Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

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 work 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 had wanted to wait for Édouard to return, but I could not sit in our home, not with those women, with the prospect of my husband’s future infidelities hanging over me. I kept seeing the hurt in his eyes, hearing the rage in his voice.
Who is this pinch-faced accuser?
He no longer saw me as the best of myself, and who could blame him? He had seen me as I truly knew myself to be: plain, provincial, an invisible shop girl. He had been trapped into marriage by a fit of jealousy, his fleeting conviction that he needed to secure my love. Now he was regretting his haste. And I had made him conscious of it.
    I wondered briefly if I should simply pack my case and leave. But every time that thought flickered through my feverish mind, the answer came back immediately: I loved him. The thought of life without him was unbearable. How could I return to St Péronne and live the life of a spinster, knowing what I knew of how love could feel? How could I bear the thought that he lived, somewhere, miles away from me? Even when he left the room I felt his absence like an aching limb. My physical need for him still overwhelmed me. And I could hardly return home a matter of weeks after our wedding.
    But there was the problem: I would always be provincial. I could not share my husband, as the Parisiennes apparently did, turning a blind eye to their indiscretions. How could I live with Édouard and face the possibility of him returning home smelling of another woman’s scent? Even if I could not be sure of his faithlessness, how could I walk into our home and see Mimi Einsbacher, or any of these women, naked on our bed as she posed for him? What was I supposed to do? Simply disappear into a back room? Go for a walk? Sit and watch over them? He would hate me. He would see me as the gaoler that Mimi Einsbacher already considered me.
    I understood now that I had not thought at all about what marriage would mean for us. I could not see further than his voice, his hands, his kisses. I could not see further than