The Girl You Left Behind

nothing
     untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone if you choose. I merely
     want … Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La
     Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.’
    I fought the urge to touch my chin.
My
     face? Fascinating?
‘Will … will your wife be there?’
    ‘I have no wife.’ He reached
     into a pocket, and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘But I do have a lot of
     scarves.’ He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a
     felon, before I accepted it.
    I didn’t tell anybody. I wasn’t
     even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. Ispent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my
     bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons why I should not go.
    The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally
     left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As
     I walked, I debated with myself.
    If your supervisors hear that you modelled for an artist, they will cast doubt on
     your morality. You could lose your job!
    He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St Péronne. The plain foil to
     Hélène’s beauty.
    Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could
     not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle …
    But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow
     myself this one experience?
    The address he had given me was two streets
     from the Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway,
     checked the number and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door
     was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow
     staircase until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman
     singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably
     his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the
     door.
    A vast room was flooded with light. One wall
     was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, its windows running shoulder to
     shoulder along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos.
     Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every
     surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of
     glowing colour. There werecanvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates
     of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine, mixed with oil
     paint, echoes of tobacco and the vinegary whisper of old wine; dark green bottles stood
     in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some
     celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a
     chaotic heap. And there, in the centre of it all, walking slowly backwards and forwards
     with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefèvre, dressed in a smock
     and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the centre of Paris.
    ‘Monsieur?’
    He blinked at me twice, as if trying to
     recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly on a table beside him.
     ‘It’s you!’
    ‘Well. Yes.’
    ‘Marvellous!’ He shook his head,
     as if he were still having trouble registering my presence. ‘Marvellous. Come in,
     come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.’
    He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible
     through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood clutching my bag awkwardly as he began
     clearing piles of newspapers from an old
chaise longue
until there was a
     space.
    ‘Please, sit. Would you like a
     drink?’
    ‘Just some water, thank
     you.’
    I had not felt uncomfortable on the way
     there, despite the precariousness of my position. I hadn’t minded the dinginess of
     the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a little foolish, and this
     made me stiff and awkward. ‘You were not expecting me, Monsieur.’
    ‘Forgive me. I simply didn’t
     believe you would come.But I’m very glad you did. Very
     glad.’ He stepped back and looked at me.
    I could feel his eyes running over my
     cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as rigid as a starched collar. He gave
     off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but almost overpowering in the
     circumstances.
    ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like
     a glass of wine? Something to relax you a