First tango in paris, p.4
First Tango in Paris, page 4
Eva shuffled through some papers on her desk, sure she knew what Jeanne would say. Instead of being rude, though, she humored her aunt. She meant well. “What’s that?”
Jeanne quirked her mouth into a half smile. “I realize I’ve warned you about this several times, but it’s important.”
Eva nodded, though she really didn’t need to hear this bit of advice again.
“Some of the people you’ll lead will want to get to know you better,” Jeanne said. “After all, you’re beautiful, when you take time to pay some attention to your appearance.”
“And when I don’t take time, I’m ugly?” Eva was only half kidding. She’d never thought of herself as attractive and didn’t see why she should spend a lot of time trying to be. She had too many other important and interesting things to do. What had Mother’s good looks gotten her except a handsome, philandering husband?
“Don’t be silly. You’re never ugly,” Jeanne said. “I’d just like to see you maximize your natural good looks.” She walked over and brushed her fingers through Eva’s bangs. “But even if you don’t, some people on your tour will treat you like their best friend. They’ll even suggest after-hours activities.” She backed away when Eva moved her head slightly. “Once the tour ends, though, they’ll disappear and forget you completely. Why, when I began in this business, I…”
Eva had heard about the attempted seductions Jeanne had endured a million times, so she tuned them out. She didn’t intend to become involved with anyone who was paying her to guide them around Paris. That would make her too much like the prostitutes her father couldn’t seem to get enough of.
“I know,” she said. “Why do you think so many people, especially Americans, dream of sleeping with a Frenchwoman?” The thought made her uneasy. “For that matter, why do so many people consider us sexy?”
Her aunt swiped a bleached-blond strand of hair out of her own eye. “Perhaps because we are?” She laughed. “Seriously, since the time of Elizabeth I, Anglo women have been taught that they can become powerful only by denying men sex.”
Eva nodded. She hadn’t thought of that.
“But, through experience, we Frenchwomen have learned that we can use sex to gain power. It’s as simple as that.” Jeanne looked satisfied, as if she thought she’d answered Eva’s question completely.
But Eva needed to think about what Jeanne had just said. She glanced down at the list of teenage Americans she was scheduled to lead through Paris, then looked up again. “Regardless of what causes people’s misplaced fantasies, I refuse to become the victim of them. I just want to try to repay you for all your help during the past few years and become a better lawyer in the process.”
Jeanne gave her a quick hug. “You don’t need to repay me, child. But I do appreciate your help, and I love being able to spend some time with you for a change. You were out of the country far too long to suit me.” She gazed at Eva with pride. “Besides, I really do like your idea for this new tour.”
Eva filled with warmth and hugged Jeanne back. If only her father made her feel this way. “I have to meet my new group. Go ahead and advertise the Women of Paris tour. And don’t worry about me. I can deal with whoever signs up.”
*
Brigitte felt on top of the world here on the second level of the Eiffel Tower. She pulled off her floppy hat and large-framed sunglasses and, for a minute, let the glorious sun warm her cheeks, which she’d carefully coated with Coppertone sunscreen.
She inhaled deeply, alive with sensation, as she glanced across the Seine at the Place du Trocadero. The two long buildings at the back of the Trocadero reminded her of a woman’s arms stretched wide open to welcome her to Paris. She just wished she could find that woman.
She almost wished things had worked out with Mies, but not seeing her again had been the right choice. That liaison was going nowhere fast, and she was relieved she’d ended it after just that one night. At least she’d been honest with Mies and with herself. Now she felt reenergized and ready to see Paris on her own.
Brigitte gripped the worn-smooth wooden rail. The iron fencing under it felt cold against her right knee, and a chilly breeze caressed her, so she untied her red sweater from around her shoulders and pulled it on over her shirt. She should have worn pants instead of this miniskirt, but it felt good to bare her legs to the world and know she could handle whatever attention she attracted.
She gazed at the city that stretched all around her, wishing she had someone special to share the breathtaking view with. But she didn’t, so she checked her hair in her compact. Windblown—it needed some major repair work. She pulled her hat back on.
Mies had appeared to be infatuated with her, but what had they actually talked about during the few hours they’d spent together? What to eat, Mies’s filming schedule, how beautiful Mies thought she was—nothing really personal, intimate. She wanted to share things with someone like she had with Rosa.
Could someone be both a lover and a friend? Those two spheres had always been totally separate for her, and she didn’t know if she could bring them together. If only she could find someone who could provide her with a roaring orgasm like she’d seen lovers in the movies enjoy, as well as converse with her about music and literature and art, she’d be happy.
She meandered to another spot on the platform and spotted what she thought must be the Luxembourg Gardens in the Latin Quarter. The horse-chestnut trees were such a rich shade of green. They made her feel younger than she had in years.
A few days ago she’d strolled through those gardens and noticed some brown spots on the leaves of the chestnut trees. But from here they looked perfect. How strange that distance usually made things seem more desirable. She pulled on her sunglasses again and thought of the couples she’d noticed during her time in the Luxembourg Gardens. Some had been walking arm in arm, and others lying entwined on a blanket, but none of them seemed to care who saw them.
She was definitely no stranger to sex, but for her it had always had to occur behind closed doors. It had been a private affair she could never share with the world, an impersonal business transaction. Having to worry about being arrested for what she was and did had certainly put a damper on things, though Rosa had always shielded her from that particular bit of reality. But she couldn’t protect her from the holier-than-thou attitude of practically everyone she’d come in contact with. And for what? She was simply making an honest living.
But she reminded herself that she wasn’t in New Orleans any longer, thank God. She was in Paris, where women could walk hand in hand along the street and no one would notice. That would have never been accepted in New Orleans unless the women were very young, very old, closely related, or feeble.
She stood there and continued to gaze at the faraway park. Maybe if she’d grown up here instead of in a small town near New Orleans, she’d have been able to accept sex as something natural and enjoyable. Why should she have to hide such an important part of herself?
After a while, the sun vanished behind the clouds, and the wind began to chill her bare legs. As she walked toward the lift to leave, she heard a familiar voice. “I’ll give you ten minutes to look at the city. Remember how I told you the Parisians used to think this tower was an eyesore and wanted it torn down? Well, this view will show you what you would have missed if they’d had their way.”
That voice. Shrill, demanding, instructing, arrogant. Brigitte had heard it not that long ago. But where?
“Don’t forget. I’ll meet you here at the lift in ten minutes.”
And then she remembered. The striking woman at the library, the one who’d been so overbearing about that book. She hurried in the opposite direction. She didn’t want the woman to see her. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize her. She felt a bit embarrassed about reacting the way she had at the library and decided to return the book today. What if the woman truly needed it? She shook her head. All the brunette had needed to do was ask her nicely.
After riding the lift down to ground level, she stood at the bottom of the massive tower and gazed up at it. Its size overwhelmed her, as Paris did at times, but she tried not to gawk. She was a sophisticated woman in a sophisticated city, and she needed to look and act like one.
She grabbed a taxi to Avenue Montaigne. There she strolled into some exclusive boutiques where, with her perfect French, the clerks competed for her attention. She tried on several cocktail dresses—designed by Pierre Cardin, Vera, Oscar de la Renta, and Diane von Furstenberg—and chose a simple black number and a pair of sexy black dress sandals. Rosa would have loved this.
She also picked up some lipstick and nail polish, some matte-finish makeup, and a large bottle of Givenchy III—her all-time favorite perfume. The natural look seemed to be out of fashion here in Paris, judging by most of the well-dressed women she’d eyed on the street all week.
But it was getting late. She needed to return that library book today so she could get that abrasive yet attractive Frenchwoman off her mind. Then she’d leisurely dress for her date with herself tonight to listen to some jazz.
Chapter Five
Marian Smither grasped Eva’s arm a little too familiarly. “My little darlings want to go to a club tonight. Can you recommend a good one?”
Eva had to struggle to keep up with Marian’s rapid English. Her accent was different than the British English Eva had learned during several extended visits to England. Since Marian supposedly taught French in an American private school, Eva had supposed she’d welcome the opportunity to practice it here in Paris. But with only a few exceptions, she reverted to English. She wasn’t that different from most Americans Eva encountered. They simply couldn’t believe that everyone in Paris didn’t speak fluent English.
Eva wiggled her tired feet and groaned to herself. Everyone in Marian’s group, with Eva in the lead, had just finished walking up all three hundred steps to visit the Sacré-Cœur, and she’d just sat down with a cup of coffee. “What kind of club do they have in mind?” She hoped it was one that closed early.
Marian perched on the edge of her chair in the small open-air café and gazed around the famous shaded square in Montmartre, filled with painters and their easels. She looked as fresh as her students did, even though they’d all been sightseeing practically nonstop since they arrived in Paris three days ago from somewhere in the American Midwest. “They’d love to go to one of those raunchy places in Pigalle, but that probably wouldn’t be suitable, do you think?”
Raunchy? What did that word mean? Probably immoral. Americans were so puritanical and assumed that everyone shared their values. Eva played along with Marian’s prejudice. “I don’t imagine their parents would approve of that type of outing. You should come up with a better idea.”
Eva ordered a second coffee and tried to soak up the creative spirit she always associated with this square. Knowing that so many famous artists, like van Gogh, had worked and lived near here always gave her a boost. And she enjoyed its calm, village-like atmosphere, which gave her a sense of peace and stability.
“What about jazz?” Marian asked. “Some of the kids really dig it.”
Dig it? Did real people actually use such slang? Judging by her vocabulary, Marian wasn’t much older than the dozen or so recent high-school graduates she was escorting through Paris and Rome this summer. American women in general were so very unsophisticated and devoid of a sense of style.
Marian pressed on. “Where’s the best place for that kind of music?”
Eva didn’t want to encourage Marian by recommending a club, but she didn’t want to alienate her. “Are you sure you want to stay out that late? You have to be exhausted. After all, we just finished walking up to the second-highest point in the city.”
Eva shook her head. “Exhausted? This is their senior trip. I don’t dare get tired. Their parents back home are paying all my expenses, so I have to be ready to do whatever the kids ask me to. I’ll make it worth your while if you’ll take us. We have a slush fund for special excursions.”
Eva suppressed another groan. She just wanted to go home, soak her feet, and read a good book. Cobblestones such as the ones in this part of Paris were charming, but tiring to walk on. Besides, she needed to do some research for her Women of Paris tour, which began all too soon.
“Well, I suppose I could—”
Marian grabbed her hand, her eyes blazing with something more than excitement. “That’d be great. Could you find us a place where the locals go, instead of one full of tourists? We want to experience the real Paris.”
How tiresome. Marian was flirting with her. Quite likely, she wanted to experience a real Parisienne as well. Jeanne had been right.
“Miss Smither,” one of the students called from a nearby artist’s stand. “Can you come help me pick out a painting? I can’t decide between one of the Eiffel Tower or the Sacré-Cœur. I really like it. It looks like the Taj Mahal.”
Eva groaned to herself. Everyone, especially the Americans, wanted to see the real Paris, instead of the artificial one constructed to rake in tourist dollars. She really didn’t blame them. In fact, during her recent travels over much of the world, she’d gone out of her way to associate with the locals. She’d had some unforgettable experiences as a single woman on her own, and several she’d rather forget.
She shrugged. She could use the extra money Marian had offered. She planned to repay Jeanne every cent she’d loaned her, with interest. She’d never have been able to get out of jail and away from France without her aunt’s generosity. Strange, how her father probably spent more on his women in a month than she’d needed for bail and for her entire trip, but he’d refused to loan her any at all.
Jeanne, however, hadn’t hesitated. Jeanne had encouraged her to get away, to see the world while she was young instead of doing nothing but studying and trying to change the system in France. She’d told Eva that she needed a break after all the political upheaval she’d been involved in while studying for her law degree.
Marian returned with an annoyed expression, breaking Eva’s reverie. “Honestly, that girl can’t tie her shoelaces by herself. I wish she’d find someone else to hang on to instead of expecting me to be her friend. And some of the others in the group just told me they’re ready to leave now. I swear they have the attention span of a gnat.”
Eva jumped to her feet, caffeine surging through her. In the morning she’d put this group on the train to Italy. I can stand up to this pace one more night.
As she and Marian rounded up the teenagers scattered around the colorful square, she kept trying to persuade herself the extra excursion tonight wasn’t a bad idea. After the group left, she’d have an entire weekend all to herself before another week like she’d just had arrived.
*
Brigitte finished removing the coral lacquer from her nails and held up her fingers to inspect each one, making sure no color remained. She shook her bottle of cranberry-red polish, unscrewed the top, and grazed the brush against the inside of the bottle’s neck to remove any excess polish. Images of that troublesome brunette from the library kept popping into her mind.
Imagine seeing her again, at the Eiffel Tower. Evidently she was a tour guide, most likely the one she’d glimpsed that day on the Champs Élysées, and had truly needed that book. She shook her head, trying to brush off her nagging regret at having acted so childish about the incident. At least she’d returned the book, so she could forget it had ever happened. But the woman’s unusual blue-green eyes seemed to have burned a hole in her brain.
Just then, she felt as if someone were sweeping her hair to one side and kissing the back of her neck. She stiffened. A faint scent of spring perfumed the air, as it had momentarily when she and Rosa had tangoed that final time. She shook her head and banished the thought.
Instead, she concentrated on covering her right thumbnail but kept sniffing remnants of the elusive aroma. A vision of those young people making out so unashamedly in the Luxembourg Gardens kept blinking off and on in her mind, like the traffic lights in Paris that whipped directly from green to red without a yellow warning. She’d glimpsed two women sprawled on a blanket in that park, oblivious to the stares of strangers. Would the brunette at the library ever make such a spectacle of herself? She doubted it. She seemed more uptight than a married woman in New Orleans.
Mies certainly hadn’t been uptight, but she hadn’t been able to think about anything but sex. Right now Brigitte just wanted to go out on the town and let some good jazz help her get her mind off everything.
She stood and let her negligee drop to the floor. She didn’t want to smudge her nails, so she waved her hands to speed up the drying process. Satisfied, she eased her panty hose up her legs and settled them around her waist, making sure the crotch wasn’t too tight. Then she stepped into her half-slip, maneuvered it slowly up, and smoothed it over her hips.
Not too bad, she thought as she gazed at herself in the mirror. The bags under her eyes had almost disappeared, and her skin was glowing again under her light dusting of face powder. She looked ready to conquer the Paris jazz scene.
Now for her new dress. After she slipped it on and strung a pair of cords around her waist, she marveled that they were all that held the black outfit together. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, admiring how beautifully the dress fit. The skirt was so sheer it felt like Kleenex. The soft jersey hugged her closely, and the halter neck felt comfortable. Having her back completely bare always excited her. Luckily, the dress had a built-in bra and held her breasts in place, displaying them perfectly.
It reminded her of some of the outfits she’d worn while she was working, but being in Paris made it seem much more special than her old clothes had. She applied her new red lipstick and then winked at her reflection. Her hair looked like spun gold, glittering against her black dress, and at that moment Brigitte felt golden.
She improvised a few tango steps, humming a familiar tune and leading an imaginary woman whose face was blurred and who felt oh-so light in her arms. Then she grabbed her evening wrap, left her room, and walked to the elevator. She felt like Cinderella leaving for the ball.
