Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

Why, he must do – he had seen it himself. He laughed.
    Édouard didn’t.
    I was about to say yes (I liked Lippmann: he was one of the few artists who treated me as an equal), but I saw Édouard’s smile tighten.
    ‘No. I’m afraid Mademoiselle Bessette is far too busy.’
    There was a brief, awkward silence. Lippmann gave us an amused glance.
    ‘Why, Édouard, we have shared models before. I merely thought that –’
    ‘No.’
    Lippmann looked at his feet. ‘If you say so, Édouard. A pleasure to meet you again, Mademoiselle.’ He tipped his hat to me and left. Édouard did not wish him goodbye.
    ‘You funny thing,’ I said to him later. He was in the tub, and I was kneeling on a cushion behind him, washing his hair. He had been quiet all afternoon. ‘You know I have eyes only for you. I would have worn a nun’s habit for Monsieur Lippmann if it meant keeping you happy.’ I poured a jug of water slowly over the back of his head, watching the suds slide away. ‘Besides, he’s married. Contentedly so.
And
he’s a gentleman.’
    Édouard was still silent. Then he turned his whole body abruptly, so that a slew of water went over the side of the tub. ‘I need to know you are mine,’ he said, and his face was so anxious, so miserable, that it took me a moment to speak.
    ‘I am yours, you fool.’ I took his face between my hands and kissed him. His skin was wet. ‘I have been yours since the first time you came to La Femme Marché and bought fifteen ridiculous scarves in your determination to see me.’ I kissed him again. ‘I was yours from the moment you told Mistinguett I had the best ankles in Paris, after she tried to humiliate me because I wore clogs.’ I kissed him again. He closed his eyes. ‘I was yours from the moment you drew me and I realized nobody else would ever look at me like you do. As if you saw only the best of me. As if I was someone more magnificent than I knew.’
    I took a towel and tenderly rubbed the moisture from his nose and eyes. ‘So, you see? There is nothing to fear. I am yours, Édouard, utterly and completely. I cannot believe you would doubt it.’
    He looked at me, and his big brown eyes were steady and oddly determined. ‘Marry me,’ he said.
    ‘But you always said –’
    ‘Tomorrow. Next week. As soon as we can.’
    ‘But you –’
    ‘Marry me, Sophie.’
    So I married him. I never could deny Édouard anything.
    The morning after the fight at Bar Tripoli, I slept late. We had become giddy with our riches, eaten and drunk too much, and stayed awake until the small hours, lost in each other’s bodies, or in fits of giggles as we remembered Dinan’s outraged expression. I raised my head blearily from the pillow, and pushed my hair from my face. The small change that had been on the table was missing: Édouard must have gone for bread. I became dimly aware of the sound of his voice in the street below, and let my memories of the previous evening flow and recede in a happy blur. Then, when he did not sound as if he were coming upstairs, I pulled a robe around me and went to the window.
    He had two baguettes tucked under his arm and was talking to a striking blonde woman in a fitted dark green coat-dress with a broad-brimmed fur hat. As I looked down, her gaze slid up to me. Édouard, following it, turned and lifted a hand in greeting.
    ‘Come downstairs,
chérie
. I want you to meet someone.’
    I did not want to meet anyone. I wanted him to come upstairs and for me to wrap my legs around him and smother him in kisses as we ate. But I sighed, pulled the robe around me, and walked downstairs to the front door.
    ‘Sophie, this is Mimi Einsbacher. An old friend of mine. She has bought several paintings, and posed for some of my life drawings too.’
    Another? I thought absently.
    ‘Congratulations on your marriage. Édouard gave me … no clue.’
    There was something about the way the woman looked at me when she said this, her flicker of a glance towards Édouard, that made me uneasy.
    ‘
Enchantée
, Mademoiselle,’ I said, and held out my hand. She took it as if she were handling a dead fish.
    We stood there, studying our feet. Two road sweepers were working on opposite sides of the street, whistling in tandem. The drains were overflowing again, and the smell, teamed with the amount of wine we had consumed the previous evening, made me feel suddenly queasy.
    ‘You will excuse me,’ I said, backing into the doorway. ‘I am hardly dressed for