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twenty-four
Amsterdam
The tour begins in a whirlwind. In Amsterdam, we stay at the Pulitzer Hotel—artsy and elegant. The morning of the first gallery showing, we do a little sightseeing through the city of canals and bicycles as if we were an ordinary couple—hands linked or arm-in-arm, always touching. Cole takes me to the Van Gogh Museum and I watch him take in the paintings.
“It’s like it’sbreathing,” he says as we stand in front ofWheatfield with Crows.“The wheat stalks are swaying, and the birds are alive and flying. Can you see it?”
I nod, but I’m looking at him, overwhelmed by him—his physical body, his heart and his soul, and those three most dastardly and beautiful words nearly escape my lips…
Then some assistant or another pops up to tell Cole it’s time to head to the gallery and I swallow them down.
The show is a smashing success, of course, and a portent of what’s to come for the rest of the tour. The art world looks at Cole’s work the way he looks at Van Gogh.
Back at the hotel, we take turns bringing each other to ecstasy. After, I hold him while he sleeps against my chest, and I know—for the first time—perfect happiness.
Perhaps if I’d remained sharper, less foolish, less naïve to think that I deserved any kind of happy ending, things might’ve been different.
But as it always happens, by the time I know the utter horror of my mistake, it’s too late.
Paris
Despite my unfortunate demise here two-hundred and fifty years ago, Paris is still one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and we stay in one of its most beautiful hotels—the Le Bristol, the erstwhile home of Josephine Baker and the American writer, Holden Parish. But being in this city works a little bit of sinister magic on me. I feel nervous and on edge the moment we arrive.
Cole’s kindness and consideration make it more than bearable. He is unmoved by the chaos of the show but rises at four a.m. every morning to paint as if he is racing against the ticking of a clock only he can hear. Our time together is broken by interviews and meetings and the never-ending stream of assistants, but when we are together, it’s just him and me.
On our third day in the city, Cole has an interview forParis Matchprior to the gallery show.
“If it’s all the same to you,” I say, “I’m going to take a walk and perhaps do some shopping.”
“Getting boring, isn’t it?” Cole asks with a grin from the living room couch of our suite.
“They all ask the same dull question of you—where do you get your inspiration?” I snort delicately. “Me, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Cole stands to take me by the lapels of my jacket to kiss me. “Some people from the agency are coming by later today. I don’t know who—I can’t keep track of everyone.” His expression melts into concern. “Will you be okay out there? I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Ready to face my demons.”
Oh, the irony.
I return several hours later after wandering through an old bookstore and taking a stroll along the Seine. In the suite, I hear voices—men and women, both. I step into the salon and every part of me seizes up. An instant petrification, except for my heart which crashes against my chest in a slow slam and then takes off at a gallop.
Cole is leaning on the arm of the couch. On the couch itself sits an older man—perhaps mid-sixties—and a blond woman in her thirties, wearing an eyepatch. Another woman stands at the window, but they’re all blurred and indistinct because in the chair across from the couch is Armand de Villette.
I blink, certain that I’ve accidentally crossed into a differentwhen, until the woman at the window turns, and I see it is Eisheth. She’s in her human guise—that is to say, strikingly gorgeous in a colorful dress, her hair piled on her head and sparkling with tiny gems.
But my gaze is stuck on Armand. He is older that I knew him in life—perhaps in his forties—and in modern dress but otherwise the same. He shoots me a disgustingly smug smile and waggles his fingers. My shock subsides enough to see that the woman with the eyepatch is Jeanne de la Motte and the older gentleman sitting beside her is bloody fucking Cardinal Rohan.
What is this madness?
Cole smiles when he sees me and comes over immediately.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, his smile falling at my shell-shocked expression.
“No.Yes.I’m fine.”
“Cole,” Eisheth drawls from the window. “Please introduce us to your friend.”
“More industry people,” Cole murmurs with an eyeroll and a smile, then leads me by the hand into the den of demons. “This is Eisheth,” he says. He indicates Jeanne. “And this is Daeva, that’s Zerin…” Rohan gives me a nod. Finally, Cole gestures to Armand. “And this is Piccolus.”
