Chapter 7
The computer Marie-Aurélie used to send simple emails to her daughter, grandchildren,
and a few friends was a mystery to her. She made mistakes and erased things, sent them
to the wrong people, usually hit the send button too soon, and didn’t know how to do
research. But she tried various maneuvers that actually worked, and she managed to do
a search of French artists and the galleries that represented them. It didn’t take long
once she found the site, and she found Clément Bertrand listed at a gallery she knew
well, not far from where she lived, in the 7th arrondissement. She then found the gallery
website, and was able to view a number of his recent works. She remembered his style
well, landscapes that were reminiscent of Corot, with a mysterious feel to them. She
had recognized his considerable talent even forty years before.
She read his biography, which said very little about him personally, mostly about his
training, his gallery shows, and the museums around Europe where his work had been
exhibited. There was an email address at the end of it. She looked at it for a long time,
left it on the screen, and went to pour herself a glass of sherry to give her courage. She
set the glass down next to her computer, took another sip, and then wrote a brief letter,
saying only that she had enjoyed seeing his recent work online, and that she could see
and appreciate how his style had matured and grown even richer over the years. She
added that she hoped that he was well, and signed it.
Marie-Aurélie didn’t know what she expected from it. At most just a friendly
response. Or maybe he wouldn’t answer. Clément had been on her mind ever since
Dominique asked about him in December, when she was in Paris. Marie-Aurélie felt
faintly ridiculous reaching out to him after so long. He was an old man now, a year
older than she was. There had been a photograph of him on the gallery website, but it
must have been an old photograph, since he looked much younger than his age would be
now.
She finished the glass of sherry when she hit send, and went to bed. She felt a little
foolish for having sent the email, like a note passed in the back rows of a classroom to a
boy one liked. Dominique had awakened memories of a lost time when Marie-Aurélie
and Clément were young. He had been handsome and passionate and crazy about her,
but she hadn’t been ready to let go of the memories of Armand. She had spent many
more years after that clinging to them. Marie-Aurélie had been forty-three then, and
Clément was forty-four. He had wanted to marry her and she wouldn’t. He had wanted
children, and she didn’t want any more. Dominique had just entered college and she felt
too old to start again, and would have felt foolish doing so. More than anything, it felt
like a betrayal of Armand, and negation of her love for him, to love another man.
Clément had been serious and madly in love with Marie-Aurélie. It had only been an
infatuation for her. He was intelligent, charming, and talented, and very serious about
his art. She remembered reading somewhere that he had married a year or two after she
rejected him. She didn’t blame him. He had a right to happiness and she to her
memories at the time. It was too early for her after Armand’s death.
She fell asleep thinking about him, and was shocked in the morning, when she
glanced at her computer, to see a response from Clément’s email address. She hesitated
before opening it, and her hand shook when she did. He had probably thought her
foolish. She sat down to read it, and was surprised by the length of his response. He
admitted to being stunned to hear from her and hoped that she was well. She guessed
that he had probably assumed she was dead by then, which she might have thought of
him too, except that she had seen his work from time to time, so she knew he was alive
recently.
Clément wrote to her that he was working as much as ever, and currently preparing a
show for a museum in Barcelona and another for his gallery in Paris, so clearly he
wasn’t slowing down. He said he had often thought of her over the years, and was
happy to know that she was well. He said that he had had a warm, satisfying marriage to
a fellow artist, and she had passed away ten years before. They had no children, but had
shared thirty years of marriage before she died. He had a house in Normandy, where he
spent a lot of his time now, with a studio there. He hoped that she would come to his
next opening, or perhaps they could have a glass of wine sometime, or lunch if she
preferred. She could hear his familiar voice in the email, and he seemed as open and
warm and accessible as ever.
Marie-Aurélie waited several hours until she had dressed and thought about it
before she wrote back. She didn’t want to look overly anxious, or desperate, and she
questioned herself thoroughly about why she was writing to him. She hated to admit it,
but she was lonely, and the idea of having a glass of wine or lunch with a man made her
feel alive again, which she thought was pathetic, but the truth.
She responded to everything he said, and he didn’t write back that day. But she had
another email from him the next morning. She smiled when she saw it. It was like a
gentle tennis game as their emails went back and forth through the miracle of internet
connection. She was actually enjoying it, although faintly embarrassed to be having
exchanges with a man. It made her feel womanly and young.
At the end of his email, Clément shocked her by inviting her to lunch. He said that he
was currently in Normandy, but he was coming to the city at the end of the week, and
invited her to lunch on Friday at Le Grand Véfour, which was an elegant bistro at the
end of the Palais-Royal. She hadn’t been there in years, but had always liked it, and
feeling very daring, she accepted his invitation. She felt very bold and adventurous
having provoked it with her initial email. He added at the end that she would be quite
startled to see him, since he was now a very old man.
She answered graciously that she was as much older as he was, and not in the first
or even the last blush of youth herself. He sent an emoji of him laughing, which made
her smile. If nothing else, she was having fun. She felt as though she was up to mischief,
which made her feel like a woman still in the world.
She spent the entire week worrying about what to wear. She would have consulted
Dominique but didn’t want her to know what she had done, even though her daughter
had provoked it by inquiring about him, and reviving long-forgotten memories of a
charming, handsome man who had been enamored with her and found her attractive,
though she thought it unlikely that they could rekindle any of it now in their eighties. But
it was a sweet memory, and it seemed harmless to meet him for lunch. It was all very
respectable, and they weren’t doing anyone any harm. They had both lost their partners
years before, and Marie-Aurélie suspected that Clément, painting alone in Normandy,
was as lonely as she was. At least he had his painting to fill the void his wife must have
left when she died. It sounded like it had been a good marriage, from the way he wrote
about his late wife.
On Friday morning, Marie-Aurélie took particular care about how she dressed. It
was a dreary gray January day, cold enough to snow. She wore a pair of boots she had
bought recently, an old black Givenchy skirt, an elegant black Chanel jacket Dominique
had given her for her last birthday, with a soft pink blouse under it, and a chic black
Balenciaga coat, which was a favorite. Her hair was neatly swept up in a bun. She wore
her makeup as she had done it for years, just enough to enhance her looks without
looking garish. She wore gold earrings and put on gloves in the cold weather, and
looked slim and elegant as she left her house and had her driver take her to the PalaisRoyal.
She walked into the restaurant feeling nervous, realizing she hadn’t had lunch
with a man in twenty years. Her legs felt shaky under her as she glanced around the
restaurant and told the maître d’ who she was meeting. He walked her immediately to a
table in the best part of the restaurant, and she recognized Clément immediately. He
looked as handsome and distinguished as ever, just with more lines in his face and his
dark hair now white, just as hers was. He stood up to greet her wearing a well-cut dark
blue suit, white shirt, and navy tie. She noticed immediately how impeccable he looked,
which was unusual for men his age, especially widowers. They usually had the slightly
disorganized look of someone who no longer knew when to get a haircut or get his suit
pressed, and couldn’t decide on the right tie without someone to tell him. He was
meticulously put together, and looked more like a businessman than an artist. He wore
success well, and he looked very pleased to see her. He had the same warm smile she
remembered perfectly, and he touched her hand and told her how happy he was that she
had accepted his invitation.
“And you’re just as elegant as ever. You were the chicest woman I’d ever known.
And nothing has changed.”
“You must be going blind then,” she said with a smile. She felt coquettish being with
him, which was a feeling she had long since forgotten. He made her feel like a woman,
and not an antique.
He asked after Dominique and Marie-Aurélie told him about her grandchildren, and
she asked him about the shows he was preparing. They commented on current events
and politics and had similar views. Listening to him made her wish she still traveled,
but traveling alone was too stressful for her. New York was too hectic, and Los Angeles
too far.
The time flew, and it was three-thirty when they left the restaurant, among the last to
leave, after a remarkably elegant meal.
“Let’s do it again sometime soon,” Clément said as they walked outside. “I don’t
normally do lunch,” he admitted. “I work all day, and go out for dinner rather than lunch.
I don’t paint as much at night anymore, it’s harder to get the colors right. Daytime is
easier.” He reclaimed his car from the valet, and her driver was waiting for her.
MarieAurélie felt a little silly having a chauffeur, but she no longer drove and hadn’t for
years. Clément had a vintage Aston Martin that looked very racy. “I was going to offer
to drive you home to impress you,” he said. “Do you still have the lovely house?”
“I do.” It was the same one where she had lived with Armand. Clément had been
jealous of him then, but that was all ancient history now. “You’ll have to come to
dinner,” she said, feeling a little shy with him, and wondering where it was going, but
she had started it, and had no idea where it would end. She wasn’t sure what she’d been
doing when she wrote to him, or what she thought would happen at their age. They
seemed much too old for romance, perhaps only harmless flirtation, pretending to
themselves that they were still young.
“Let me take you out to dinner first. I love being seen with you. I think every man in
the restaurant was jealous of me at lunch,” he said, and she laughed.
“You’re a shameless flirt, Clément Bertrand, you always were.”
“No, I’m quite sincere,” he said. “Every man in the room looked at you when you
walked over to my table. You never knew how beautiful you are, and you still don’t.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s nice to hear,” she said, as he kissed her on both
cheeks and promised to email her.
“Are you free on Saturday?” he asked, as he started to get into his car.
“Of course. I’m not currently dating anyone,” she said, and he smiled.
“You might be going to the theater or ballet. If I don’t go back to Normandy, let’s
have dinner. Or a movie?” She loved the idea. She loved going to the movies, but not
alone. Having someone to go with changed everything.
In the end, Clément didn’t go back to Normandy, and they had dinner at the Plaza on
Saturday, and pizza and a movie on the Champs-Élysées on Sunday.
They talked as easily to each other as they had forty years before, and she felt as
though they had picked up where they left off, and no time had passed.
He said he was going to spend the next week at his studio in Normandy, but he
planned to come back the following weekend and she invited him to dinner at her house,
and he was delighted.
Clément emailed Marie-Aurélie several times that week, and they had playful funny
exchanges. He still had a great sense of humor, and he liked her wit, and her
descriptions of things. On Thursday night he called her.
“I miss you. I like hearing your voice,” he said. “It’s been quiet all week, and the
weather has been terrible. I think I’ll stay in the city for a while. January is just too
depressing out here. Besides, I want to see more of you. At our age, we don’t have time
to waste.” It was a sharp reminder of their ages, and she was aware of it too.
Clément loved the dinner her cook prepared for them on Saturday. They had a
delicate lobster bisque to start, sole for their main course, and chocolate soufflé for
dessert.
“This is better than a restaurant,” he said as they drank their coffee in the drawing
room after dinner. He admired her art, and the house was as pretty as he remembered.
He loved her taste, and she had a gift for creating warm, cozy environments.
“My house is so dreary now that Mathilde is gone. All those feminine touches that
make a difference, flowers around the house, getting rid of old magazines, fluffing things
up. I haven’t paid attention to my house in ten years, since she’s been gone.” Clément
needed a woman in his life and hadn’t thought about it in years, until Marie-Aurélie
wrote to him. Now everything felt exciting and new. And she felt that way too.
They saw each other about three times a week for the next three weeks, and were
totally at ease with each other. They’d had another of her chef’s wonderful meals, one
of his favorites, hachis Parmentier with black truffles, on a cold winter night, and they
were sitting on the couch together looking at an art book she had remembered and
wanted to show him, when he turned gently toward her and kissed her, and she was
surprised. She had assumed that at their age, their newly revived friendship would be
strictly platonic, but his kiss was far from that, it was filled with passion and longing,
and she suddenly remembered how much she had liked kissing him before.
She seemed startled when they stopped, and looked at him. “I’d forgotten how nice
that is.”
“I haven’t. And I remember how passionate you were. That doesn’t seem very long
ago. It’s all still there when I kiss you.” She had responded with just as much longing
when she kissed him back.
“I didn’t know you were interested in that side of things,” she said discreetly, and he
laughed.
“I am very old, my dear, there is no denying it. But I’m happy to say, I’m not dead
yet. And all the moving parts still function, or they appear to.” She was surprised to
hear it, and it added another dimension and interesting possibilities to their growing
relationship. “I just didn’t want to rush you. It’s been a while since either of us has had
a romance.” He kissed her again after he said it, and it was a longer, lingering kiss.
Things were changing quickly between them, and he seemed impatient for more. She
hadn’t expected that when she contacted him, or even after several evenings together.
“Marie-Aurélie, I was in love with you when you broke it off with me, and I fell in love
with you again for all the same reasons, and more, when I finally saw you again the first
time we had lunch. I don’t want to press attentions on you that you don’t want, or spoil
what we have. You’re precious to me, and I don’t want to lose you again.” What he said
seemed so honest and heartfelt that she was deeply touched, and he held her hand as he
sat next to her.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, feeling shy with him suddenly.
“Just be honest with me. Is there any hope for us as more than just friends from the
distant past?”
Instead of answering him, she kissed him again, in a way that encouraged him to
hope. “Yes, there is. I thought I was much too old for all of this, but maybe I’m not.
Getting old is so lonely, and there is so much I’d like to do with you. It’s no fun to be
alone all the time. It’s taken a long time for me to get here, but I love what we have, it’s
even better than before.” She didn’t want to tell him yet that she loved him, she wasn’t
sure, but she wanted to explore it with him. They were powerfully attracted to each
other, and she had feelings for him that she thought had died years before, but they
hadn’t. She had always regretted ending it with him when she did. She was lonely for a
long time after that. But he still wanted babies and she didn’t, and she wasn’t ready to
let go of Armand’s memory yet, and now she had, a long time ago.
They sat on the couch kissing for a while after that, with mounting passion, and he
was going to leave at the end of the evening. They had made progress that night and she
surprised him by asking him if he wanted to come upstairs. He didn’t want to assume
anything, and they walked upstairs, looking very circumspect. She walked into her
bedroom and he followed her, and she turned to him looking shy and vulnerable.
“I’m in love with you too, Clément. I love being with you. It has been so long since I
let myself love a man. I don’t want to lose you again, or do anything wrong. I can’t even
remember how to play a seduction game. All I have left is my heart. The rest is
unimportant now.” He could see how afraid she was, and he kissed her and led her
gently to her bed and slowly undressed her like a priceless work of art he was
unveiling, and it all came back to her. The passion, the desire, the loving were no
different than before, only slower and more sensual, as they savored each moment and
cherished each other. She was totally at ease with him, without shame or
embarrassment. He made her feel beautiful, desired and loved, and they satisfied each
other deeply, physically and emotionally. She couldn’t remember lovemaking ever being
that tender and sweet, and they lay in bed afterward and smiled at each other.
“Maybe sex is like great wine, it just gets better with age.”
“I think you’re unusual as far as that goes,” she said to him with a smile. “As I
recall, that was pretty spectacular.”
“Getting up in the morning is spectacular at our age,” he said, and lay on his side on
one elbow, smiling at her. “You make me incredibly happy.” He looked it and so did
she.
“You make me happy too,” she said, admiring him. They had added a whole new
range of possibilities to their relationship, but it was plainly obvious to both of them
that sex was going to be one of the possibilities from now on. “I thought that was all
over for me,” she admitted.
“It’ll never be over as long as I’m alive,” he assured her. He spent the night with her,
talking and laughing and confiding in each other until they fell asleep, and when they
woke in the morning, they made love again. They had reopened a door that they intended
never to close again. They didn’t want to lose each other this time.
