extraordinary, the painting had a sort of golden glow, a special illumination, as though the sun had crept into some shady spot and left wisps of golden light, veiling the body with mystery, layered with tender minute brush strokes of fading color until it was more than a picture of a lovely woman, it was a transparent fairy creature from another world. “It’s beautiful, Alain … it’s more than me. More than I deserve.”