More Than This: A Novel

Reasons for Leaving

Evelyn
I adjust the mirror to the side of the easel so I can see my naked back reflected in the one behind me. When I get the angles just right, I try to see myself objectively and fail do so, as usual. I can't ignore the roll of pudge around my middle. At the same time, I admire the muscle definition in my shoulders -- a testament to being able to do fifty straight-leg push-ups before my arms start to shake. I can't help but smile.

I pick up my Gauloises Blonde cigarette and take a puff, smoking being one of the few nasty habits I've picked up after almost a year living and re-creating myself in Paris. I tap the ashes into the chipped teacup I found on my first excursion to the Porte de Clignancourt flea market so many months ago. When I'm ready, I shift a little so my spine curves to the right and the subtle shadows of my rib cage press against my skin. I can see the back of my head with my long dark hair in a messy bun held in place with a pair of small ivory knitting needles I found in Prague, my naked back, shoulders, and a healthy portion of rump, but not my face.

With the lit cigarette between the fingers of my right hand, I pick up the brush with my left and start painting.

Alexander
My mouth feels dry. I'm having a little trouble swallowing, but my heart rate is steady. I could be at home watching TV and thirsty, but too lazy to get up and grab a beer, not about to make one of the most important purchases of my life. I try to work some spit into my mouth. The only thing that'll help is getting this over with. It's moments like these when I realize nothing in life has taught me one useful thing about being a man -- not my parents, all the women and girls I've dated, not my law degree or a year in Manhattan. I'm still as clueless about what I should do with my life as I ever was.

I take the ring between my fingers, hold it up to the light, pretending to admire it for what it means, not for what it costs. It's a princess cut on a platinum band. Important to get it right because that's what she wants. The saleslady, with her heavy perfume, assures me it is a near-flawless two-carat diamond. Also important, because the whole point is to get her the best, for people to be able to see how much she's worth from across the room.

All I have to do is reach into my wallet, pull out my credit card, and it's mine. I mean hers.

Evelyn
I hear the yelling in the courtyard before I actually register it has anything to do with me. I pull on my silk robe and walk to the window, massaging the cramp out of my lower back. I've been working in front of the canvas for a couple hours straight, putting the final touches on my version of a self-portrait.

I stick my head out the window to see the old woman who lives in the lower flat physically barring a chic, middle-aged Parisian wearing a structured black suit, towering high-heeled boots, and a red bag on her arm, from storming the doorway that leads up to my apartment.

"Madam Moreau? Va-tout trs bien " I call down to the old lady, hoping everything is okay, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.

The two women (and all the neighbors watching from their windows) look up. The woman in the black suit points at me.

"There she is! Evelyn Morgan, the whore who is fucking my husband," she says by way of a how do you do. "I am the wife of Laurent Baschet, you American alley cat!"

Except she screams in it French so all my neighbors can hear and understand, because she, of course, is French and, it seems, married to the man I've been involved with, who is also French and evidently very married.

"Evelyn. Perhaps it would be best to invite your guest inside," Madam Moreau calmly suggests, as if a deliveryperson has knocked on the wrong door.

I slam the window shutters closed and for a moment want nothing more than to give in to the urge to melt into a puddle on the floor with a plate of dark chocolate-dipped madeleine cookies washed down with a glass of whole milk from the toothless dairy farmer who comes in once a week from the country to sell his wares at the market down the street. But even if I wanted to, there's no way I could indulge. My body just won't let me eat like I used to.

"Open up this door, slut!" She pounds on the door. For a moment I wonder how she could have sprinted up the stairs in those heels. "Husband thief ! Show your face!"

I push myself away from the wall, cinch the sash on my robe a little tighter, and scamper barefoot to the door, desperate for her to just stop yelling. I rip it open, momentarily stunning her into blessed silence. She looks me up and down, then pushes past me and plants herself in the middle of my studio, daring me to do something other than stand there meekly. She's already won, she knows it, but she's not satisfied yet.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can think to say in my clipped, prep school French.

"Sorry! You're sorry," she spits, her face as red as her fingernails. "I'm disappointed in Laurent. The stupid chiennes he fucks usually have a little more spirit."

"I didn't know he was married," I gasp. "He never..."

He. Laurent Baschet. My painting teacher, my mentor, my everything for most of the past year. We met at a reception given to introduce the new crop of students at the Parsons Paris art school to one another and the esteemed faculty who would be molding us into the artists of tomorrow, even if we were just expats with time and money to spare.

He kissed me on each cheek, held my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, "Evelyn Morgan. A beautiful name for such a beautiful girl, who has the hands of a true artist."

Up until Laurent, I hadn't considered myself anything but an overeducated, directionless former fat girl with a multidisciplinary degree from Brown, which I then supplemented with another B.A. in design and technology from Art Academy in San Francisco after I realized there wasn't much I was qualified to do besides read eighteenth-century novels in French.

The plan was to develop my doodles into something that could be considered art while living in my much divorced aunt's Left Bank apartment and posing as a struggling art student. It seemed romantic and, at times, even real to me.

At least it did up to just about now.

"Are you simpleminded, as well as a slut?" she rasps out in her husky smoker's voice. I bet her brand is also Gauloises Blonde, the cigarette Laurent introduced me to.

"I swear to you, madam, he never told me he was married," I say truthfully.

Of course, there were clues, but I chose not to see them. And I chose not to ask him. Why would I? I was in love with him, and the idea of the new reinvented me. Why ruin it with reality?

"What did he tell you? That he loved you? He's never met anyone like you." She laughs. "That's what he tells all of them. You're just another piece of ass to him, you stupid girl. Like all the others. But he always comes back to my bed. I'm his wife and the mother of his children!"

"I didn't know! I swear...I didn't. I never would have...I'm not that kind of person..." I trail off, unable to form the words through my sobs.

"My God. Laurent is getting complacent in his old age," she says calmly with almost a tinge of pity in her voice. "I would have thought this husband of mine would like more of a challenge and a girl with spirit."

"It's over," I cry, and wish she'd do the same or go back to screaming at me. I could stand either, but not her contempt. "It's over."

"Of course it is, my dear. When you see my husband, tell him his wife and children will be in the country for the rest of the week." With one last withering look, she turns on her heel and walks out.

I let myself feel pathetic and betrayed for a minute, and then I make a dash for my phone, tripping over the rug and sprawling onto the floor. My robe is wrapped around my head, leaving me naked as the day I was born. Instead of getting up or even covering myself, I curl into a little ball and cry.

Alexander
I walk up and down the sidewalk in front of her favorite brunch place, ignoring the couples who look so in love or are hiding behind their early Sunday editions of The New York Times. I keep moving and try to work up the nerve to walk in, drop to one knee, and offer her the proposal she's expecting.

Sigrid has a girls' get-together every other Saturday because, as she says, "I hate women who get a boyfriend and then drop their friends just to hang on his every word. Don't you hate women like that? Don't you, Alexander? You don't think I'm one of those women who plan their lives around their man? Do you, Alexander?"

I've learned to neither agree nor disagree with what Sigrid says. It makes life easier for the both of us. To make sure she doesn't notice my lack of commitment, I distract her with gifts. Spur-ofthe-moment trips to fancy spas and expensive bottles of rare wine to eat with Ritz crackers and peanut butter (her favorite snack). Money flows through my fingers like the imported vodka she likes mixed in novelty martini drinks that are ten dollars a pop.

With Sigrid, it's one endless party, being seen in the right places with the right people, being the couple all our friends say they wish they could be. In private, we fight about something stupid and then make up just as loudly within a day or so.

I rub my hands over my head, feeling the short hair under my palms. Nowadays my haircuts set me back $160. I used to get the same short buzz at my neighborhood barbershop in San Francisco for $20, including tip. Aside from the nice head massage with a quarter cup of fancy shampoo and free glass of wine, I can't tell much of a difference between the two buzz cuts except the price. But it makes Sigrid happy for me to go to the same person who cuts her hair. She likes to joke to her friends that we share everything, including a hairstylist.

With Sigrid, I can pretend to be a whole different person, one who doesn't have to care that the busboy clearing tables or the guy washing the martini glasses in the kitchen is an undocumented Guatemalan living in a two-room apartment with ten other people who have to sleep in shifts. I've spent the past year pissing away whatever I've earned as an associate lawyer at the firm of Crook, Asshole, and Jerk on clothes I can't afford (for the both of us), weekend trips to the Hamptons to get drunk with people I'd never call friends while sober, and loving every minute of it.

I've told Sigrid I love her even though I can go hours, days, without thinking about her. Why ask her to marry me? Simple. I've royally fucked up my career as a sharp Manhattan lawyer by asking too many questions about doing some pro bono work for those exploited Guatemalan bus boys, and pretty much signed my walking papers by talking to the cleaning staff about unionizing. On Friday, I was escorted out of the office and told not to show my face until I got my priories straight. Sigrid is all I have left.

One of the waiters comes outside to smoke a cigarette. He gestures with his lighter. "The place is full of estrogen; I don't think you want to go in there without reinforcements."

"My girlfriend likes to eat here," I say stupidly, the small velvet box feeling like an anchor in my hip pocket.

"Everybody's girlfriend likes to eat here, dude." He flicks cigarette ashes onto the sidewalk. "What gets me is they order all this food and they don't eat any of it. Why go out to a restaurant if you aren't going to eat?"

"They eat it later, at home. Alone." I lean up against the wall next to him. "I caught my girl doing that more than once. She told me she can't eat in front of her friends because they spend most of their time talking."

"Whacked." He blows smoke rings and offers his pack of cigarettes at the same time. "I've said it once and I'll say it until I die -- chicks are whacked. Wickety whacked."

"Thanks. I don't smoke." My parents schooled me all too well in the evils of Big Tobacco for me to consider ever taking it up as a hobby.

"Smart," he says as he lights a new cigarette with the stub of the one he just finished. "So when's your girl showing up? Better be soon. The kitchen's running low on nonfat, no-cal pretend pancakes."

"She's already inside. The blonde."

"Which one?" he asks as he flicks the still-smoking butt onto the sidewalk.

I take a look through the window and realize most of the women in there are various shades of blond. "She's sitting under the painting with the circles in the bright colors."

"Table six. They've ordered a pot of coffee but are holding off on ordering brunch." He crushes the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his scuffed waiter shoes. "They have a bottle of champagne on ice but haven't touched it. I guess they're going to be celebrating something."

Everything goes wavy, and I feel myself sway on my feet. I reach up and yank down on the collar of my shirt so I can get some air into my lungs before I pass out.

"Hey? You okay?" He takes a step forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm fine." I breathe in and out.

"I gotta get back in." He claps me on the shoulder, a worried look on his face. "If you want, I can talk to the hostess. She can squeeze you in if you're dying for low-fat whole-wheat pancakes."

"Thanks, but I think I'm already being squeezed."

Evelyn

It's dark outside when I finally convince myself I have no choice but to open my eyes. I shift around on the floor, trying to ease the pain in my hip and shoulder from lying on my side. Funny, it's time likes these when I almost miss my old padding.

"Evelyn? Ouvre la porte, chrie." Laurent has made an appearance. I sit up, closing my robe, as the noise that woke me gets louder. "Evelyn?"

"Go away, you lying bastard," I mumble just loud enough for him to hear.

"Don't be that way, chrie. Open the door." He jiggles the knob. "This isn't dignified."

"Dignified!" That's all it takes to snap me out of my stupor. I get up and stalk to the door, practically ripping it off its hinges. "Your wife -- wife -- calling me a whore -- a whore -- in front of my neighbors? That's not dignified, Laurent."