‘Yes.’ She manages to confirm my suspicions. ‘It’s wonderful.’ She stands at the foot of the finished sculpture, a faceless man with a mass of curls, pulling himself out of the raw stone, only his muscular arms and torso managing to make it clear of the base.
‘Such talent,’ The American says to the faceless man, ‘so much time…’
‘You can touch it if you like,’ Florian’s voice echoes from behind us. I jolt and he places a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’ There’s a lightness to him I hadn’t recognised before, his eyes sing with it.
‘It’s fine.’ I know I’m blushing.
‘Go on,’ he encourages The American. ‘I think there’s always something quite magical about touching it, you know, feeling where it all comes from.’
‘It feels wrong,’ The American chuckles, but I watch as her hand reaches out and strokes the shoulder of the figure. ‘All my life I’ve been trying not to touch things in places like this.’
‘It’s not going to crumble.’ Florian takes his own hand and knocks on the base. ‘If it did it would make my life easier.’
‘Go on, Ava, your turn,’ The American encourages, but I feel silly now, as if all eyes are on me.
‘It’s fine,’ I object, stepping back, but The American rolls her eyes at my awkwardness.
‘Don’t be silly, touch it!’ She practically launches me forward so that my hand makes contact with the sculpture’s hand; it is as hard and cool as I had imagined. I trace my finger over its fingers, the meticulously carved veins on the top of the palm. How anyone starts something like this is beyond me. The imagination and sheer doggedness it must take to turn a formless hunk of stone into art petrifies me, because that’s talent, that’s creativity. It makes me think of the book I’m not writing, how I have all the material and still can’t even get anything down. How I am the epitome of a fraud.
‘It’s incredible, Florian.’ I turn to him with a nod of approval. He is standing back from me now, wearing a pair of tweed trousers and a crisp white shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top. His hands are in his pockets and his hair is gelled back; he looks relaxed, more at home here than I could have ever imagined. Gone is the uncomfortable man I met at the bar the other night, he doesn’t have to apologise here.
‘I’m glad you two could come,’ he says sincerely and The American swaps the statue’s arm for Florian’s.
‘It’s remarkable.’ She kisses his cheeks. ‘What a talent you are.’
‘Well, it’s nice to take it to people who appreciate it.’ He nods at the room. ‘It’s a big turnout this year, buzzier than usual.’
The American tuts at him, sucking in her teeth. ‘You should be in Paris! Not here.’
He shakes his head, sticks out his tongue a little. It makes him look like a kid. ‘There are enough artists in Paris. I’ll take my chances here.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ another voice choruses into our conversation, a voice that immediately makes my stomach drop and a clammy heat spread across my chest. I keep my eyes on the ground and hope that if I don’t move, I might just disappear. ‘My son is a very talented man.’
‘Mama, I didn’t think you were…’ Florian gabbles, but she hushes him and continues talking to The American.
‘He’s always had an eye for detail.’
‘And patience I imagine,’ The American chimes in. I wonder if she remembers the conversation the other day in the hotel, whether if she just keeps her talking then I can sneak away.
‘Of course… you know it’s funny, he’s always been a very thoughtful, methodical boy, not like his brother, God rest his soul, he was always in such a rush.’ I feel myself stiffen at the mention of Ettie, I try to make my exit but as I cut through the little crowd someone steps in front of me, we collide, a glass shatters on the floor. Someone yelps from the noise. I look up, and my cover is blown. She knows it’s me as soon as our eyes meet. I wonder if there was ever any use in pretending I wasn’t here. She doesn’t look shocked; she probably saw me walking around, come to terms with the fact her estranged daughter-in-law is roaming her remaining son’s exhibition.
‘Ava!’ There is venom in her expression, a sort of fixed cabin-crew smile that hides a multitude of poisonous intentions.
‘Maxine.’ I sort of bob in her direction. This is as far as our familiarity goes. She was Maxine to her face, Madame Grenaud when Ettie and I were alone and ready to trade barbs.
‘I did not know you were back.’ Whilst her sons had learned to soften their accent when speaking English, Madame Grenaud had not; she wanted to put as much distance between her and ‘my sort’ as humanly possible.
‘It’s not for long, flying visit.’ I look to Florian who is paler than he was a few minutes earlier. The American is looking anxiously from one face to the other. Even if she doesn’t remember, she is picking up on an atmosphere that feels as thick and heavy as soup. I hope that maybe she might fake a faint, distract the crowds so that I can run, but she looks frustratingly stable.
‘You knew she was here?’ Madame Grenaud directs the question at Florian who practically gulps.
‘We met the other day in town.’
I try to assess Madame Grenaud’s expression for any signs of irritation but she stays remarkably unmoved. ‘How lovely, a reunion.’
‘Yes, a bit.’ I nod, hoping that if I stick to simple answers, don’t overcomplicate anything, then I might be allowed to walk free without too much of an altercation.
‘And how special that you’re here to see him.’ She looks up at the statue and I feel a strange affinity to the poor subject: there he is, trying in vain to escape his rocky prison, and here I am, desperately attempting to claw my way out of this social interaction.
