Plan C (36 page)

“But won’t that make it think we’re scared?”

“We
are
scared!” I said.

Suddenly we were both running as fast as our stilettos would take us, screaming and crying hysterically as the wild boar charged. For whatever reason it left me alone It was hungry for Kitty. And it was gaining on her.

“Hit it on the head with the painting,” I screamed. “Slam it hard!”

“Are you crazy? That Millet is priceless!” Kitty screamed back, as the boar grunted fiercely. Neighbors’ porch lights flicked on from house to house. We had awakened all of Barbizon.

“Run, Kitty Kat, run!”

But as Kitty picked up the pace, the heel of her shoe got caught between two cobblestones. “My Louboutins!” she cried. She struggled to release it, panicking, moaning, groaning, but the boar was now almost at her ankles, sniffing anxiously as though anticipating its first chomp. With a sorry little whimper, Kitty left the shoe between the cracks, scurried backwards, removed the other shoe, and then hightailed it off down the street, with me right behind her. Then a funny thing happened. The boar seemed to have the same fancy taste in footwear as Kitty. Instead of chasing her, it stopped at her abandoned shoe, sniffed it hungrily and snapped it up. Seconds later, the boar was running away from us back to the forest, the red-soled shoe flapping in its mouth.

“Are you okay?” I said, catching up to Kitty, who was bent-over and breathless. She pushed me away and hobbled to the center of the street. “Hey!” screamed Kitty. “Come back here, you fucking pig! Kitty flapped her arms around as if she’d just bitten into a jalapeno. “Those are my Louboutins!”

“Who cares? You’re alive!” I said. “In this damn economy you shouldn’t be wearing such expensive shoes anyway.”

“Exactly,” said Kitty, panting with her hands on her hips. “And in this damn economy, I won’t be. That boar thingy just took off with the last pair of designer shoes I can ever afford.”

“Well, I can’t afford to be arrested, so let’s go,” I said. “We’re going to return that damn painting. And after that, I’m hauling your ass to confession.”

Moments later we were mounting the museum’s back stairs and casting shadows on the wall like sneaky cartoon mice out of Disney. I pushed the emergency exit door open, slid the painting against the wall, closed the door securely, turned to walk down the staircase… and found a police officer standing there, arms folded. Kitty looked at me and I looked at Kitty. In thickly accented English, the policeman said, “What are you doing here?”

“We had no choice. You’re never open,” I said. “Um, la musee n’est jamais ouverte.”

“Ferme” he said. “Closed.”

*

The barred door slams hard in front of our faces. I turn around in my eight-by- eight cell and stare at the graffiti-covered wall. Except I can’t read the slang… It’s in French.

“I thought nothing in this town was open on Tuesday,” says Kitty. She grips the bars and yells, “What’s taking so long? I want my one phone call! I’m entitled to one damn phone call!”

“I bet the bailiff is also the town butcher on Mondays.”

“This is insane. How many times can I be arrested in three months?” says Kitty, leaning on a wall that has a cracked mirror hanging on it. She turns to study her face in its reflection, her mouth forming a fake, cheesy smile.

“Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes,” says Kitty. “Day seven and the Crest White Strips are really working.”

“I think I actually hate you,” I say. “And, on top of that, I’m considering completely disowning our friendship when this is done. Unlike you, I’ve never
been
arrested. But you - you seem to be making it an alternative career.”

“Look, if it’s any consolation…”

I raise an eyebrow.

“We returned it,” says Kitty.

“Can you imagine what would have happened to us? The Art Loss Registry would discover it missing. There’d be an international search. Interpol would get in on the act.”

“How do you know so much about art?”

“You taught me that!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” says Kitty. “I’m sorry.”

But somehow sorry isn’t good enough. I want to torture her. “Do you know every year at this time, I unwrap the Christmas ornaments to decorate the tree. And every year
when I open that box, I reflect on what has happened since the last time I opened that box. And every time I close it up and put the ornaments away, I think, I wonder what will happen before I open this again…”

“And your point is…”

“My point is that if somebody told me I’d be sitting in a fucking jail cell in Barbizon, France, because my friend robbed a museum to make ends meet and then a pig took her Louboutin shoe…”

“Look,” she says. “I’ve lost everything and you’re my best friend. You’re all I’ve got left. I don’t want you to end up being like those people in that book about the five people I meet in heaven...I want to know you now.”

I ignore her, instead tearing off the edge of a fingernail with my teeth – the one that got broken when the cop was throwing me into the back of his cruiser.

“I got carried away,” says Kitty. “I admit it. I’ve had a screw loose ever since I met Helmut. He and I got caught up in the thrill. Sorry for needing a thrill. We were both married, living on separate continents. We started emailing – which is like love letters on speed, let me tell you. We shared so much – the art world and all of its secrets. Besides, he kept telling me he adored me. And that my skin was so soft.”

I shake my head and fold my arms. Kitty grows more despondent by the moment, rattling the bars and pulling them toward her. She hollers out: “God, what have I done to myself? What have I done to my life? My marriage? My career? I’ve become my father!” Only thing missing is a battered guitar and a bag of cocaine.

“I’m not pussyfooting around anymore with you,” I say, standing up and sticking a finger in her face. “You fucked up, royally! We’re in jail for who knows how long.
This is France. They’ll probably have us beheaded. We disturbed the peace, plus we bailed on the restaurant check. You ought to be on your knees thanking God you weren’t pregnant by Helmut! And then when you’re done
praying
, you better come up with another plan, because your Plan B just isn’t working.”

“How about a Plan C?” says Kitty, hovering near the toilet. “You know ‘just in case…” She gulps. “…In case?”

In that moment I realize that the only person who can ever really get it is
my
person, my backup plan, my life plan, my Ben. Suddenly I’m not sure I’m ready to let him go. I remember how much I once wanted him, how much I longed for him when we first began. I would have done anything to get him. Is the longing always better than the having? I don’t believe I’m the type who wants what she can’t have because I’m not one of those people who believes we really
have
anything. And right now I don’t have Ben, or a pot to piss in. On second thought…I look around the cell. Okay, fine. They gave us a pot to piss in.

When I get out of here, I’ll just have to get back to working at it, because when we stop working at it, we lose it. All of it. Whatever
it
is – our job, our body, parenting, sex. And the “it” I had with Ben would be such a shame to lose. Of that much I’m sure.

Ben and I share a sexy intelligence that maybe my pacing friend Kitty doesn’t understand. We never kept secrets from each other, even when we kept secrets from the world. And we weren’t one of those couples who didn’t appreciate what we have the way Kitty failed to see what she had with Clive. Ben and I had been so balanced. Not one of those couples who has to spend every second together. We could enjoy our own lives, our own work, our own projects, knowing that we were one and secure, even when we
were apart. But everything has changed. Here I am in a jail cell. Paris isn’t for jailbirds. Paris is for lovers.

Kitty’s strident voice snaps me out of it. She hangs her hands through the bars, yelling for the bailiff, who slowly approaches:

“I want my one phone call!” says Kitty.

“Only one?” says the bailiff sarcastically. “Pfffff. Typical American! This is France. Make as many phone calls as you wish.”

Seconds later we’re traipsing down the hall, our wrists in handcuffs. We turn the corner from the jail cells into a reception area. The guard goes to his desk for a set of keys.

“Well, maybe we’ll be out of here in time for New Year’s Eve after all,” I say.

“New Year’s Eve?” says Kitty. “Are you kidding? I can’t show up at the home of a top Michelin-rated chef like Jacques Gagne! Not now. Once this hits the papers he’ll never buy those holograms from me. I’ll be ruined in Paris!”

“You’re damn lucky I have an editor friend at
Le Monde
who owes me a favor,” I say. “I think I can keep us out of the headlines.”

“I’m not talking about you. Why would
you
not want to be in the papers? I’m talking about me. I’m a behind-the-scenes person. For me, getting arrested is a disaster. For you, it’s a publicity coup. You need this. You’re a journalist about to launch a new blog. It’s called platforming! You should use your one phone call to land an interview in the Barbizon press.”

‘They don’t
have
press in Barbizon,” I say. “At least not on Tuesday.”

“As far as I’m concerned you should put on a pair of Uggs, hold a Starbucks coffee cup in your left hand and wear oversized sunglasses. Then get somebody to snap a shot of you leaving jail, waving to the crowd, and falling drunkenly on the curb.”

“That only works for Britney, Lindsay and Nick Nolte.”

“This whole incident has reality show written all over it.”

The bailiff unlocks my cuffs and I wriggle my hands to relax them.

“Why are they suddenly being so nice?” asks Kitty. “Is this the deluxe one-phone-call service? Maybe they throw in a facial.”

“I think we should call Bebe,” I say, heading for the phone.

“But she’s in Gstaad skiing with Tamara. Probably won’t have reception on a slope.”

“Then I’m calling Clive,” I say, heading to the phone. “You said he’s in London visiting his son so…”

“No way! You give me that phone…” Kitty snatches it from me like a madwoman. She inhales and exhales, and, when she feels composed, punches in a set of numbers. She stares at me, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and her ear. A few seconds pass and somebody picks up. “Hello?”

“Daddyyyyyyy?” whines Kitty.

*

In the end we were let off for time served after one night and the sacrifice of bail money. Kitty’s father, Screamin’ J Pepper, had paid the judge from last week’s unusually
successful horse-race winnings. He had even sent a few autographed 8 x 10 glossies. It was all very kind of him, considering he was right in the middle of betting an inside straight at his weekly poker game with Vanilla Ice, M.C. Hammer, Adam Ant and David Lee Roth. That guy from Wang Chung had answered the phone, and thank God he was sober, or we might still be in jail.

I don’t know whether anyone in Barbizon ever really figured out that Kitty had stolen a Millet, however temporarily, but I think the batting of her eyelashes and a flash of her cleavage helped convince the court that no further investigation was necessary – at least no further
legal
investigation. The judge, who faintly resembled Hugh Jackman, seemed to love his role as Prince Charming, delicately placing the boar’s chewed up Louboutin on Kitty’s foot and exclaiming with a wry Gallic wink, “We have found zee Princess.” The boar dropped the shoe right before he headed back to the forest.

The townsfolk were all so nice that they sent us back to Paris with jars of homemade honey from the local market and a string of sausages from the butcher. They even fed us a big breakfast at the creperie before we departed. After all, no one had shown so much interest in their little town in years.

And me, I promised to write an article on “101 Reasons to Visit Barbizon” for a travel magazine when I got back to the states. And I made this ridiculous promise that if I ever wrote a novel, they’d be in it…

The dry cleaning bag contains a red woolen sweater dress that I last wore when Ben and I ate dinner at Jean-Jacques Jouteux’s restaurant 153 Grenelle, the night he asked me to marry him. Again.

Turning the corner into the marketplace I study the faces of the people who pass by on this last day of the year. There’s something about being in Paris without a lover in the wintertime, especially on New Years Eve. I don’t necessarily recommend it to anyone, as the magnificent buildings manage to become a backdrop for depression, all slick and shiny ivory from the persistent drizzle. Even the cold street pavement seems to scream up at me, “What are you crazy? Go inside until April!”

Just after twelve noon, just like it is right now, the sun dips below the buildings of the market and all the café patrons magically disappear inside. Either that or they’re taking coffee-to-go. In a paper cup.

Mine is not the only somber face in this New Year’s Eve crowd. Their eyes tell me we’ve all had lovers gone wrong. At the traffic light, a motor scooter idles long enough for me to notice the driver’s boots are in need of a good polish, his pants in need
of washing, and his woolen scarf all tattered and matted, in need of a good trash toss. He looks at me, our glances meeting someplace over the rumble of his engine. He casts his eyes down first and I sense his sadness. Maybe his wife left him. Maybe this recession has hit him. Maybe he’s an artist who just lost his gallery. Or maybe he spent a night in jail like I did. Then I size him up again. He’s somewhat hot underneath his dishevelment. Maybe I should jump on the back of his bike and just go with him. But I know I won’t. The reality is we all want to run away but we can’t escape. Not really. And what would biker boy and I do once we get there? Wherever
there
is…

Kitty rounds the corner into view in the marketplace, where a bunch of pigeons have just scattered. She carries a neatly gift-wrapped box of chocolates in one hand, and a lovely arrangement of wild heather with a festive ribbon in the other.

“What about wine?” I say. “Should we grab a bottle?”