I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (13 page)

“What, I can't be here?” I asked, standing up on tiptoe to see behind her myself. “Is that it? But you can just keep sending all these shitty letters to my house?”

She looked at what I was holding. “I didn't send them to your house.”

“You're getting
married
,” I said, flapping the letters at her. “Why are you writing me?”

“I don't know,” she said, taking a step closer. “I was worried about you. I wanted to stay in touch.”

“But I never wrote you back!” I must have spoken too loudly. She looked over her shoulder again.

“Maybe we can go somewhere?” she asked, tightening her robe.

“Yeah,” I said. “No.” I reached out and stuffed the letters in the pocket of her robe. The pocket was not as deep as it looked. I really had to jam them in there. I could feel the warmth of her, the nearness of her breast.

“Richard,” she said, touching my hand.

“You don't get to do this,” I said, stepping back. “Does
he
know that you've been writing me?” I looked up toward the second floor. “
Dave.
Does he think I'm some great friend?”

“If you give me just two minutes,” she said, “there's a place on the corner. Or we could go to the park?”

“Yeah, what, so we can reminisce? So we can walk around and be all shy and shit until you finally say, oh, I wish that I could kiss you, but I just
can't
?” I glared at her. “I have been try
ing to be done with you. Which is what you said you wanted. And just as I get closer, you needle your way back into my life.”

“They're just letters,” she said softly. “I didn't think you'd—”

“You didn't think I'd what? You don't want me to forget you! You want to live in this fucking town house with these bloody awful pansies, and from time to time send a bomb into my life? Well, let me tell you something, I
want
to forget you. I don't
like
you anymore.”

“But I didn't
do
anything!”

“You said you missed me!”

“Well,” she said, clutching her robe around her neck. “I thought you'd be happy to hear that.”

“I risk my marriage for you, and you leave me, and
then
you have doubts?”

“I didn't say I had
doubts
,
Richard,” she said, raising her voice. “I said I missed you. Which I'm allowed to do. And I'm going to call bullshit if you try to tell me you haven't missed me back.”

“Oh, I've missed you, all right. I've missed you all the way into the ruin of my life. My wife isn't speaking to me. I'm holed up at my parents. I'm playing . . . we've been playing
cards
. Missing you has potentially left me with a lot more to miss than you. So you take those things.” I pointed at the letters. “And you stop it.
Really
this time. We were never friends, and we're not going to be. I don't want to hear from you ever again. I don't want to have any idea what you're doing with your life. And I don't want you to know what's happening in mine.”

She shifted her weight in the doorway. She clutched at her robe. Her expression was sad but also—she was doing that
thing
with her lips. Tilting her head. “Did your wife find out?” she asked.

I stared at her incredulously. “Fuck you,” I said. “You see
how long you can stay faithful to that toff, and then I'll ask you if your precious Dave found out.”

“I never pretended to be anything I'm not!” she said, her eyes flashing. “I never pretended to want you to leave your wife. This isn't my fault! You can't come here and make me feel like your problems are mine!”

I shook my head. “It's amazing,” I said. “I think I actually might regret it. I haven't felt that yet, but being here . . . It was a mistake, wasn't it? Us?”

Her eyes watered. “I don't think it was. And you don't mean that.”

“You're a carousel,” I said. “It's just one pretty ride. No responsibility. Up and down, and down.”

Her chin started to tremble. “There's no reason for you to be like this. We could have actually talked. You could have told me what was going on. I was always kind to you, I never lied.”

“What, now you want to give me advice about my
wife
?”

Her lips pursed. In the background, I heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Lisa reddened.

“Is that him?” I asked. “Shall we?”

She put her hand on the door.

“Nervous?” I asked. “You feeling nervous? You just wait. Maybe I'll start writing
you.
Fuck things up in
your
life.”

“I'm so sad you did this,” she said, moving back behind the door. “But it's done. You won't hear from me again.” She looked behind her. “Please take care of yourself, Richard.” She shook her head. “You make me sad.”

And then she shut the door on me. I watched as she passed into the living room, drawing the shades that gave out on the street. I strained to hear their voices, but I couldn't make out their words. I kicked the pot of pansies. A little dirt flew up and onto the brick path. Then I bent down, picked up the whole
damn pot, and shook it up and down until the guts fell out into a heap of dirt and fertilizer and uprooted purple flowers.

I made her sad! Ha! I wanted her
angry
. There was nothing more despicable than making someone
sad.

I stood there as my belly started to tremble and my hands started to shake. Unless she was hell-bent on using the international postal service, I'd gotten what I wanted: I wasn't going to hear from her again.

But I needed something else from our interaction. I wanted permission, or assurance, really, that I would be okay. I wanted the ache in my knees from bending down beside Camille to push her floating plastic penguin alongside her in the bath. I wanted to watch Anne across the room at a party, her head cocked in discussion. I wanted to watch her undress in front of the closet, see the little indents like the parallel curves of a cello on her back. I wanted to feel her naked against me, hold her to my chest, smell her hair around me, feel her breath against my neck. I didn't have my painting, and I didn't have a plan, but what I did have standing on my ex-mistress's doorstep was the unwavering conviction that I wanted Anne-Laure back.

13

I DROVE
back to Hemel Hempstead grateful to have the steering wheel to still my shaking hands. It hadn't gone like I'd planned, none of it. Lisa—I'd gotten in and out of there quickly enough to preserve her image as some kind of hallucinatory vision, but the residue of seeing her was wreaking havoc on my nervous system. But I'd done it: I'd behaved in such a way that she wouldn't want to see or talk to me again.

But I didn't have the painting. In my mind, I'd seen myself valiantly crossing the Channel with
The Blue Bear
, surprising Anne not only with the fact that I'd had the chutzpah to pull the gesture off, but with the gesture itself.

I was back to zero. But dammit, I couldn't stay at my parents' place forever. Anne-Laure was an intellectual. A
lawyer
, for God's sake. I couldn't give her too much time alone to think.

I pulled in front of the house and jumped out of the car. I dashed into the living room, where my mum was Windexing the coffee table in her robe.

“Goodness, where's the fire?” she asked, accepting a quick kiss.

My dad was in the kitchen, halfway through a bowl of Weetabix. I grabbed a square and popped it in my mouth. My mother came to the doorway and leaned against the frame.

“I'm going home,” I said, chewing with my mouth open.

My father put his spoon down. “So, did you two talk?”

I got a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, ignoring his question. My mother, sensing tension, went off to Windex something else.

“What, are you just . . . going?”

“She's my wife.”

My father rolled his eyes. “I hope you have a plan.” He folded his arms on the table, and watched my face for signs. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “You don't. Well, Richy. I hope she can forgive you.”

On my way out, I stopped in front of my mother's “craft closet” next to the guest bathroom, a narrow lair of wrapping paper, streamers, sequins, and other party goods. I grabbed several sheets of blue construction paper, a glue jar, and a pair of children's scissors, and stuffed them in my tote. I also grabbed the videos I'd started making of my parents, and the camcorder, too. It was the equivalent of me leaving with their portrait: something old, with scalloped edges. It was me, grasping for faith.

My mum saw me to the car with a weathered ziplock full of biscuits and a turkey sandwich.

“I put extra mayo on it,” she said. “Oh, and I found this.” She shrugged a camera bag off of her shoulder. “I don't think it's the same make, but I think the video camera will fit, if you want to take it?”

I pulled her to me. “Thanks.”

My dad walked out and gave me a knowing look.

“Go get 'em,” he said, putting his arm around my mother. It was 10:17 in the morning. Things were looking grim for me. I got in the car quickly so they wouldn't see me cry.

 • • •

The ferry ride was interminable. With it being midweek, the boat was emptier than it had been on the way over. I bought a trashy tabloid and a proper newspaper, and in each, I felt the tidal undercurrents of war, war, war.

Three hours in, once I was apprised of the latest idiocies taking place under Bush's direction, I pulled out my pilfered craft supplies and started making my runner-up apology: an origami blue bear.

What I wanted was to create a bear of the teddy-bear variety, but the only version I'd learned with Cam was the grizzly bear, and unless there was a resident origamist on the boat, I didn't have the resources to learn a new form now.

Of course, origami purists don't use glue, but Camille and I do. The chubby pink elephants hanging from a mobile string in her bedroom, the surprised-looking panda Camille gave me for Father's Day, the conical turtles she left scattered around our potted plants, each of these was held together by a glitter glue stick, and God knows I needed help holding things together right now.

Six hours, two teas, and one foot-long hot dog later, we neared the port of Saint-Malo. In the smoggy gray of the late afternoon, the fortress city looked foreboding, its stone houses and steep rooftops standing shoulder to shoulder, angry and judgmental. I imagined men with arrows positioned in the turrets. Men with sacks of cow manure, awaiting my arrival, my doomed attempt to get back home.

Once I got my car out into the serpentine lot outside the ferry, my nervousness had amplified to dysentery levels. One of the things I was risking was exposure to the in-laws. If Anne went ballistic, if we fought in front of Camille or Anne's parents, there wasn't any going back.

Although Anne had never come out and said so directly, she'd always made it sound like her father had engaged in the cherished French tradition of the
cinq à sept.
You work until five at the office, enjoy a bit of rumpy-pumpy with the mistress, then nip home for veal chops at seven with the wife and fam. And it wasn't just the Frenchmen who kept this schedule; Frenchwomen, especially exquisite-­smelling, meticulously turned-out women like Inès, enjoyed these extramarital activities, too.

But that didn't mean that we could have a row in front of the Bourigeauds. That would only make it worse. I decided that I'd call Anne from the golf course, when I was just around the corner, and let her make the decision to come out. If she wouldn't, I would huff and puff and blow the damn house down.

I did a drive-by before calling. Anne's parents' ancient Land Rover was parked right outside the front entrance. Seeing that I was driving our only other car, this had to mean that they were in.

I reversed down the lane and parked right next to a stand of laurel trees in front of the neighbor's property. I touched my temple, my breastbone, the left and then the right of my heart, trying to remember the proper order for the sign of the cross from my last appearance in church.

I picked up my phone. I crossed myself again.
Anne
,
I typed.
I have to talk to you. I'm outside.

I put the phone down on the passenger seat and waited. Right away it began to beep.

WHAT!?

I'm outside. I'm parked in front of the neighbors'. We have to talk.

Digital silence. If this were a decade earlier, I would have initiated this conversation outside her bedroom with a handful of rocks.

You're serious. You're here?

I went for factuality. Wrote:
Yeah.

I could almost feel her fuming from the house.

This is not okay. Give me five.

I breathed out deeply, breathed in deeply, shut one nostril with my finger like we'd learned back in Lamaze. The breathing wasn't helping. The hot dog I had on the ferry wasn't helping. My head, my heart, my intestines—it was all a mess.

After several minutes, I heard crunching on the gravel. Fearfully, I slunk out of the car. And there she was in a flowery tunic over tapered trousers, and the pair of brown pumps she usually wore to work, coming down the road. She looked beautiful and elegant and extremely put out.

“What are you
doing
here? You couldn't call?”

I remained quiet until she got closer. “If I called, you would have said not to come.”

“Damn right! Richard, Jesus! We're about to sit down to lunch! What am I supposed to do, be like,
Surprise!
”

“I had to come. I had to tell you something. I tried to get
The Blue Bear
back.”

“You what?”

“I went all the way to London to try and buy it back. I wanted you to know that . . . I wanted us to have it. I never should have—”

“You tried to get it
back
?”

“Yeah,” I said, shoving my fist into my coat pocket, rooting around for my replacement bear. “I went all the way back there, but . . . These guys, you've never met people like this in your life. They're, they've got this like, religion, and—”

“Well, did you get it back?”

My shoulders raised. “No, but I, uh, I made you this.”

I pulled out my paper offering and held it in my hand. With his downward-facing nose and his stubby little tail, the bear looked like he was seeking forgiveness in the ridges of my palm.

Anne gaped at my creation wordlessly before taking it into her own hands. She stared at its intricately glued muzzle, its chubby little ears. She turned it upside down. And then she shoved it into the depths of her own pocket.

“What are you doing here? I mean, really? Did you give any thought at all as to how I was going to explain this?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I was thinking . . . maybe we could go away together, just a day or two to talk?”

“Oh, please,” she said, kicking at a stone. “This is just like you. You're so selfish. You're so selfish, even now! We're going to have to make up something, you're passing through, your phone's dead. You had to go to Paris. I don't know. But you're going back.”

“Anne,” I said, “I miss you. I swear to God I did everything I could to get that painting back.”

“And what, you thought that was going to make everything all better? That I was going to forgive you because of
that
?”

Coming out of her mouth, my rationalization sounded ludicrous. But shit, yes.

“Oh, God, I'm so angry,” she said, looking it. “Now we're going to have to go in there, and thanks to you, I'm going to
have to pretend . . . I can't believe this! You're like a child. And Jesus, what the
fuck
is that?”

She was peering into the backseat of the Peugeot.

“The buyers gave me that instead of
The Blue Bear
,” I said. “It's . . . an exchange.”

“What the hell is it?”

“An African fertility sculpture.”

Her face turned vermilion red.

“Listen to me,” she said, her arms crossed. “I'm giving you a three-hour time-out. Whatever I say in there, you follow my lead. But after lunch, you're going back to Paris. No, don't even—you are going back. So you just shape up and we'll play nice in front of my parents and then get the fuck out. And don't—” She shook her head. “This is the last time, Richard. You can't pull stuff like this. It isn't fair.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, my body temperature plummeting. “I just thought.”

“Right,” she said. “Exactly. You didn't
think
at all.”

She spun on her heels and started walking up the road. Leaving the car there with Ngendo, I followed her toward the house.

 • • •

Anne thrust the front door open, and yelled out, “Surprise!” Her voice was all sunshine. The ozone-burning kind.

Camille came running around the corner, her favorite wooden spoon in hand.

“Daddy!” she said, falling into my arms. I avoided Anne's gaze and hugged my daughter, inhaled the fruity perfume of her hair, rubbed my chin against the freckles that had been coaxed out from the sun. “You're back!”

“It's just a surprise, Cam,” Anne said, stroking her back. “He's just here for lunch. He's got more business, with the paintings?
I know,” she said, frowning. “I know, honey. But it's okay. We're going to have such a nice lunch!”

“Mais, dis donc!”
exclaimed Inès, coming in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “
Quelle surprise!
But, Anne, you didn't say!”

“It was one big surprise, Mom, even for me.”

I kissed Inès on both cheeks and handed her a metal tin of rosehip tea I'd purchased on the ferry.

“Oooh,” she cooed. “My favorite! So you're back! You're lucky,” she said, wagging her finger. “I made quite a lunch. Alain was supposed to have one of his golf friends over. But they've got a problem with their dog.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Well, it's an awful dog. Okay!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Alain should be back any minute. He's just having a coffee at the club. Do you need to bring your bags in? Take a shower?”

“The thing is,
maman
, he's only here for lunch,” said Anne, feigning a frown. “He has to go back to Paris. It's a whole thing with the gallery. There's been a . . . there's been a problem with one of the paintings. The one he had to deliver. The people . . . they didn't pay.”

“And they stole my cell phone, actually,” I added.

Anne snapped her head in my direction, her eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath in. “That's right. That's why he couldn't call.”

“These people stole your cell phone? My God, are you all right?”

“No, I'm fine. It happened in the Tube.”

“It didn't!” Inès gasped. “That's terrible! Surely your gallery can take care of this for you? Why ruin your vacation when—”

“Let's go in and set the table,
non?
” suggested Anne, her
hand on Camille's back. “We can talk about this later. Mom, I'll make a salad.”

“I'll make it,” I said.

Anne's eyes flashed. “Well, that'd be
great.
”

Camille helped me make a dressing with her wooden spoon, and Inès asked me about my mother and my father as she cut and dressed the roast chicken she'd prepared. As Anne navigated around me, filling a water pitcher, uncorking a white wine, I found myself feeling that if we could just surrender to the normalcy of these actions, enjoy the food and wine, then maybe Anne would reconsider and let me stay. Not stay indefinitely, but long enough to take a walk with her along the beach. Long enough to explain.

Alain came in with his cheeks as pink as a crawfish, raving about his day out on the course.

“Glad to see you, son,” he said, administering a back clap. “I didn't know you were back! Just got to wash up—I'll be down in a bit.”