‘Thanks.’ I take the glass she offers and neck it back. ‘You should come,’ I half offer, half plead.
‘Not tonight. Tonight’s about you. Now get outta here.’ She slaps me on the arse, propelling me towards the door.
Chapter 27
It’s a forty-minute driveto Bergerac, the only city in a fifty-mile radius. It feels refreshingly large, cosmopolitan almost, the old sandstone buildings next to glass offices, buses driving past people cycling home from work. The taxi pulls up directly outside the gallery where a few people are mingling with cigarettes.
A middle-aged woman looks up as I slam the taxi door a little too hard; she takes me in – the dress and my nerves – and reassures me with a small half smile, and it is enough to persuade me that this is a good idea, that I can walk through those doors.
Inside it is starkly modern, the walls are white, the floor is white, the ceiling’s white. It feels for a moment like someone’s interpretation of heaven, the brightness almost blinding as my eyes adjust. The crowd is different here too, infinitely better dressed than at the last exhibition, the men all in suits, the women in dresses so no one blinks an eye at me, and I feel as if I am wearing camouflage, a woman who is meant to be here, a woman who normally looks like this.
‘Madame.’ A waiter in all black hands me a flute of champagne. I take him in, think of The American’s story of the naked waiters and stifle a smile.
‘Merci.’ It’s nice to hold something in my hand, a distraction.
I take in the room, all of it, start to focus on the little spaces that have been created with some organised seating, pedestals with different multicoloured pieces of art on them. I look for Florian but there are too many people milling about. Instead, I decide to work my way around starting by the door, hoping that I might be struck with some inspiration of what I might actually say when I do see him because, other than the initial words of ‘I’m sorry,’ I had been drawing a blank. Obviously, I could just recycle what The American had managed to spout out at dinner, but I’m not sure I could convince Florian that I can be that brutally honest.
And then I see him, surrounded by suits. Next to him, the same sculpture as before except this time there are more people around it, admiring it, admiring him. I stand back, try to tune out the background noise and catch the conversation. He has always been more animated in his native tongue; his hands come to his midline, accentuating word after word. He says something, the crowd laughs, he looks pleased with himself and then his eyes wander around his space in the gallery, gauging what’s a success, which of his drawings is starting a conversation. His eyes pass over me at first, this absent, polite smile on his face that he must give to all prospective purchasers, but then I watch as he stiffens, stops, rooted in his place. Florian swallows hard and then his eyes drift back to me.
We stand there for a moment, eyes locked, him probably wondering if it is actually me, and me – well I’m trying to figure out if he looks mildly horrified or slightly pleased. The crowd of people around him are still talking, but he looks like he’s forgotten all about them; instead his lips pull into a wide grin, the kind that is impossible to fake. Someone in the crowd says his name but he doesn’t waver, so instead they turn to see where his gaze has fixed itself, turn to me. I know I’m smiling too; it’s as if I’m watching myself exist, aware of everything my body is doing but not quite being able to control it.
‘Florian!’ the admirer calls again. I gesture to his audience, and it breaks the trance. He blushes, looks at the faces, a couple more astute admirers have knowing grins on their own faces.
‘Pardon,’ he apologises with a little shake of his head. ‘Voudriez-vous m’excuser?’ He slips through his audience.
‘Please don’t abandon your fans on my account.’ My voice cracks a little from disuse and nerves as he meets me.
He dismisses them with a wave of his hand. ‘There will be others.’
‘You sound so sure.’
He looks at his feet and then brings his face back level with mine, a mischievous little shimmer in his eye. ‘My admirers have a habit of sticking around, even if they say they’re not interested.’
‘Stupid admirers.’
‘I’ve grown quite fond of them myself.’
I let the comment wash over me, try to notice how it feels, how it sticks to me, the strangeness of the relief it brings, and then I think of his face last night when I told him to go.
‘Florian, I need to…’
He shakes his head and swallows the last of his drink, resting it on one of the waiters’ trays. ‘Not here,’ he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the crowd and some doors onto a small courtyard, with string lights around the olive trees.
There are a few other people milling about, smoking, on phone calls, getting some air but there is an intimacy here that was lacking in the echoing room of the gallery. He leans back against a large plant pot, his eyes meet mine again, his boyish grin returns and it’s infectious. I bite my lip, look down, try to play it cool because there’s things that need to be said.
‘You came,’ he says gently.
‘I came.’
‘You look…’
‘Ridiculous?’ I interrupt before he can finish.
‘No!’ he says fiercely. ‘No, you look beautiful. I mean seriously beautiful.’ I know I’m blushing, I can feel it, the way my cheeks are on fire, the way the heat is thundering down my body. It’s a heat so consuming that even the cool evening air is doing nothing to dampen it. I straighten down the bodice of the dress.
‘You can thank The American.’
He looks around at the dissipating crowd. ‘Just for the dress, or for the fact you’re here?’
