A Stranger's Smile

[chanaud]

For Darrenfate!

I’ve only been in Paris barely a week and already I can tell the stranger heading towards me was a tourist. He was long and walked with a purposeful stride, so unlike the Parisians with their languid moves. His grey coat lay open over a business blue shirt and tie, trying desperately to catch up to his long legs.

What could he be in hurry for, I wondered. It was so early my favorite cafe wasn't even open or preheated the oven to start my favorite pastry. The streets were empty and clean from the first morning rush hour. And the street vendors hadn't even set shop yet. Did he have an appointment with a client? A lover? Or possibly he had forgotten he was in Paris. Slow down, I wanted to shout. Look around. You are in the city of love!

Upon closer inspection, I saw that his head was mostly grey with a few persistent black hairs determined to hang on. I didn’t mind staring. He didn’t notice me. His thoughts were far beyond me and at his destination. His face became clearer. It was smooth and youthful and possibly handsome if he smiled.

I couldn’t help wondering who he was, this stranger who piqued my interest so. My own steps grew bolder, matching his, willing him closer to me, wondering what role he played in my life. Could he be my future, the one, my other half, my true love? How will I know? He’s just a passing stranger. Is he?

Then my thoughts starting wandering further. What if my true love, my destiny was someone who had passed me by already? What if I missed my chance yesterday, or last month, or even a year ago and I’m still on this futile search? Or…. what it was him, this man who was walking towards me right now. What made me jump out of bed this morning with an abundance of energy with a desire to walk so early when I’m usually a late sleeper, clicking the snooze button on my alarm clock to get ten more minutes of sleep. Why are we the only two souls awake this morning?


I slowed almost to a stop. Because if he was the one, I wanted to savor this moment, to record the moment our eyes met, to be able to detail every sense, if I met him or not.

I smiled at the idea. It was a secretive smile, full of promises. It was ridicolous to think this way. I must return to bed.

Caught by surprise, he smiled back. Wide and genuine. He had a beautiful smile. He was indeed handsome. Strikingly so!

Then he passed me.

I continued on. I can feel him turn and continue to smile at my back. His smile pierced through my raincoat making my heart flutter in the misty morning. My eyes closed for a brief moment, reveling in the romantic daydream.

Then a voice coming from behind woke me back to reality…

“Hello…”

I knew it was him. I turned slowly and saw his warm brown eyes, shining warmly on this damp day.

“Hello?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” He asked me, his eyes memorizing my face. How did he know I’m an American?

Yes, yes, I’ll have dinner with you, I answered silently.

“Why would I have dinner with you? I don’t even know you.” The voice of reason answered instead.

“Because upon first glance.. I knew I wanted to get to know you.”

“Upon first glance? A three second glance?”

Was it even three seconds, I wondered.

”Sometimes three seconds is all it takes,” he responded with a grin. When I didn’t smile back, he continued. “Listen… I know we don’t know each other. We don’t even know each other’s names, but I would really like to have dinner with you… tonight. Let’s meet tonight at 8 o’clock at this very spot and we can go from here, ok? Just dinner. And if we survive dinner, we can exchange names. Please?”

I stepped off the curve to cross the street. At the intersection, I turned to him and nodded my head.

 

[darrenfate]

Paris.

The city of lights, of love. Mont St. Michel, the bridges along the Seine. The ghosts of Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Frida Kahlo, Man Ray et al were palpable here. A writers paradise. He loved Paris. He had spent nine months here researching and writing. So why was he so miserable?

Well it starts and stops with his idiot agent. Here he was dressed up like a Tom turkey, with a TIE for god's sake, in the early MORNING all for a "meeting" with the Parisian literary press. Sigh. He longed for his customary black on black look. The tie was so tight he could barely breathe. His agent had been afraid of snubbing the notoriously fickle French writers with a casual look, so here he was.

Walking out his frustration at a brisk pace before the “meeting” helped calm him down. He needed a good review for his new biography Shakespeare & Company – the Life and Times of Sylvia Beach. So play the game.

During the months here in Paris, of observing and watching love in all forms young, old, rich, poor he had been able to translate the romantic magic that is Paris into his book. He himself, though had remained unattached and though always surrounded by people, very much alone. He would know who he should be with when he met her, and as of yet he was still looking for the mystery woman he had dubbed “The One”. Sometimes he depaired that she didn't exist.

Everything changed the instant he saw her.

She was the one. He knew it in his heart down into his soul.

It is amazing what you can see in just one glance. Her crisp white blouse, obviously Irish linen hugged her chest. Through the partially unbuttoned top, he glimpsed a bra of pale pink. Very sexy. Big brown eyes, and a quick smile. Full lips were covered by a soft orange reddish lipstick – mango?

As she walked past, he admired the graceful curve of her ass, and imagined a matching pink thong underneath those black pants. He inhaled her perfume, it hung soft in the air tantalizing and intoxicating, not overpowering. Perfect for her. Clearly this was a woman comfortable with who she was and knew what made her look and feel good.

The words just came out.

There was never any doubt that she would accept. That they would be together that very night. And just like that, she was gone.

The rest of the day was a blur. His agent was so happy that he was cooperating, in fact his agent remarked he had never been so accommodating and gracious no matter how inane the question. At the end, he was confident of good reviews.

The artistic side of his soul was soaring. He readied for the night, for this rendezvous with the woman who would become both his friend and lover. From a street vendor he purchased a single petit red rose.

He made it to the same corner with fifteen minutes to spare, taking no chances that he might be late. As he arrived, so did she. Perfect. He spoke.

Hello! I see that both of us know that this night will be special. I knew that I had to be here early.

Thank you. Yes, great minds think alike.

Well then, you must know what I’m thinking now ….

– He gave her a hug and a soft kiss. They lingered in their embrace. Somehow that too was perfect. He offered the rose …

This rose is for you. It’s beauty now pales in comparison to yours. Let’s go for a short walk before dinner, the sun is setting soon, and I know a place not far from here overlooking the Seine where the views are as spectacular as you are …

Arm in arm they strolled, she was meant to be there.

At a corner he stopped, then with his besy French imitation he stopped and said ...

Volia

http://www.eveandersson.com/photos/france/paris/583-bridge-over-seine-at-night-large.jpg

 

[chanaud]

I’m not meeting him, I told myself as I stepped on the curb from across the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner back to my hotel room, sans coffee and croissant.

He won’t be there, I told myself as I left my agent’s office with an itinerary in hand upon the media release of my newest book, ‘Shakespeare in Paris, Memoirs of Sylvia Beach’.

It’s not safe, I scolded myself at the ridiculous notion of meeting a complete stranger in Paris.

You would never do this if you were home, I told myself as I found myself dressing with care in a simple black dress with long black sleeves, black open toed heels, and a long red scarf wrapped around my neck hanging down my back.

But I’m not home, I told myself as my heels retraced my steps of this morning to where I met the stranger with the wondrous smile.

If he’s waiting for me, I’ll just pretend that I have a dinner engagement nearby and then leave, I plotted to myself. And if he isn’t there, I’ll just have a good chuckle of my ridiculous behavior and have fabulous dinner at the nearest café.

Draped in black, he was even taller than I remembered. He was a strikingly handsome figure even from a distance. He turned slowly and saw me. There was no surprise on his face. He knew I would show. He just took me into his arms and kissed me as if we were old lovers. Caught in the delirium of the kiss, all planned notions were forgotten. I was an actor on a stage, playing a role outside of my normal careful character. Well if tonight’s a stage, this will be one hell of an Oscar Performance!

“Viola!” He exclaimed with such flair.

“Beautiful,” I couldn’t help gasping loudly. The city of Lights were staring at us in electrifying colors.

“Incredibly so,” he whispered. Turning to him, I saw that he was looking down at me, talking about me.

I blushed. My heart was pounding so loud, I was sure he could hear me. His hand never left mine. Silently we turned and walked slowly along the streets of Paris.

Our conversation fell easily as our matching steps. He was new and familiar wrapped in one. We pointed to famous landmarks, cafes and museums. We discovered we preferred old Paris. We both love Gerard’s Café. We’re both from Chicago.

What I didn’t know was his name, or if he was married, or what he did for a living, or why he was there in Paris. He was personal, yet vague. So was I. I wanted to keep my anonymity from him. Why, you may ask. I suppose I just wanted to remain the actor that had attracted him with a simple smile.

 

[darrenfate]

Incredible.

Beautiful.

Smart.

Yes, these were not comments on Paris the city, these were platitudes that kept running through his head as he looked at her. The Mystery Woman. Somehow, they hadn't exchanged the usual first questions, like "Who are You? and What do you do?" They were unimportant. They had a bond, an instant kismet that rendered these questions irrelavent. He laughed.

What are you smiling about? She asked

I was just thinking how nice this is, how naturally good it feels to be with you. Its great and strange at the same time.

How so?

I don't know who you are, what you do, or where you work for starters. The strange part is it doesn't seem to matter. You are here with me, that's what counts.

Hmmm well if you really feel that way, I have a request.

She paused, and looked down at them holding hands. Then she continued ...

Keep it this way, let's first get to know each other without the careers, the names, the money issues, marital status ... all of it. Do you think you can?

Wow. So we just start seeing each other, our likes, dislikes, food favorites, all other questions are fair - except those, right?

Yes !

Deal !

Simultaneously they rose to kiss each other, then laughed at how they had done this exactly at the same time. Is this what it was to be in Love? They let that kiss linger, and then he spoke again ...

Ok, I'll start. Republican or Democrat?

Republican!

Ouch! And you said that with such conviction! Figures I'd find the only Republican woman in the whole city of Chicago here in Paris. Well if all Republican women look like you, I may just switch parties.

Ha Ha.

Not kidding !

Ok Mr. Donkey I have some questions ... Blue or Green?

Green

A good Book or a good Wine?

Oooo that's tough. My answer changes, right now, with you, the wine.

Boxers or Briefs?

Ahhh Boxer briefs! No kidding. I love those things! In fact, ironically I have green boxer briefs on right now

They both laughed at the absurdity of it all. He leaned forward and kissed her again. This time they lingered over the kiss. Her lips were warm and inviting. Softly she said ...

Heads or Tails ?

Both - I want all of you ...

She blushed, just then her cell phone went off. A text message. She ignored it. Another kiss. Just a minute later, it went off again. Gently he said -

It's Ok. Someone really wants you. Go ahead, answer it. I promise not to look.

He turned discreetly away, as exasperated, she looked down at her phone. It was from her agent. The text simply said -

We have book trouble. Contact me immediately.

 

[chanaud]

If there ever was a time when I wished the cell phone was never invented, it would be now. Dammit what could possibly be wrong? Why everything was fine this afternoon. The book was to be released by the end of this week, it received praising reviews by a few notable papers, and all we had to do was bid our time.

My stranger turned his back allowing me total discretion. I dialed the number hastily. Within a quick second, my agent answered.

“This better be good,” I said, curtly.

“As you Americans say… Houston we have a problem.”

“Gerard, not all Americans say that. Now what seems to be the problem?”

“Do you know the name Mark Thoreau?”

“Of course! Who doesn’t? Anybody who’s a writer, or read knows him or knows of him. Listen, is this the urgent message? Because if it is, I’m busy right now. Not that I would love to discuss Mr. Thoreau with you sometime. He’s an absolute brilliant.”

“He just released a book.”

“Of course. He’s a whole list of books published under his name.”

“No, no. He’s just written one of Sylvia Beach.”

The earth came crashing down on me. I caught my breath of the impact of the poor timing. “That’s okay. He’s probably in New York, and I’m in Paris.”

“He’s here.”

“Where’s here? Is he with you?”

“He’s in Paris. He’s released it in Paris. Let’s meet tonight to discuss plan B. I’m at Epicure’s for dinner. Come meet me.”

The phone clicked. There was no getting around this. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What poor timing. If Mr. Thoreau doesn’t like my work, I’m doomed. Every raving review would be retracted immediately.

“I apologize. My employer needs my assistance immediately.” My stranger turned, his smiling face dropped instantly.

“Right now? It’s late. What sort of work do you do so late at night,” my stranger asked, his eyes twinkled at the possibilities.

Under normal circumstances, I would have explained my way out of it, told him the truth. But my whole life was at stake. And I wasn’t thinking straight. This book was so dear to my heart.

“I can’t explain now, perhaps later?” My voice rose high, pleading.

“So I see.”

“No, it’s not like that. It’s not what you’re thinking,” I said, pulling at his sleeve. “Can you meet me later, after work?”

Smiling, I suggested, “Yes, meet me at our spot at midnight.”

Our roles reversed. This time I was the one begging…

 

[darrenfate]

Mark flashed his best smile at her and simply said -

Deal! Our spot at midnight. On one condition - lets seal the agreement with a kiss ...

I can see right through you - this is a shameless attempt to get another kiss from me isn't it?

Yes, guilty as charged!

She smiled, eyes twinkling.

She moved forward and kissed him - the electricity still crackled.

He found himself utterly lost in the moment, consumed by this new passion. She pulled away and slowly backed up. Farther and farther.

Until we meet again she said softly …

Then she reached the corner, turned and was gone.

Damn, that’s one helluva woman he said to no one in particular.

Suddenly, he felt the chill in the air. He had an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. He felt it to his core. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if to cast the unwanted feelings aside. It didn’t work. He ran to the corner where she had disappeared, half expecting to see her lying in the street hit by a cab or something. Nothing. Only the gentle Paris night.

His own phone rang. His agent.

Hey – what’s the emergency? You never call me at night.

Mark, I don’t know how to tell you this – but …

What? You quitting me to be Grisham’s full time agent?

No, nothing like that.

Tom Clancy’s agent?

Ha Ha.

Well what?

There’s another book out there …

Thousands and thousands are published every year, so what?

It’s on Sylvia Beach.

No Way!

Yes, I’m afraid so, and it gets worse.

I’m listening.

It’s good. Damn good. Not exactly the take that you have, but still solid research, clever prose …

Who wrote it? Arnot? Ducharme? That bastard Gordy is always stealing ideas from me …

No, no one like that. Third book, she’s not well known. A Jill Slater.

Jill Slater? Never heard of her.

Mark, I know what this book means to you, since it’s the first one on your own after the divorce. Especially since the last one didn’t sell so well, we both know you need to hit a home run here to get reestablished. My advice – take the high road. Ignore her book. Double up on your own publicity.

No. I’m going with my instincts here. Crush her. Stomp on this book. Find factual errors. Failing that, slam her on something else. You know these French reviewers. Personally call them, you have a few favors to collect. Do you have a copy of her work? Is it published yet?

It’s not published, and yes I have a press copy with me, from Antoinette. She’s still hot for you btw. She thinks this may get her back in your good graces.

Well, I’m coming over right now to your flat to get it.

Mark hung up. He owed Antoinette, and he knew all she wanted was some attention. She was a petite, perky woman, who had been fun to be with. He had just known that it would never work. He knew now that his heart had already been given to the mystery woman.

The night was short, he had made great progress reading Jill’s book by 11:30pm. It was good he had to admit. Had some new material too, how had she ever found an old interview with Joyce where he talked about Beach & Hemingway? Still some of her conclusions - while possible - were against conventional wisdom and disputable. He had found his argument against the book. A call back to his reluctant agent started him going

It was time to think of better things. Like the mystery woman and midnight.

Mark hurried out the door, clutching the flowers he had bought for her. He had a bounce in his step as he arrived at “their” corner with five minutes to spare, and began to wait.

Five Minutes.

Ten more then fifteen became twenty.

Forty five.

As the clock struck one am, he knew that she wasn’t coming. Something was wrong. It felt like he had lost the love of his life! It started to rain. Sadly he dropped the flowers, and left. He remembered that foreboding sensation from sunset. He was powerless to do anything about it, having played that stupid game of deliberately not giving each others names. He hoped she was ok. Then, that powerlessness gave way to anger. Don’t be angry with her, he thought to himself. She was the One, she had a good excuse he was sure. Focus your anger on someone more deserving of it.

Like Jill Slater.

 

[chanaud]

Jill Slater

Time passed quickly. She and her agent scoured her competitor’s book with a fine tooth comb. There were errors. Just minor errors that are often overlooked, including Gerard, but Jill didn’t. They jumped out alarmingly to her. Thoreau is considered a literary great. His work is flawless. He was famous for it. But he missed the most important factor of Ms. Beach’s life.

Jill smiled secretly. She wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. She just closed the book and glanced at the clock on the hotel nightstand.

3am!

Oh no, she’s forgotten her date. She grabbed a cashmere scarf and her coat, ran out the hotel and down to their ‘corner’.

Not a soul was in sight. Just the fog starting to roll in. Her heart fell. The streets were as barren as her heart. For some reason, an overwhelming sensation of loneliness filled her. It was her fault, she’s lost the opportunity. For what, she wondered. Who was he? What important role was he suppose to represent in her life? Glancing down the sidewalk, she found scattered petals from flowers. Somehow she knew it was meant for her. She scooped down and gathered all the pieces and shoved it in her coat’s pocket. It’ll be a remembrance of the what if’s. A door she chose not to open.

The ten minute walk back to the hotel took an hour. She fell in bed fully clothed and fell in a fitful sleep.

Rriiiiiinnnnnggggggg

The short buzz of the phone woke her. It took a while to realize where Jill was. The sound of her agent jarred her memory.

“Oui… I remember. I’ll wear the black Calvin Klein. No? Yes, I know I’m not attending a funeral. Ok…ok… I’ll wear something fashionable, something French.”

Despite just waking up, Gerard left her exhausted. He was like her mother, always disapproving especially at her conservative clothes. “Dress like a French woman,” he instructed. How exactly does a French woman dresses? She walked over to the tiny closet and looked over the few suits she had packed. They all looked the same. Just different shades of black.

Jill knew exactly what she had to do. It’s what she’s hated the most.

Time to go shopping.

 

[darrenfate]

MARK

Mark slept until ten the next day, emotionally and physically exhausted by the sudden turn of events.

The phone rang. It had to be his agent. Mark muttered to himself -

Damn, I told that bastard that I'd call him back, impatient asshole!

He picked up the phone and started talking -

Jerry! I told you to wait! You'd think that after all the time we have been together you could listen by now ...

Ooooo Jerry I so love it when you get mad! You need a woman to calm your nerves, no?

Antoinette! I'm so sorry ...

I think you just need a big kiss, from a frenchwoman! You know, there are no other women on earth that kiss like we do !

Do you have someone in mind my dear?

But of course you silly man! Me ! How about lunch at the Boulangerie on Rue du Rome and Gare St. Lazare? Stop by my apartment and pick me up first. You do remember where I live, don't you?

Yes I do.

Be there at half twelve then.

Done. Au revoir cherie.

The next few hours were spent planning a strategy. Idly, Mark wondered why he was taking this Jill Slater thing so personally. He had never met the woman, after all. Still, he needed to focus all this negative energy on something! He sighed. Life is complicated.

The phone rang again. This time he was much more circumspect.

Hello?

Mark, it's Jerry. You'll never guess who I just got a call from. The producer for Pierre Rondeau just called.

What? That's fabulous! Pierre is the best tv talk show host on French ....

Yes, I know all that. He wants you on his show next week.

You are one great agent Jer!

Well, here's the bad news. He's invited Jill Slater too. Seems like he wants to do a little face off between you.

Damn it!

I hear you Mark. Still, it'll sell thousands of books. Rondeau doesn't interview authors very often. In fact the last was JK Rowling about Harry Potter. I think he can smell a conflict coming. This is a great opportunity. What do you think?

Tell them yes.

Already have!

Somehow I already knew that! Bye Jerry.

Mark hustled out the door and made it to Antoinette's stylish apartment in just under ten minutes. He buzzed and was let in. Her door was ajar, and he let himself in.

Hello? Antoinette?

In here cherie -

Mark rounded the corner. Antoinette was dressed in nothing but a see through red negligee. Though petite, her body was all woman, curvy in all the right places and with this particular negligee, on full display. She poured from a cold bottle of Beaujolais, and handed him a full glass.

I thought we ought to stop and relax first. You Americans are always in such a rush. Do I think I might entice you to linger here a while?

Despite himself, Mark smiled. He had said that he would do whatever he could to bury Jill Slater's book. He needed Antoinette for that. Besides, she was damn attractive. He felt an odd sense of guilt for betraying his new mystery woman. He tried to shake it off. Mark shook his head and thought how odd - she is the one that stood me up!

Antoinette stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. It was a long lingering kiss that made Mark feel good all over. She reached and undid his belt, then reached her hand down his pants and felt his hardness.

Ooooo I see that you are glad to see me, Mark! I think that you are overdressed. Mmmmm

Mark felt Antoinette kiss him all the way down, until she took him in her warm mouth. For the next three hours Jill Slater was the farthest thing from his mind ...

 

[chanaud]

“It’s just not me!” Jill whined once again to Gerard. This was the fourth couture house they’ve been to, and nothing had fit.

As thin as she was, Jill was considered voluptuous and too round for the Parisian fashion. The tall anorexic lines were too tight around her hips and derriere. Jill was exhausted. Shopping was her least favorite pastimes. And the lack of sleep and missing her stranger’s date left her near tears.

Her stranger. Strange that she would refer him as that. Her stranger. He was exactly that. She resigned to the fact he was gone forever. Still she couldn’t shake his image from her.

“We must find the perfect suit for you,” Gerard insisted.

Jill glanced at her watch and replied, “We don’t have time.” She was secretly hoping that he would resign to the task and allow her to wear one of her comfortable black suits. Then she would be able to sneak in a hot bath and a short nap.

“That’s why we must hurry. Givenchy! Now why haven’t I thought of them first,” Gerard exclaimed.

He quickly dressed her and hurried her out to the streets. Givenchy was intimidating. The women were tall, thin and expressionless. Their hairs were pulled back in a tight bun, or stiff against their cheeks. Jill was certainly out of place.

“We need a black suit,” Gerard announced immediately.

A middle aged saleslady walked over to Jill and around her with a disapproving look.

“Giselle, come quickly! Bring the diamond cut.” She demanded to a young salesclerk.

Jill was quickly ushered to a dressing room the size of her hotel suite. Mirrors surrounded her, magnifying her size. She imagined that she was at a carnival in the mirror house.

The suit fit perfectly! Amazing so, Jill thought. It added inches to her height and curves she never knew she had.

“Perfect!” The matronly saleslady announced. She walked around her, tugging and pulling, making sure the suit was perfectly formed against Jill’s body.

“Shall we deliver it?” She asked. Jill hesitated. The magnificent suit was made of silk. Surely, it cost more than a month’s mortgage.

“She will wear it to her appointment,” Gerard announced for her. “Don’t worry, I will cover the charge.”

When Jill started to protest, he continued with a smile, “It will be deducted from your first royalty check.”

The press room was full. Long, somber faces spoke in hush voices. Jill was immediately thrown into the room without any preparation. They surrounded her like a pack of literary wolves.

“A brilliant piece.”

“Ms. Beach is smiling down at you at this very moment.”

Compliments with friendly faces closed in on her. Jill was shining.

Somebody thrust a glass of wine in her hand. Then another.

And another.

She was glowing. She was in her realm.

Then something caught her attention. She turned sharply. A tall, silvery head smiled at her.

It was him. Her stranger.

Next to him was a short, petite woman frowning at her.

 

[darrenfate]

MARK

Mark spent the following week preparing for the press meeting. In fact, Jill Slater had written a very strong book. Adrienne Monnier, Beach's best friend and longtime lesbian lover, was quoted from a lenghty interview in Le Monde in which she tells how Beach truly felt about her numerous, and later famous patrons. James Joyce often depicted as a cad, was reported to be Beach's best male friend. Mark had studied historical copies of Le Monde, but there were gaps in the record, ostensibly due to the German occupation during WWII. Somehow, Jill Slater had used other means to track down these old papers, and struck gold in one of the missing copies with this interview.

"Damn nice research, Jill Slater. Very thorough." Mark mused aloud. His respect for her grew with every reading.

Still, her work was unconventional at best, flying in the face of "conventional wisdom". Mark's best approach, was to string together enough of these revelations and simply openly wonder (to the press) as to their veracity. He could get called on this, of course, but he hoped that his literary reputation would preclude any tough questions.

On the day of the conference, Mark went to his closet and looked at the long line of designer suits. At 1,000 EU and up a throw, these were the best that could be had. He chose a black suit with wide thin gray lines from Seville Row. Men had it easy, Mark thought. The suit is like a uniform, the only decision to make is tie and shirt colors. He chose his best silk yellow tie, along with a white French cuff shirt, spread collar. Great look.

Jerry, his agent came for him, along with Antoinette. Despite all the planning, they ran late. Traffic, bad at any hour was brutal. They had missed Jill Slater's session, one Mark desparately wanted to see. They rushed to the press room in at the Marriott on the Champs Elysées.

Mark stopped cold. There she was. Mystery woman. Looking radiant. Looking perfect. She must be with the press. Mark was being pulled to the podium, by his people, but he ignored them and went over to the love of his life.

"I can't believe its you" Mark said. Then he continued,

"Look I don't care why you missed last week, its irrelevant now. I knew we would find each other again, its fate. I know that we promised no names and occupations but since you are here, you are about to find out all about me. You must be a member of the press."

"Well, actually ..."

"Look, I'm late. We'll talk later. All night I hope. Please stay around, this won't take long. Gorgeous outfit, by the way. They must pay you ink stained wretches better than I thought! Wish me luck!"

She looked very confused, but murmured
"Good luck!"

Mark flashed her his best wide smile and bounded up to the podium.

Jerry took the mike, and introduced, Mark to the crowd. He was greeted by polite applause. Mark glanced over at the future Mrs. Mark, and she looked oddly ashen. Strange, he thought. Better avoid eye contact for the rest of the opening. He went into his rehearsed book pitch. All the usual, including his inspiration, the historical significance of Shakespeare and Company, yadda yadda. The last thing he did was openly comment on Jill Slater's book. He started by applauding her "zeal" and called it "thought provoking" deliberately choosing verbs that gave the impression that Jill was a writing neophyte.

Mark finished with a florish, implying that some of her facts were incorrect. Triumphantly, Mark looked over for Mrs. Mark. She was just leaving the room, avtually more like fleeing. His face fell. She was gone again.

The questions started, and instantly Mark knew that he had gone too far, especially with that last factual inaccuracy statement. The first question stung.

"So tell us, Monsieur Thoreau. You say that Ms. Slater may have been incorrect in some of her facts in the book. Can you tell us exactly where, sir?"

"Well, I don't have the exact passage at my fingertips ..." Mark said haltingly.

"The subject then. What section was it in? What fact did it concern?"

"Much of what Ms. Slater attributes to Beach's lover Monnier is ubsubstantiated ..."

"Well, Ms. Slater just before you told us how proud she was to have uncovered these missing period documents, even giving us the publication date ... April 7, 1931 Le Monde. Are you calling her a liar?"

"No, absolutely not." the press murmured in dissatisfaction at Mark's response.

"What are you saying then, sir?"

"Next question", Jerry said hurridly.

The questions got better, but by then damage was done. Clearly, the press in the roon was split in its reaction. Mark somehow got through the rest and when done, went over to where the mystery woman had vanished. He turned back to Jerry and Monique who where busy doing damage control.

"Where did that woman go?"

"What woman? Antoinette replied.

"The one I was talking to before the conference."

"You chased her away, you didn't really expect her to stay after you laid into her like that did you?"

"What are you talking about?" Mark demanded.

"You really don't know do you?" Antoinette said laughing.
"That woman was Jill Slater."

"Oh My God" Mark exclaimed.

Jerry interrupted.

"You have bigger problems than offending a fellow author my friend. I just spoke to Pierre Rondeau the TV man again. They are delighted with this sudden controversy. They said that their ratings will be sky high after the press roast you. Remember, you accepted to be on with Jill Slater "live" in prime time. The airtime is in just two days."

In a few minutes, the press dispersed. Seems that no one wanted to linger with Mark, besides they had juicy stories to write.

Mark begged off Jerry and Antoinette to be alone. He wandered the streets of Paris aimlessly for hours.

Late that night, like he had done every other night since they met, Mark went back to "their" place precisely at midnight, and dropped a single fresh flower. For the first time since he had met her, his gut didn't know how this would end, and this frightened him.

All he knew for sure anymore was that it would be a long two days.

 

[chanaud]

Mark Thoreau was everything Jill found deplorable and stood against in her daily life! He was all assuming and pretentious. He automatically assumed that she was a two bit reporter, who couldn’t afford haute couture. Not that she can. Still he didn’t know that. He just assumed that.

And what were his accusations based on? If he had asked, she would have gladly showed him the authentic transcripts which LeMonde had tucked away deep in their files. But he just automatically discounted her work and even went as far as being accusatory. And what if the press believes him? How can she fight against this known giant that has been proven and even embraced by all the publishers? And why, oh why does he, the Mark Thoreau have to be her stranger.

Jill stormed out of the meeting, and ran into the ladies room and into an empty stall to dispose of the gut wrenching blow that couldn’t be stomached. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw a beaten woman, which made her run back into the stall and expel any thing that she had left in her.

All Jill could do was flee. She ran to the only place her legs took her.

Their corner.

It was a traffic jam. Jill’s saw their corner as it was -- impersonal and congested. Beaten, she walked slowly back to her hotel room.

The phone flashed several messages. They were all urgent.

“Where are you, darling? We must speak.. before the live debate. One on one with Mark Thoreau, can you believe it? He’s going to eat you alive!”

One on one? Live???

“No, I’m not going to do it and you can’t make me,” she said immediately when Gerard picked up his cell phone.

“You must. It’s the only way to save your reputation.”

“I don’t care,” she answered stubbornly.

“His allegations are false and unwarranted; you have the proof. You do have the proof, right?” Gerard demanded.

“Yes…yes, I have the proof. It’s in my office in Chicago.”

“Chicago???” Gerard squealed loudly making Jill pull the phone away from her ear. “Why are the transcripts in Chicago while you’re here.”

Jill tried to explain. “I didn’t’ think I would need it.”

“Didn’t think? You automatically thought everybody would embrace your book without proof? Oh sweet mother of Jesus.. I need a Valium.”

The phone dropped. “Gerard??” Jill could here Gerard rummaging through drawers. She waited anxiously, chewing on her lower lip. After a long pause, all was quiet.

Gerard picked up the phone and spoke calmly. “We can deal with this. We can have the transcripts overnighted. Do you know anybody who can send it to us?”

“Yes.. the super. But it’s in a vault.”

“So… with a combination or a lock?”

“A combination.”

“Ok then.. all is solved. Call the super with your combination and he can Federal Express it.”

“Give him my combination? I can’t do that. I have personal items in there.”
“What can be so personal that you need it locked up?”

“Many things. Like my will, my…”

“Honey, I’m going to give it to you straight … if you don’t have that delivered by time of the interview.. your work will be dead. You will be ostracized. You won’t be able to show your face in public.. ever again. Is that what you want. Your years of hard work down the drain.. just because you don’t want anyone to see your will?”

He was right. It was my only chance to save my career, she thought.

“Gerard?”

“Yes, honey…”

“Do you really think I have a chance with you know… him?”

“Do you want the truth or a colorful work of fiction?”

“The truth.”

“No, but we must try. He is surrounded by the best. They’ve invested a lot in him. They will not allow him to fall on his face. Because that means they lose millions. They’ve probably already started their spin control already. Be aware, Jill Slater. He’s decided to crush you for some odd reason. Why I don’t have a clue. And maybe he doesn’t either. But there’s no going back now. His people won’t allow him to.”

All Jill wanted to do was take the next train out of town and hide for the rest of her life.

She didn’t.

The next morning, Jill’s rumbling stomach forced her to venture outside. As soon as she sat down at a table far from the public sidewalk, she saw a tall, silvery man dressed in all black entered. Immediately, she raised the menu to cover her face. He sat down at a table for one. When the waiter approached him, he spoke.

It was him… Mark Thoreau! He opened his laptop and logged on. Jill knew he was setting his station and will be there for some time. Jill motioned for the waiter.

She whispered. “I’ve changed my mind. A coffee and ham and cheese croissant to go, please.”

Mark turned his head slightly. He must have heard her voice. Jill slid down her seat and prayed silently that he wouldn’t notice her. Then something online distracted him.

When she received her order, Jill breezed past his table and out into the busy street.