A “marriage de pistolet” (as Andrew had jokingly dubbed it) at amairiein Paris, much to the horror of our parents. Particularly my mother, who was a virgin on her wedding night and let me know in no uncertain terms that I was making a huge mistake. (“An artist? What were you thinking?”) I was twelve weeks pregnant that idyllic spring day. The combination of morning sickness, the stress of an unexpected pregnancy, and a rushed nuptial resulted in a seven-pound weight loss. My boobs were slightly heavier, but I was otherwise svelte in a modest ankle-length dress with three-quarter sleeves and a lace bodice. Fran wore a navy suit, cognac dress shoes from J.M. Weston. Although he insisted on switching to Adidas Gazelles for the after-party. It was an intimate ceremony followed by an elegant reception for sixty at a private residence in the sixteenth. Philippe had offered up hisfabulous apartment on the Avenue Foch. It had been in his family since the turn of the century. And our guests dined on sole meunière and magret de canard and croquembouche while overlooking the gardens and their hundred-year-old chestnut trees.
We danced our first dance to “Crash into Me” by Dave Matthews Band. The song, haunting and melancholy, was what Fran had played for me the first time we made love. There, in his tinychambre de bonnein Montmartre, with an Ikea mattress on the floor. It became our song. And there, where we would occasionally spend entire weekends, is where he would take numerous titillating photos of me. Photos that would one day end up in the bottom of his shoe closet.
“This was a lovely wedding, CeCe,” my mother had said to me, late on our wedding night, as the last of our guests were filing out. “Even if you did mangle the rules of etiquette.”
I’d made a deal with myself then to make François’s and my marriage work, if for no other reason than to prove my judgmental mother wrong. And so I had never mentioned Élodie Cloutier.
“Well, just… think about it,” Anouk says now, snapping me back to the present day.
Right. Lorry. “I’ll think about it.”
We continue our hike, heading down the far side of the mountain, and as we approach the vista that overlooks Rustic Creek and the north side of Amalfi Drive, I’m struck by the real estate. Multiple impressive homes dot the cliffs. Massive estates with manicured lawns and infinity pools clinging to the overhangs. So much wealth it’s jarring.
The trail winds down through a grove of eucalyptus trees and spits us out at the far side of the park, near the horse stables. We meander down to Will Rogers’s historic ranch house and its grand lawn. The polo fields stretched out just beyond. At long last, green.
I endeavor to take a barrage of photos, Anouk just off to my side, watching me as I work. I like it.
I like her.
At one point she approaches me from behind, nuzzles the side of her face against the back of my neck. I flinch, and then giggle like a teenager.
“Are you… smelling me?”
“I’m inhaling you.”
She takes her finger then and runs it the length of my spine. “I’m going to go and sit in the shade, while you finish being Ansel Adams.”
And with that, she saunters off. And I am incredibly aware of my heart pounding outside of my chest.
We settle eventually on the grass, near the retaining wall abutting the ranch. There are fewer than half a dozen people spread out on the lawn, and it feels like our own private Eden. The scent of eucalyptus in the air, a cloudless blue sky above. God, LA really is something.
For a good while neither of us speaks. But then Anouk opens her backpack and pulls out a container of cherries. A small bag for the pits. Like an environmentally conscious mom. I can’t help but laugh.
“What? They’re in season. You want your first time to be special,n’est-ce pas?”
“I didn’t know first LA hikes were something to be celebrated.”
“Every first is something to be celebrated,” she says then, withdrawing an insulated wine sleeve. Inside, a bottle of Bollinger Rosé.
“I thought you didn’t day drink.”
She smiles, unveiling two plastic flutes. “I’m making an exception.”
There is something alluring in her gesture. The spontaneity, the tenderness, the flirting. I had missed this. It had been so long.
We toast. Drink. Eat cherries and dispose of our pits. We lie on the grass, staring up at the sky. Her fingers, red from the fruit, entwine with mine. A dove coos in the distance.
From here I can smell her sweat, her sunscreen. This, I think, is intimacy. This wonderful closeness.
“I wish my first time had been this special.”
“Laurence?” She says it again with the French pronunciation.
“No, it was a… guy… I knew. I wouldn’t even say we dated. He was in a band.”
“A guy in a band?” she questions, amused. “You??”
“Yes. I don’t advise it.” I drift off for a bit. “I was young. Impressionable. I was assistant to the photo editor atÉlanmagazine, and we shot them for a feature. Four guys from LA. They were just becoming famous and there was this excitement,just being around them. They were charming and adorable and talented, and my age. We shot them in the studio, and we all got on well. A bunch of us went for drinks after and stayed out late. Laughing into the night.
