“After the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame,” he said, “the Place du Tertre is the most clichéd tourist trap in Paris, on every postcard and fridge magnet. And yet you cannot deny its history. Toulouse-Lautrec, Modigliani, and Picasso lived here. Made great art here. And even some of these painters tonight—they have great skill and artistry. So I look at it through that glass. A place of art and history. And if I can even draw one ounce of inspiration from it, I should use it to inspire others. Let’s sit here a moment and drink it in. Asflâneurs.”
Sabine wanted to sit there all night and make a tiny book.
Next, Yves took them to Jehan Rictus Square, Place des Abbesses: a small park of paths amidst beds of bushes and yellow flowers, where there was an installation calledLe Mur des Je T’Aime: a wall of royal blue tiles covered in scrawled white words.
“The artists printed the words ‘I love you’ in over three hundred languages on tiles made of enameled lava, so they would never fade,” said Yves. “It’s very romantic, no?”
“It is. And what are the red bits?” asked Sabine. Scattered across the wall of blue tiles were small red irregular shapes.
“Pieces of a broken heart, because we commit so many wrongs. They are waiting for us to repair them.” He paused. “I would like to repair any hearts I have broken in my lifetime.”
It did feel as if Yves was repairing her heart, little by little. And yet, she avoided eye contact with him and Aubin, watching couples all around them taking selfies in front of the wall.
Above the tiles was an image of a woman in a satin gown. Sabine took in the woman’s thought bubble:“aimer c’est du désordre … alors aimons!”To love is messy, so let’s love.
Marlow washed her face and underarms fast in Guillaume’s guest bathroom—the confrontation with Rémy had made her lose track of time, and now, with seven minutes before the performance review, she had to get on screen with Oscar looking like she’d been playing at the dump. Why did she never seem to have her shit together? Maybe, she thought, rifling through the drawers for antiperspirant, because she neverdidhave her shit together.
She stared at herself in the mirror and pulled a twig from her hair. Great. That had been there the entire time she’d been speaking with Rémy.
If the performance review with Oscar went poorly, she could say goodbye to the new job. The biggest thing she could foresee being a problem was not inviting Yves to the September Summit. So now, if it came up, she’d have to decide whether to say that she’d rather not reach out to Yves, given their personal history, or lie that she’d asked and he’d been unavailable—a risk, since Yves and Victor, the head of Renegade, were friends.
Four minutes until her review. Her shirt was covered in dirt and paint. Guillaume was nowhere to be found, so she barged into his bedroom, rifled through his drawers and found a T-shirt in a drawer of identical, perfectly rolled-up T-shirts. Madame Klein strikes again. Marlow yanked off her top and put on Guillaume’s. She’d apologize later.
She raced back to her office, fired up her laptop, and signed into the video conference with one minute to spare. Oscar was already there. So was Helen from Renegade’s HR department. Of course he’d invited her.
“Hello, Marlow,” said Oscar. “Nice to see you. I haven’t seen you all week.”
“Oh, I’ve been here, toiling away,” Marlow said, trying to be cheery. “I’ve just been working odd hours. Hi, Helen, how are you?”
She hoped that didn’t sound too defensive. It probably did.
Press restart. You can do this.
“Fine, thanks,” said Helen. Helen was about as official as the festival got: warm but professional, never a hair out of place, with a veneer impossible to penetrate. “How’s France?”
“Wonderful,” said Marlow. “We had a big storm in the small town where I am, and there was clean-up to do, but croissants make everything better.”
Helen laughed. Oscar shuffled paperwork.
“The good news is,” said Marlow, “I’ve sold the house I bought over here, so we’re all sorted. I’m looking forward to being back in Toronto, at Renegade, come September first.”
“So,” said Oscar, “thank you for coming to your review. This, as you know, is part of our deal to allow you to spend the summer in France. And I want this to be a friendly two-way conversation.”
As if.
“Let’s follow the ‘HOF’ model,” said Oscar. “Highlights, obstacles, future. Highlights—you’ve done good work on the Incubator and Studio series, and I think the mentorship program’s been a success, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” said Marlow, gnashing her teeth. The mentorship program had been her idea and all her doing, but Oscar made it seem like it was his.
“Anything I’ve missed?”
Only a hundred things, thought Marlow. Helen needed to clock them all.
“The alumnae connection app I launched worked out,” said Marlow. “I’ve counted four features this year alone made by past Renegade residents using that resource. We got amazing participant surveys back on the Screenwriters’ Winter Retreat. The festival speed-dating event went well—”
“Thanks,” Oscar said, cutting her off.What a dick.“We don’t have long, so let’s get to the obstacles. I admit, I was a bit blindsided by the same-day request for a holiday to France.”
“Understood, but—”
