Triangle, p.4
Triangle, page 4
But Amanda was no better in some way. She was in love with a toy poodle she had convinced herself was a person. And every few years a man she thought she loved, who always disappointed her, or fell short in some way.
Pascal had thought that the man she’d met at the de Beaumonts’ dinner party sounded hopeful, and like a good match for Amanda. But he never called her, which surprised Pascal, he decided he must have had a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, or even a wife, despite her being convinced that he wasn’t married. Women like Amanda didn’t come along every day, and he must have seen that. Pascal had a hard time believing Olivier hadn’t called her, and was sorry he hadn’t.
Amanda never mentioned Olivier Saint Albin again, and Pascal stopped asking. He didn’t want to make her feel bad. But Amanda seemed happy with her life. Business was good at the gallery. She had found two new artists she was excited about. And eventually the model Pascal had taken out the night Amanda met Olivier went back to her old boyfriend, and they were both single again. He met a young actress shortly afterward. She eclipsed all the women who had come before her, as always happened with him.
Olivier Saint Albin faded into the mists, and Amanda seemed to have forgotten him. She never said his name to Pascal again. Only Lulu knew the truth, that she had waited for weeks, hoping he would call, and he didn’t. Her heart had ached for a while, as hope died, and she told herself it didn’t matter. She had Lulu to console her. She told herself she was too old for romance now anyway. It would seem ridiculous at her age. She knew better than to fall in love with a stranger. She was almost forty, which felt like a major milestone to her. And there were countless younger women to keep handsome men in their forties entertained. Even when beautiful and successful, it was hard to compete at thirty-nine. She tried not to think about it, and if she was meant to fall in love again, one day she would. She was happy in her life, but she thought of him from time to time. It wasn’t an easy face to forget.
Chapter 3
Two months after the de Beaumonts’ dinner party, Amanda went to the opening of a big Picasso show. Pascal was supposed to go with her, but he got sick two days before, and felt rotten with a fever and the flu. He didn’t want to get Amanda sick too, and he felt too ill to go out.
“I’m sorry to let you down,” he apologized the day of the show. “I feel awful.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine alone. I don’t mind.” She had bought a new dress for the occasion, a slinky red cocktail dress by Dior with a matching coat lined in shocking pink silk, and wore high-heeled red satin sandals. She looked in the mirror once she was dressed, with her hair wound up in a loose bun, and was pleased with the effect. She had hired a car and driver. She didn’t want to have to call a cab or wait for an Uber to come home. She arrived at the Petit Palais an hour after the event began. The crowd of well-dressed important people from the art world, socialites, and celebrities was huge, and many people knew her. The Delanoe Gallery was well known and respected. She walked up the steps in her high heels, showed her invitation and ID, slipped into the crowd, and accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by with a silver tray. The show had been beautifully curated as a retrospective of Picasso’s work, some of which had never been publicly shown before. She was admiring a large painting, stepped backward to get a broader perspective, and bumped into someone behind her, who instinctively put his arms around her to keep her from stumbling. She turned and looked up to see who it was, and her breath caught when she saw Olivier Saint Albin. He looked as startled to see her as she was, and his face broke into a smile.
“Hello, Amanda. I’ve thought about you so many times. I meant to call you, but time got away from me. I’ve been busy with my flock of writers. You probably have too, with your artists.” Amanda nodded, trying to regain her composure. She was taken by surprise to see him again. She covered her discomfiture with a smile that was convincing only because he didn’t know her well. Pascal would have seen immediately how uncomfortable she was, and how ambiguous about seeing Olivier again. She’d been excited about meeting him and disappointed when he didn’t call. “Have you been well?” he asked her.
“Very much so.” Her smile was more genuine as she regained her balance and sense of poise. “What brings you here?” she asked, but half of Paris was there, and most of them knew her, and had stopped to say hello. The crowd swirled around them, as she handed her half-empty glass of champagne to a waiter. She had managed not to get any on her dress when she backed into Olivier. She had been graceful in his arms, and light as a feather. He had felt the warmth of her body against his, and it was a very appealing sensation. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, but it came back to him now in a rush. “Are you enjoying the show?” she asked him.
“I am,” he said, unable to tear his gaze away from hers. She was fine now, back in control and over the surprise of seeing him again.
“Most of these paintings are privately owned and have never been shown publicly before. It’s an amazing treat to see them now, all in one place. I was so in awe of that one that I stumbled back into you,” she said, smiling.
“Running into you has been the best part of the evening so far,” he said smoothly, subtly flirtatious with her again, but she wasn’t going to fall for it this time. He had bowled her over the first time, but her guard was up now, since he’d never followed up on their first meeting, and she’d hoped he would. She felt foolish for it now. He was even better-looking than she remembered. “Can I walk around the exhibition with you? You can educate me about what I’m seeing and what period it’s from. Or are you with someone?” Olivier looked suddenly awkward when he asked. It had only just occurred to him that Amanda might have a date.
“No, my partner got sick, and I came alone. I actually prefer it. It’s given me a chance to really look at the art. But I’d be happy to walk around with you. I’ve read about the work, but I haven’t seen all of it myself. I want to come back when it’s not so crowded so I can take my time looking. But we can take a quick tour now.”
It turned out to be a longer tour than they planned. Amanda got stopped every few feet by some collector, artist, or gallerist who wanted to talk to her. She introduced Olivier to them, and he was fascinated by her explanations to him about the paintings, and learned a lot from her in a brief time. He was normally more engaged in literature than art, and he was impressed by how knowledgeable she was. And she looked spectacular in her red dress.
“You really know your stuff,” he said, admiring her. He wasn’t sure what part of her mesmerized him the most, her face, her body, or her mind. She had the deepest eyes he had ever looked into, with a wealth of wisdom there.
“Picasso has always been my favorite artist.” Amanda didn’t tell Olivier that she had a Picasso at her apartment that she’d inherited from her father. It seemed unlikely now that Olivier would ever see it, and she didn’t like to brag. He was just as subtly seductive as he had been the first time she met him, but she realized now that it wasn’t personal and meant for her, it was just his style. He liked women and every encounter was a conquest. She didn’t want to be one of them. His not calling had surprised and disappointed her. She didn’t want to be surprised again, and was sure she would be disappointed if she let her guard down. Her aloofness made her even more alluring to him as they came back to a central point in the exhibit and she looked at him with a quizzical expression. He could sense that she didn’t trust him, and she wasn’t as warm and open as she had been at the dinner where they’d met. “Have you heard any good accordion music lately?” she asked him, sipping another glass of champagne, and he laughed.
“I’ve tried hard not to,” he quipped back, “and succeeded. Have you been back to the de Beaumonts’?”
“No, but I sold them two very nice paintings the week after the dinner. So I guess it was worth it.” She didn’t tell him that for a while she had thought that it was worth it to meet him. But she no longer felt that way about him now anyway. She was leery of him. Without meaning to, he had hurt her. Maybe without even knowing it. She had been shocked to discover how vulnerable she still was to the charms of a man to whom she was just a chance encounter at a dinner party, a woman to talk to for a few hours and never see again. She had obviously made far less of an impression on him than he had on her. But now Olivier was just another face in the crowd, a handsome face, but not one she would ever see again after tonight. The tables had turned in the last two months, once she got over meeting him. He was a master at the art of flirtation, something she had never been good at. Real emotions were what meant everything to her.
But he managed to startle her anyway, when she finished her champagne, and gave the empty glass back to a waiter. “Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked her. She had seen everyone she had wanted to see, and toured the collection twice, once before she saw him and the second time with him.
“I…I should probably get home,” she said vaguely. She didn’t want to be exposed to his charm again. She had enough grace to get her through the cocktail hour, but an entire meal would be hard. She might let her guard down again, and was afraid she would. He was hard to resist. His smile was dazzling and took her breath away, and he seemed so pleased to see her, she almost believed it was real, but not quite. He had looked that way the first night too, and it had come to nothing, and she was sure the same would happen again. He was a practiced charmer of women. And she didn’t want to be one of them.
“You might as well eat dinner, and you look too beautiful to go straight home,” he said, trying to convince her. His eyes were pleading with her, which made him seem younger than he was and even more appealing. He wasn’t easy to resist. “We can go somewhere simple if you don’t want a big fancy meal. Whatever you like. I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.” She could see it was the truth, and it touched her, in spite of her reservations about what kind of man he was. She had come to the conclusion that he was a chaser, a seducer, and a flirt, who practiced his skills effortlessly on women, and she had just been the flavor of the night at a boring dinner. She even wondered if the story about his going to London the next day was true. He might have had another date after the de Beaumont dinner, since it was early, and he had been in such a rush to leave. He might even have a girlfriend, and probably did. She didn’t trust him, and wasn’t sure why she had before. He had seemed so sincere when they talked that night, and then he never called.
“I suppose dinner would be all right,” Amanda said with a sigh and a look of hesitation. They left the show together and took his car and driver, dismissing hers. Olivier slid in next to her, looking like he’d won the lottery, and she was cool with him, but she warmed up as they talked in the car.
He took her to a small fashionable bistro she’d been to often and liked. He was pleased to know that she came there frequently, and that it was a favorite of hers. They ordered dinner, and the conversation took off like lightning, about her gallery, his publishing house, her deep relationship with her father, her internal division between France and the U.S., his childhood, hers, first in Paris, then two years in New York, and then back to Paris again. He was fascinated by what a mixture she was between French and American. She appeared to be pure French in her appearance, style, and attitudes, and yet there was an underlying thread of something else within her which he recognized as American and found refreshing. There was an innocence to her he liked, a strength and courage, a candor about what she felt and believed that was less typical of Frenchwomen. She was very direct and straightforward, but gentle in the way she expressed herself.
“What do you feel? Do you feel more attached to either country?” he asked her, curious about her and hungry to know more.
“I’m definitely French. I was born here, I grew up here, I’ve spent most of my life here, but there’s some American in the mix somewhere. I’m a Frenchwoman to my core, but now and then I think the Americans get it right. It’s confusing at times, or maybe it adds something to who I am, and how I think.”
“It seems like a nice problem to have.”
“Not always,” she admitted. “Sometimes the two parts of me are in conflict, and it tears me apart.”
“You seem pretty whole to me.” Olivier could tell that Amanda was a strong woman with definite ideas and principles. He liked that about her. She wasn’t forceful about it, but he sensed that her emotions and values ran deep. Her style was European, but there was something American in there too. There was nothing oblique about her. Frenchwomen felt they had to be at times, to get what they wanted. She was very direct. You could tell where you stood with a woman like her. There was nothing hidden about her, or disguised. She put her cards on the table and wasn’t afraid to be who she really was. It was incredibly appealing, a little scary at the same time, and new to him. Some Frenchwomen took pride in hiding the depths of their emotions. Amanda wasn’t capable of hiding, and didn’t want to. He could see in her eyes that she laid her heart bare and was willing to accept the consequences of speaking her truth. He was more and more aware of it as they spoke.
Olivier’s driver took them back to her apartment after dinner, and he dropped her off. Amanda lived in a beautiful two-hundred-year-old building, and Olivier suspected her apartment was as stylish as she was. It was one of the best evenings he had spent in a long time with any woman, and he was hungry to see her again. He was glad he had run into her at the art opening and wished he had called her after the first time they’d met. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Strong women frightened him sometimes, but Amanda wasn’t aggressive about it. She was solid and stable, and her feet were firmly planted on the ground. She was the kind of woman who would give a man strength, not attempt to reduce him so she could take advantage of him. She wasn’t competitive with him, she was real. Olivier could sense that she’d been hurt, and he didn’t want to be the one to hurt her again. She didn’t need him, but he wanted to take care of her and protect her anyway. He liked the fact that she wasn’t desperate for a man and didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t married at nearly forty. It didn’t appear to matter to her at all. She was a magnificent bird who had lived her entire lifetime without a cage and didn’t want to start now, just so she could have a man.
Olivier had asked Amanda for her number on the drive back to her apartment, and this time she had a feeling that he’d call. She thanked him when he dropped her off, and didn’t invite him upstairs. She walked up the stairs to her apartment slowly, thinking about him. It had been a good night for her too, and had come as a complete surprise.
* * *
—
The next day, Amanda got to her office early and was at her computer when Pascal came to the gallery, looking like death, but he said he no longer had a fever and had to catch up on work.
“How was the Picasso show?” he asked her, wearing an old sweater with holes in it that he always wore when he was sick or depressed, with torn jeans and beat-up sneakers.
“Terrific,” she said, glancing up from her computer. She knew what it meant when he wore his holey sweater. “You look like you should still be in bed.”
“I’m okay. I’m sorry I didn’t go with you last night,” he apologized again.
“They wouldn’t have let you in, in that sweater.” She laughed at him. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks.” They were still talking when the delivery truck from a very fancy florist arrived, and three dozen tall blood-red roses in a vase were delivered to her desk. She was so startled she didn’t guess who they were from at first. Pascal stared at them, and then at Amanda.
“Just how spectacular was the show and whom did you do what to, to get roses like that?” She laughed at the look on his face and read the card. It said, “Thank you for a magnificent evening. Lunch today? I’m already having withdrawals after last night. Olivier.”
“What are there, a hundred roses in that vase?” Pascal asked her. She counted in answer to the question.
“Three dozen,” she said innocently. “And I actually didn’t do anything. All I did was eat dinner.”
“With whom? The president of France?” She laughed.
“I ran into Olivier Saint Albin. Literally. I stepped backward and nearly fell over him.”
“Did you ask him the question? Is he married?”
“Of course not, it would have been awkward. Hi, I haven’t heard from you in two months, and by the way, are you married? And besides it’s redundant. I’m sure he isn’t. I don’t need to ask him. He acts single,” she said with certainty. The question hadn’t even crossed her mind all night.
“I don’t think single men send flowers like that,” Pascal said, looking worried. “Only guilty married ones do.”
