Letter from Paris (15 page)

It sounded like heaven, although India was somewhat consoled by the fact that she might not enjoy the company of some of the houseguests. She had no desire to spend time with Sting and from what she knew of her, was in no rush to meet Tracey Emin either. Not that the opportunity was likely to present itself anytime soon, she’d mused.

The article had nevertheless made India ache to live in a rural idyll, forever frozen in time, riding a stallion bareback, a white chiffon dress falling from her shoulders, her windswept hair flying behind her as she galloped in slow motion through fields of barley. She pushed the image away as they were served tea in fragile tea cups from English china pots and a tier of dainty sandwiches and scones were arranged on the low glass table in front of them.

“So, India. I have seen the draft that has been written for me. Of course, I will put it in my own words. I am arrogant enough to believe nobody would have expressed how I feel so well as I feel zees things.”

He leaned forward and picked out a cucumber sandwich. “I understand what you need now is some copy for the website, yes? So. We will look at the images and I can tell you the thoughts they provoke in me so that you can use my words.”

“Perfect,” India said, opening her MacBook Air and sifting through to find the folder that profiled the students’ designs and the philosophies behind them. Then, pulling the pictures onto the screen one by one, she switched on her tape recorder.

“This is unique,” Jean-Luc said after a few moments. “The aesthetic seems almost accidental…now this one is ambitious…dramatic, unexpected….punk meets burlesque. How I ADORE burlesque. This, now THIS. It is reductionist. I like the form – it challenges – this is an unharmonic melody. Pure poetry…next please…influenced by Mondrian…ah yes, look it says ’ere.”

India was mesmerized. Jean-Luc sipped his tea and spoke in a stream of consciousness, reading the copy the students had written with laser-focused attention. As the final image flashed on the screen, he sat back and looked at her intensely.

“This is a very important project. It will have a long life. I am honored to be a part of it.”

“Thank you. I know the students will be thrilled. I will have the tape transcribed and edited then we will let you see it before it goes online to be certain you’re happy with it.”

Jean-Luc glanced at the wall clock. Precisely one hour had passed.

“I must not keep you,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am thinking that I would like to reward the most talented of these creative young people by having them work with me in my studio in Paris for a month.”

“What a wonderful idea,” India said enthusiastically. “The students would be beyond thrilled at the opportunity.”

“A month would be the perfect time. A month in Paris will change your life. As Henry Miller once said, ‘To know Paris, is to know a great deal.’ I will be honored to make this offer. One month in my studio.”

India powered down her computer and put the recorder away in her tote. “Thank you. That is very generous.”

“Bien sûr, youth is energy. Creativity thrives on energy and talent.”

“Thank you for the tea. It was delicious,” India said. “I look forward to seeing you again at the show. If you need anything else in the meantime, you have my e-mail. Merci beaucoup.”

“One more thing,” Jean-Luc said as she reached the door.

India turned around and waited.

“I will share with you something.”

“Yes?” India smiled.

He ran his hand over his head. “I am needing something now. I don’t know what it ees, but I am tired. I have used up the energy that has been around me. This project, these students – they are the life-blood – they feed my creativity. I am doing this project for myself also, not just for them. I need inspiration. I need them maybe even more than they need me.”

“Thank you for telling me., India said, somewhat surprised by his intensity, his apparent vulnerability.

She waited a few minutes before leaving the room. That was quite an interview, she thought, wandering up Wardour Street to Henry’s offices. I am so loving this job.

The air was muggy and the streets crowded with people racing for the subway. It was getting close to four o’clock. Samantha was packing things away at the reception desk when she got there.

How does she manage to stay that groomed all day long?’ India wondered, admiring the girl’s sleek ponytail and her flawless complexion. She looks airbrushed.

“Hi India.” Samantha smiled. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I have to take these papers through to be signed by Mr. Lichtenstein.”

India masked her surprise. She had assumed ‘Lichtenstein’ to be a sleeping partner as she had yet to meet him.

“If I can have the transcript by Wednesday that’d be great,” she said, handing the tape to Samantha a few minutes later.

“Not a problem. Did the meeting go well?”

“Very.”

Just then a door swung open and a wiry guy wearing the London city ‘uniform’ of a white shirt, pinstripe suit and tortoise-shell glasses appeared in the foyer.

“You must be India,” he said, extending his hand. “At last we meet. Joel. Joel Lichtenstein. Henry’s told me all about you.”

“Mr. Lichtenstein, your car for the airport is waiting for you,” Samantha said, hovering with his coat and scarf.

“Thanks,” he said, checking his watch. “I have to dash, India. I’m running late as it is. It has been lovely meeting you.” With that, the elevator pinged and he was gone.

India turned to Samantha. “Where’s he off to?”

“Cannes. The Advertising Festival,” she said.

“That’s such a coincidence. I have a friend in Cannes right now.”

“Is he in advertising?”

“No. He’s an actor. He’s on location there.”

“Would I know him?” Samantha asked.

“Probably. Adam Brooks?”

“Adam Brooks. Adam Brooks!” Samantha exclaimed. “That is SO weird.”

“What is?” India said. “I met him through my sister when I was staying in LA a few years ago.”

“No. It’s not weird you know him, but I was looking at his photograph only an hour ago.”

“You were? How come?”

“I was checking hotel availability for Mr. Lichtenstein. He’s booked at The Carlton, where he always stays. He goes to the festival every year for the week. Last year he came back saying it was so crazy busy – like a bun fight was how he put it – so he’s only going for the final three days this time and at the last minute he asked me to see if I could get him into Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc instead.”

That’s where Adam’s staying, India thought mournfully, where I should be too.

“So I was checking it out and then it all looked so amazing I started noodling around on the gossip from the week. They like to call it The Creativity Festival and hype it up. Mr. Lichtenstein gets great coverage for his clients there. He won two awards last year. Anyway, there was Adam Brooks. How funny is that? What a coincidence. Here look, I’ll show you.”

Samantha had the page from the
New York Post
up within seconds and swiveled her computer toward India.

Cannes: The Hottest Photos and

Gossip from the Ad World’s Top Festival.

Stars on Eden-Roc Terrace

India skimmed the article, the predictable journalese: drinks at sunset, hottest party of Cannes Lion Festival, Michael Bublé performing, followed by a list of names, most of which meant nothing. She scrolled down to a photograph of Adam framed against an expanse of ocean with a girl and not just
any
girl. There was no mistaking this one, with her cleavage and stack heels and her trout pout. Her image was burned into India’s memory. This was the girl who had been in Vegas with him – the girl who had the so-called ‘accident,’ the girl he took out for dinner – and now here she was in Cannes. Cannes of all places.

“Are you okay?” Samantha asked as India clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Er. Yes. Yes I’m fine, absolutely fine,” India answered unsteadily.

Samantha strained to get another look at the picture. “She’s pretty. They make a cute couple.”

“They certainly look like a couple,” India managed to say.

Gathering every ounce of her strength, she smiled. “Thank you. Have a great weekend, Samantha.”

“You too. Oh! I nearly forgot. Henry said he and a couple of people he’d like you to meet are at the corner wine bar if you’d care to join them for a drink.”

“Thanks,” India replied over her shoulder, before racing down the stairs and out of the building onto the dusty street, narrowly avoiding a line of stationary bikes. She leapt back onto the crowded pavement to escape a speeding cyclist. Jostling her way past the teenagers clustered outside the neighboring pub, she turned down a cobbled side street to get away from the crowds and away from the stench of grease coming from a fast food truck.

She stopped for a moment trying to steady the pounding in her chest, craving a wide-open space where she could run, punch the air and scream. Everything around her was suddenly alien: the sex shops, tattoo parlors, the garbage and graffiti, the endless stream of commuters, the hotel workers smoking cigarettes around kitchen dumpsters. Turning in the opposite direction, unsure where to go next, she walked aimlessly for a while and then hesitated at the street corner by the Gielgud Theater. It was showing
Les Mis
é
rables.
How appropriate, she thought. Adam Brooks, you are dead to me.

Opening her purse, she checked her mascara in a tiny mirror, touched up her lipstick and took a deep breath. Turning back in the direction of Henry’s office, she paced up and down the block several times before pushing open the double doors to the wine bar.

Henry was jostling to get served. She shoved her way through to him unapologetically and managed to catch his eye.

“What can I get you?” he yelled.

“Vodka tonic please,” she yelled back.

It felt like everyone who worked in Soho had picked this place tonight. India stood thereirritated by everything and everyone around her
.
Henry relayed the drinks to the couple hovering behind him and handed India hers.

“Before you drink that,” he said, nodding toward her glass and raising his eyebrows, “you’re certain you haven’t taken any medication?”

“Funny. Ha!” India snapped. “No I haven’t. Could we agree to drop the subject?”

“Pity. I was rather looking forward to continuing our conversation.”

India felt a shock of contact as he held her gaze for the longest time. Right now I hate you, you smug bastard, she thought.

“Whatever conversation you’d like to continue, you’d better be prepared to work very hard
for it,” she said.

“Believe me, I am prepared to get as hard as you would like me to,” he said under his breath, and then turning to the couple next to him he said, “Here, let me introduce you. Mike, Paula, meet India Butler. Hey. Grab that table; those people are leaving.”

They squeezed their way across the room to the window table and sat down. India went through the motions, smiling politely, doing her best to feign interest as she became increasingly aware of Henry’s Bulgari cologne.

“Another round?” Mike said. “My shout.”

“Yes please,” India said. “Vodka and tonic. Same again.”

India sat still with great difficulty. She wanted to push back the table and scream. She knocked back her drink.

Will they ever leave? This is excruciating, she thought. She felt the electricity between herself and Henry was so palpable she couldn’t believe his friends hadn’t picked up on it. She felt as if ‘fuck off’ must be written in large letters across her forehead.

“So, how long have you two been working together?” Paula asked. “Henry and I go way back. We were at university together.”

“A couple of months now. It gets more interesting every day,” India said. And it’s about to get way more interesting, she thought.

“Cheers,” Henry said, as yet more drinks arrived. “Thanks Mike. Aren’t you having another?”

“We’ve gotta go,” Paula said. “Hopefully miss the traffic; we’re heading down to Chichester for the weekend.”

India downed her second vodka fast.

At last, the couple said their goodbyes with many promises to get together for longer next time, catch a game of squash, a round of golf. Finally, they were gone. There was the longest pause. Henry looked at India.

“Shall we go?” he said.

“Do you have some place in mind?”

“I do,” he said.

She followed him out of the bar and across the street. He pushed open the door to his building and grabbed her by the hand. They raced up the two flights of stairs and into his office, where he closed the door behind him and loosened off his tie. He began unbuttoning her shirt as he kissed her. She pulled her hands through his hair as he swiped the papers off his desk and leaned her back onto it. As his hand began working its way up her thigh India heard the click of the door.