Itinéraires Bistro

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Truthfully, Natalie was considering going back to school. She was just shy of an undergraduate, so it wouldn’t take long at all. The trouble was, her passion for law had turned to a passion for lawyers and both loves had gone up in smoke. If Natalie went back, she would go for something else. She wasn’t sure yet what. She felt like a tabula rasa—blank and undefined.

"Well, Rupert tells me he's interested in law enforcement, and law is right up your alley. I'm sure he'd love it if you talked to him about it."

“Hmm,” Natalie murmured, taking a sip of tea. She stared down into the cup wordlessly. Rupert was a sweet, if bumbling, young man; Natalie didn’t know the first thing about helping him.

"How long are you in town for?" Penelope asked, changing the subject.

Natalie looked up. “At least two weeks. Possibly longer, if Damien needs me to stay or if something catches my fancy.”

If Lucian could run away to Paris, if Damien could follow suit, what was stopping Natalie? She’d never been particularly fond of Paris. She found its people uninviting, language tricky, and food too buttery. She preferred Zurich and Berlin. The food was just as unhealthy as that in Paris, but at least Natalie could blend in with the leggy and efficient blondes she met there.

“How do you like Paris?” she asked, wondering whether Penelope shared her secret distaste. “Is the city treating you well?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

“At least two weeks. Possibly longer, if Damien needs me to stay or if something catches my fancy.”

Natalie had it easy. She could leave when she wanted. But if Penny wanted to get anywhere in this field she had to be here.

“How do you like Paris? Is the city treating you well?”

And Penny laughed. She wouldn't say that. "It's been an adventure, that's for sure. It's not terrible, but it made a terrible first impression. I don't like the drivers. First day I was here, a car splashed through a puddle and soaked through my white dress. You know, the one with the--" Penny motioned the belt that cinched the waist. "Anyway, it wasn't check-in time so I had to go to William's and Damien's place. And the language is so difficult. But I've hired a tutor. His name is Diego."

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Penelope was working hard, if Natalie knew her. She was likely spending most of her time in some stuffy office, filing paperwork and dreaming of a day when her door read “Dame Penelope A. MaCarthy, British Ambassador to France”. Chances were, she hadn’t seen much of Paris and Natalie wouldn’t blame her. The Eiffel Tower gave her vertigo; there was an exact replica of the Arc d’Triomphe in both Bucharest and New York City. Penelope laughed.

"It's been an adventure, that's for sure,” she said. “It's not terrible, but it made a terrible first impression. I don't like the drivers. First day I was here, a car splashed through a puddle and soaked through my white dress. You know, the one with the--" Penny motioned the belt that cinched the waist. "Anyway, it wasn't check-in time so I had to go to William's and Damien's place. And the language is so difficult. But I've hired a tutor. His name is Diego."

It was Natalie’s turn to laugh.

“Sweetheart,” she said, reaching for Penelope’s hand. “That’s probably because you hired a… what? Spaniard? To teach you. You need to learn from a native. Trust me. We went through half a dozen French tutors for Damien when he was growing up, until Alphonse decided to step in and teach him properly.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

“Sweetheart, that’s probably because you hired a… what? Spaniard? To teach you. You need to learn from a native. Trust me. We went through half a dozen French tutors for Damien when he was growing up, until Alphonse decided to step in and teach him properly.”

Penny shrugged. "We haven't started lessons yet! But have a feeling he'll be a fine teacher. There's just... something about him." Was it his charm? His accent? Penny infuriation with him? Penny couldn't place it, but whatever it as, it made her cheeks flush and her lips curl into to cover up a smile.

"Maybe, if you end up being here longer than two weeks, he can tutor you, too!" Penny suggested, hoping Natalie wouldn't notice the hot, crimson tint on the apples of her cheeks.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Penelope tried to shrug off Natalie’s comment, but it was true. Natalie’s own French was shoddy and ill-balanced because she’d learned it from Lucian twenty-something years ago, with the vain hope to impress Alphonse Michaud. Her then-fiancé neglected to mention that his father was flawlessly fluent in four languages. It had been humiliating beyond belief when Alphonse looked at her, smiled too-kindly and said in an almost suspiciously posh accent: “A gallant attempt, Miss Blackwood, but perhaps communication would be better facilitated in English. Wouldn’t you agree?” Lucian, like this “Diego”, may have spoken like a native, but there was no urgency or importance placed on speaking French properly or practicing often. It left Natalie’s education spotty and would likely do the same to Penelope’s.

"We haven't started lessons yet! But have a feeling he'll be a fine teacher. There's just... something about him," Penelope insisted, flushing crimson. "Maybe, if you end up being here longer than two weeks, he can tutor you, too!"

“My French is passable enough,” Natalie said, pride rising into her cheeks. “Thank you, though, dear. Best of luck with your Diego, though.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

“My French is passable enough,” Natalie said, pride rising into her cheeks. “Thank you, though, dear. Best of luck with your Diego, though.”

Penny nearly jumped at this... nearly. Diego wasn't anything to her except a possible tutor. She had no place calling him 'hers' in any sense just yet. She bit at her tongue thoughtfully. "Thank you." She looked at her watch. "Goodness!" This time, Penny did jump. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes!" She stood, shoving the newspaper article into her bag before hastily, only bits of it poking out just through the leather pouch. "I have to go, but it was so great seeing you!" Penny threw her arms around Natalie, tossed down money to pay for her tea and began sprinting off. "We have to get together again before Damien's party, and again after that before you leave! Bye!"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Stirring his tea absently with his long finger, Bill turned the final page of the Sarah Ruhl book, glancing around occasionally in fear of wandering, curious eyes seeing the love scene that stumbled across his page. Finishing the last line, he folded the book to a close and rested it lovingly on the table, lining it up not-quite perfectly against the corner.

He sipped it, feeling the warm liquid trickle down his throat in stark contrast the cold wind outside. As he watched the hubbub evolve around him in the café, he kept one eye constantly on the door. Any moment, Toni would walk through the door and he’d return to her her play, note tucked between the loved and yellow pages of The Clean House, ‘dinner?’ scrawled in scratchy cursive between four blue lines.

He considered brining a flower, but that in combination with brunch, the nice clothes, and the surprise note seemed to be overkill.

The small, welcoming bell above the door chimed and as Bill caught sight of Toni’s well-defined features, he stood, meeting her gaze and pulling a chair out for her, across from him. He slid Sarah to her, the binding of the book brushing the table just audibly. “Here. I finished. I really, really enjoyed it. Thank you. Made my job a lot easier.” He smiled at her almost shyly, licking at the curve of his canine from behind the curtain of his lips. He stopped for a breath and to say “you look nice today.”

Why? Why, for the last two times, did he sound like a shy schoolboy who had flunked a couple of years and was cursed with lanky arms and the social graces of a baboon? It really was unfair.

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

Toni was looking forward to coffee with William far more than she had the right to. Sometime last night, a giddy sort of bubble lodged itself in her ribcage and she told herself that if she could just push herself through grading the smart-*ss essays from her first years, she would be sitting in a nice bistro with a curious and interesting man for coffee on Monday. It had been motivation enough to get out of bed and start another school week. Which, admittedly, struck Toni as strange. She’d known William MaCarthy for about a week now; but she knew very little of him. He was a lighting designer and stage manager. He was British, but worked in the Moulin Rouge and La Colline both. He was putting up a French-translation of “The Clean House”. And he had rather lovely sea-green eyes. But beyond that, she knew nothing of him. Nothing that should have inspired elation or tingling anticipation. She told herself that she was thankful to get to talk to another theatre professional about a show she loved, without the wearily smug I-have-tenure-already smiles she got from the other professors at the university. But even still, she had to admit that there was probably more there. A tiny infatuation, perhaps.

No, she thought. Not an infatuation. A curiosity.

After all, it wasn’t every day that good-looking young men turned up in her office for reasons not pertaining to their final grade. In fact, that had never happened to Toni. Not since she moved back to Paris, anyways. Maybe when she was in school, or when she was working for the RSC. But now? In Paris? As a professor? She’d come today in her work clothes, although Toni sorely wished she looked somehow nicer. Prettier. It was a childish wish; one she was familiar with from her earliest acting days. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. It was just coffee and a chat. Besides, even during her earliest acting days, she’d been called “riveting”. Maybe she could harness some of that stage presence, if she thought she’d need it.

But you don’t, she told herself. You’re getting your book back. Maybe some coffee. Nothing more.

Still, she’d lit up a cigarette or two before leaving her flat, which was never a pre-breakfast routine. And it hadn’t calmed her nerves much at all. Maybe it was the thought of going into class again that had her knotted up like this. That was reasonable. Toni entered the bistro and immediately spotted William. He was dressed nicer than he had been the previous time they met. Toni’s brown eyes swept over him appreciatively and a smile turned up her lips. Her anxiety stayed firmly on the other side of the bistro door. She walked to William’s table. He rose like a gentleman to pull her chair out for her.

It was such an old-fashioned move. Her feminist mother would have retched at it; told Toni not to be charmed by such antiquated gestures. And yet, her smile widened, etching her dimples into her face deeply as she took the seat with a murmured—shockingly demure—“thank you”.

“Here,” said William, sliding the Ruhl book to her after taking his own seat. “I finished. I really, really enjoyed it. Thank you. Made my job a lot easier.”

There they were, smiling at each other toothily—shyly, Toni thought—as if the play was some immense and unspeakable inside joke between them. It was mortifying that Toni couldn’t manage to unglue her locked jaw, to stop smiling long enough to say “you’re welcome” or “of course”.

“You look nice today,” William said. Was it Toni’s imagination, or did he sound breathless? She blinked at the compliment, letting it register, and trying not to over analyze it. Then, she stopped smiling with her teeth and it was just her lips, curved up happily. Relieved? Satisfied.

“Thank you,” she said. “You look quite handsome yourself, William.”

It wasn’t meant to sound sarcastic. And maybe it didn’t. But the way it sounded on Toni’s own ears was as god-awful as unturned violins. She wanted to wince at the painful sound of her own voice. Better to press on, though, not to make a thing of it. Toni cleared her throat.

“So, you enjoyed the play?” she repeated, as though he hadn’t just said that. Again, she wanted to stop her mouth from running. “I’m glad. I can’t imagine what it would be like if you were still stage managing it and you hated it.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill tried his hardest to make eye contact without gazing. He caught himself several times within that one moment, and tried to correct himself without noticing the shape of her lids and the beautifully hard colour of her eyes.

You know nothing about her, the logical voice of reason rang in his ears.

Besides, said another, slick and slippery one, she wouldn’t want you anyways.

“Thank you,” she said. “You look quite handsome yourself, William.”

Maybe that bitter oily voice was wrong, maybe Bill had a chance. He felt his confidence stack itself back up like a Jenga pillar, preparing him to say something witty and attractive.

But Toni was quick to speak.

“So, you enjoyed the play? I’m glad. I can’t imagine what it would be like if you were still stage managing it and you hated it.”

Bill laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time I worked on a play I hated. I once ran the fly for a chairty production of “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” Third worst week of my life.” Bill wasn’t about to say what the first two were. That was personal. That was dark. That was something Bill didn’t like dwelling on and something Toni needn’t know.

“But you know how it is, doing work for the experience.” He cleared his throat, stopping himself from rambling. “Are you going to come see it, ‘The Clean House’? I opens next week Thursday, you know. And I can give you my comp ticket.” Bill didn’t know what possessed him to offer it up. Usually, comp tickets were reserved for Damien. But surely his best mate would understand. Toni was more than just a pretty face. She was a kind professional. Damien had seen plenty shows before, and the rich offspring of millionaire could afford a cheap ticket.

“I mean, I have it on me anyways.”

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

William laughed out loud and Toni couldn’t help but grin. She wanted to do something more intelligent than grin. It was driving her mad that she was reduced to this silly, smiling thing.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I worked on a play I hated. I once ran the fly for a charity production of “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” Third worst week of my life.”

And now she was laughing. Toni didn’t have a pretty laugh, a feminine laugh. It was a cackle; a smoker’s cackle. Not quite sultry, mostly raucous. Her head shook around and her earrings smacked her neck playfully.

“But you know how it is, doing work for the experience,” William said. Toni nodded. She did. She supposed it was the same for backstage crew as it was for actors in that respect. There were shows she’d done when she was younger that she only loved because she’d been in them. William cleared his throat. “Are you going to come see it, ‘The Clean House’? It opens next week Thursday, you know. And I can give you my comp ticket.”

The generous offer made Toni’s eyes light up. She hoped it didn’t look too greedy, too thrilled. She probably did anyways.

“I mean, I have it on me anyways.”

“That would be fantastic!” she said. Then cocking her head added, “I mean, that is, if you’d like me to have it. It’d be an honor.”

The words sounded funny. An honor. But it was. Comp tickets were precious commodities, reserved for friends and family and not for random strangers. She didn’t want to put William’s friends or mother or—god forbid—girlfriend out of a ticket. She didn’t need a jealous someone breathing down her neck.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill decided he liked her laugh. It was far from musical, stained with the yellow gravel of nicotine and made Bill feel less self-conscious of his own rough and smoky chortle.

That would be fantastic!” she said in regards to Bill’s offer. “I mean, that is, if you’d like me to have it. It’d be an honor.”

“Oh please,” he said nonchalantly. “The pleasure is all mine. I owe you one remember?” He slid her the purple and blue ticket, pushing it gently across the table.

Bill couldn’t remember ever being this nice to a stranger. He was always so suave and biting, never reduced to this fumbling mess, tripping on words and trying to show off like a pre-pubescent peacock that didn’t yet have its feathers.

He went to take a sip of his tea, now lukewarm from neglect, and remembered Toni sat there refreshment-less.

“Can I get you a tea or something, Toni? On me?”

There he went again, being the nice guy, the gentleman. If Ben were here now, he’d be revealing him as a fraud if he wasn’t passed out from shock. Damien would be asking why Bill wasn’t that nice to him. The answer was simple: they weren’t Toni.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: Ashton/Natalie BiC:


Ashton Greene

For the past four weeks, multi-tasking had become a built-in talented, a second nature like breathing or sleeping. She was now able to change diapers while writing a grocery list and singing a fun little ditty she had thrown together. And today, she found that it was possible to feel herself and her baby at the same time in a way that was different than the way she had been for the past eight months.

She sipped her soup and each time it slurped, she’d watch Gregory’s face light up with curious excitement. Ashton found herself slurping on purpose just to watch that happiness wash over her son like a sunrise. Neglecting her social graces, ignoring the disgruntled looks from other patrons, she made as much noise eating as possible all because it made Gregory laugh. But eventually, her bowl had to empty and once the entertaining sound was gone, Gregory’s face fell and he began crying.

Gently, she scooped him from his carrier. Thought music had always been a part of Ashton life, she found it integrating itself more and more into her life with the birth of her child. In the morning, she sang “Good Morning” from Singin’ in the Rain, at night “Goodnight my Someone”. She wrote a song for bath time called Squeaky Clean, and often strung together melodies for fun or simply rocking him to sleep. Like now, as he wiggled and cried.

She handed fed him a prepared bottle, warm in her hand as she rocked him and he snuggled into her. She smiled at him proudly, lovingly. And just to think—a year ago, she was merely pining after Lucian, engaged to Damien, this dream life of having a son and loving relationship just that—a dream.

When Gregory was done with the bottle, Ashton held him to her, over her shoulder, speaking softly into that fine light hair of his. “Mumma loves you, Gregory…” she loved to feel his hair and tummy, soft against her lips and fingers as she tickled him, hearing him coo delightedly. She remembered the first time she heard him make that noise of sheer happiness. She and Lucian were in the kitchen, the sound of bacon sizzling on the stove, the sink running as Lucian rinsed off tomatoes. “Ashton, do we have any lettuce?” Lucian asked and before Ashton could answer, the softest little coo like a dove sounded from the corner of the room where Gregory sat in his carrier. All fell silent and in a synchronized motion, she and Lucian looked in his direction, smiles on their faces. “Did you hear that?” he asked her slowly. And Ashton nodded. It wasn’t the way she had pictured his first sound being, it was less glamourous, but it was perfect.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Don't hate me for the length. Don't try to match the length. Just realize I wrote this all day in between loads of laundry and cleaning your room. BIC:


Natalie Blackwood

Natalie loved the Latin Quarter. Of all the places in Paris, it was the only part she could fully feel comfortable in. It reminded her of Oxford in a way—the city and the university both—for its scholarly feel and café culture. She remembered her own university days, sipping tea with her girlfriends in a local café and scoping out boys, doing more gossiping than studying. She’d been pretty then with flaxen hair—her mother’s words—and an ample and perky chest. Long legs, long arms, all softly curved and natural. And smart. Lord, had she been smart then. She was going to be a solicitor, maybe a law professor—an idea she’d flirted with once upon a time—or go into government. So many possibilities died in Oxford. While her friends were taking gap years in Australia and Mexico and the South Pacific, Natalie was pregnant and taking a crash course in marriage. Some twenty-five years later, she could pick up where she left off. If she wanted. And in truth, Natalie was happy drawing alimony cheques from her divorce and getting a chance to do a make-up gap year.

Well, not happy. But still.

She was as happy as a woman could be when her husband (ex-husband, she had to tell herself sometimes) was shacking up with his child-bride. His pregnant child-bride. The thought made the back of her throat taste like sour milk. What kind of man took up with a woman younger than his son, anyways? Natalie knew the type. Her father’s distasteful associates. Men in Bea’s law firm. The ones she used to gossip about with her sisters, make derisive sounds when she saw them fondling their sugar babies in public. The men in Lucian’s office way back when who toyed with their secretaries while their common, fat wives got plainer and fatter. She wondered if Lucian had ever had a secretary on the side. Somehow, that was more palatable than reality. Reality involved Natalie’s own indiscretions and the prospect Lucian had fallen out of love with her and in love with someone half their age. Worse still, Ashton Greene was someone Natalie had once liked. Once handpicked for her—their—son.

Ashton was spunky, which despite her commentary to the contrary, Natalie couldn’t help but to admire. She’d once been that way, before Damien was born. She’d picked her because she remembered thinking, here is a girl who could make my little boy as close to happy as possible. Arty, fun, if a bit cheeky, Ashton was high-strung enough to keep pace with Damien. And though it would likely be a sexless union, it would have to last until Damien’s grandfather—Natalie’s dad—passed away. Ken Blackwood was a no-nonsense sort of man. He had strict—high—expectations for each of his children and grandchildren. He ran his estrogen-filled home with strict rules. Beatrice, Amelia, Natalie, and their mother Margret outnumbered him four to one and Ken always seemed as though he’d be better suited running a boys’ barrack. His moral standard had been high for the girls, but it was higher still for Damien because he was a boy and would be expected to choose between running Lucian’s family business (“The vineyards,” Lucian would say, as though his family’s estate and international business was little more than a pet project garden) and the Blackwood chain of luxury hotels.

“He’ll be wanting a wife soon,” Ken said once to Natalie at one of Damien’s galleries.

“Daddy, he’s twenty two. He’s got time.”

Ken scoffed. “Your husband’s about ruined the boy. Sometimes I wish you two had another son, Nat. One like you, I mean. A good English boy, not some half-French minarchist. Someone with a good head on his shoulders.”

She’d thought of Anthony then. How much more her father would like her lover than her husband. She wouldn’t mention it though. Daughters were vestal virgins to her father, regardless of evidence to the contrary. Well, except Bea. Bea had been the rebel. A strumpet, in her father’s words. She shook her head.

“Are you complaining about my son or my husband?” she asked.

“All this emphasis on the arts… It’s a bit fey. Queer. You know, Damien turned down tickets to Wembley to see some hippie art show last weekend. Does he even have a girlfriend?”

Natalie bristled. Damien didn’t have a girlfriend. He never had. The word “queer” stuck in her head in her father’s disdainful tone. She’d known Damien was gay for years—what mother was oblivious to that?—but she’d never suspected it would be a problem.

“Of course he does,” Natalie said. She crossed her arms. “He’s twenty-two year’s old, Daddy. And we aren’t training him for the priesthood.”

Ken’s eyes flashed and Natalie regretted her words. He also didn’t like Lucian’s Catholic upbringing much. It was as though the man was stuck in Elizabethan times. Prosecute the non-Protestants. Prosecute the homosexuals. Prosecute the unwed mothers.

“Good,” Ken said. “I’d hate to have a gay priest for a grandson.”

Natalie felt queasy and looked over at Damien, who was explaining a canvas to Lucian and Olivier. Damien looked back and grinned. He excused himself to hug his grandfather. And something in Natalie snapped. It wouldn’t just be Ken who would cut Damien out of his life. It’d be his Auntie Milly and his Auntie Bea and his Uncle Robbie and Tess and his Grandmum. And then they’d snip Natalie from their lives. Natalie, the favorite. Wouldn’t that be a riot? The one with the perfect marriage, perfect son, perfect life, a sham. All of it a sham. A ruse. She excused herself for some air. Lucian found her some ten minutes later, holding her hair back and throwing up on a patch of grass in the common area.

“You all right, Nat?” he asked. “Do we need to go home?”

“No.” Her voice was raspy. “Just a little stomach bug. It’s nothing.”

“Right.” Lucian rubbed between her shoulder blades. She felt a stab of guilt because she wanted him to push off, she wanted Anthony to hold her. To help her devise a plan.

He did just that two nights later.

They lied together in a hotel (not one of her father’s). She stared at the rosy wallpaper, on her side, staring. Anthony came up behind her and she could feel him firm behind her, warm. She stiffened.

“Jesus, Natalie,” he said, rubbing at her neck. “You’re tense.”

He laughed and kissed the mole on the back of her neck. He kept rubbing.

“I’m not gonna bite you,” Anthony insisted. “Not unless you want.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“That’s not what you were saying last weekend. Something happen in Oxford? The husband get suspicious?”

“No.”

“Good.” Anthony went back to kissing her neck. Then, agitated, stopped. “What then? You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s Damien. My son.”

She broke down then, trembling and crying and carrying on so loudly it was a wonder no one banged on their walls to get her to shut up. She told him about Damien being gay, about his boyfriend in London who he told everyone was a roommate, about her father, everything.

“He’s such a good boy,” she said. “But he’s… special. Fragile, you know. If he thought for even a minute someone didn’t love him…”

She didn’t want to think. She’d seen the news reports. This boy hung himself because bullies made fun of gays. That one drowned. They say it was an accident, but he and his dad had a row right before about the boy’s boyfriend. Another slit his wrists because his mum threw him out when she found him with another young man. Her son wasn’t going to become a statistic. Not on her watch.

“Especially his grandfather. Damien’s the only boy of the family, my dad’s favourite. It would kill him.”

Anthony pulled away, shifted so he was still holding her, but at a distance.

“Not to bring up unpleasantries,” he said. “But have you talked to Damien’s father about any of this?”

“Of course not,” Natalie said. “He’s a politician. He specializes in avoiding solutions.”

“Sure.” Anthony pulled closer, comforted or something. “Then I s’pose you need to get Damien a girlfriend.”

They’d combed through girls. Girls from Anthony’s office—secretaries, interns—and daughter’s of Natalie’s friends. Damien went on about a dozen blind dates, all ill-fated.

“It seems our boy’s turning into a bit of a lothario,” Lucian said once as Damien swept out the door with a curly-haired brunette. Lucian had scarcely said a thing to the girl, smiled, offered tea, and went blithely back to his newspaper. Natalie hadn’t realized Lucian even noticed that it was a different girl than last week. She looked at him. He was wearing his reading spectacles and looking at the finance column.

“I suppose he has,” Natalie said. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“Hadn’t noticed?” Lucian echoed, not looking up. “Nat, Damien’s only ever brought Penny or Samantha over. Now, there’s a whole parade of them. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“He has every right to bring home whoever he pleases without scrutiny, Lucian. He’s a grown man.”

“It’s not scrutiny.” He set the paper down. “It’s just odd.”

“Oh, please. He’s a good-looking young man. You can’t expect him to be celibate.”

“It’s not as though he even seems pleased by the attention. If I had that many girls chasing me when I was his age—“

“You’d what?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Lucian said mildly. He picked up the newspaper again, turned a page and tossed it down again. “I swear. Even the finance page is a gossip rag these days.”

“Don’t throw the paper. What are you? Sixteen?”

Natalie picked up the newspaper. The name in the headline rang a bell. Henry Greene. Greene’s daughter had just opened a restaurant with her husband; the other daughter, Damien’s age, was unmarried. It had been easy enough to arrange a meeting, through Greene’s lawyer, Natalie’s lover. The rest, as you would say, was history. Greene’s unwed daughter, Ashton, was a pill to her old man, but she and Damien got on well enough.

And she was the first of Damien’s “girlfriends” whose name Lucian bothered to learn. Now, he—Lucian-- was living with Ashton just across town and having a baby with her. Anthony had a baby, too, this year. With his wife. His wife. The one he always swore he was on the cusp of leaving. Cheating lying scum. He’d even sent Natalie pictures. He looked so happy, so smug. As though he was saying, ‘Look, I got to keep my marriage. What have you got to show now, Natalie?’

The worst of it was that her family reacted to Damien the way she predicted. Only Teresa was supportive and she caught hell from her mum for it. Ken cut Damien from the will, said he’d break his own code of ethics and leave the company to Amelia. Amelia lived in her own delusional version of the world where Natalie and Lucian’s marriage dissolved because Lucian had hit Natalie—something no one had ever suggested—and she was shocked Natalie was “chasing” him and refusing to disown her “disappointment of a son”. Beatrice didn’t care either way that Damien was gay; but she certainly thought Natalie to be a stupid cow for everything. Anthony included, which was a laugh, since he was Bea’s partner-at-law.

“You selfish, stupid slag,” Bea said, not without affection. “Did you really think Anthony would leave Joanna? Or that Lucian wouldn’t move on? I told you to pick between them ages ago. Thought you just needed a brief, little fling to clear your head. Spice things up, teach you a thing or two to bring home.”

Like the mess, the wrecked home was all Natalie’s fault. Even with Lucian and Ashton shacking up in Montramarte, Paris was preferable to the judgmental eyes of her family. Besides, where else was she to go? Her only son was here. She was not dying an old maid in Wiltshire. The broken divorcee. Natalie was determined to carve a place for herself in Damien’s Parisian life and carve herself a life of her own.

Of course, no one said it’d be easy. Natalie often suspected that Damien’s friends liked Lucian better or that maybe Damien preferred his dad, because it seemed all his friends had met Mr. Michaud, but were startled to know Damien’s mum was “Ms. Blackwood” (a name that sounded like it belonged to a woman much younger than Natalie). They seemed startled to know she was living in Paris. It made her feel like the proverbial long-lost relative from a Dickens novel or else a stock character in a play. Even Bill, Damien’s childhood best friend, seemed put off that Natalie was here. As if she was there to spy and tattle to his mum and dad. As if. Mildred and Artie were Lucian’s friends now. He could keep them. They were good people, but their parenting pact expired when the boys picked different universities some ten or seven years ago. The MaCarthys owed Natalie nothing; she had no debts to them.

This left her relatively alone in Paris, despite the people she knew. She had Damien; he was her world. But then there was Henry, who was recovering from a heart attack at his daughter’s place (undoubtedly the love nest she now shared with Lucian). He’d been her ally, maybe even someone she’d call a friend (friend seemed an inapplicable word to Natalie in the last year or two). Now what was he? Lucian’s new father-in-law. Again, there was Bill. But Natalie was not her husband. Ex-husband. She drew boundaries between herself and Damien’s peers. This included Penny MaCarthy, too, who was working for the French ambassador. And this left no one. Lucian? Ashton? Ha. Ha.

She wasn’t perfectly happy here, ruminating on all that she’d lost over the years, but at least her new flat didn’t serve as a constant, chilly reminder of Lucian’s absence. It was a sunny, two bedroom place and from her living room window, she could see that king of landmarks, the Eiffel Tower. Her neighbors, who she didn’t know well, nor who she could speak with fluently, seemed a nice sort of people. An elderly woman with two dogs and no love for cats. A young couple with two toddlers. An American novelist, who spoke some flat, bastardized version of English and kept to himself. A flat of university girls—three of them—who liked to giggle and ogle the novelist as Natalie would have done twenty years ago. As Natalie sometimes did from her balcony, looking at him, as she nursed a glass of decidedly German wine or Earl Grey. Jesus, she was a bit pathetic. The hermit who looked batty, watching the man next door as he moodily—ostensibly—stared at anything but her. She considered inviting him by, but he was scarcely older than Damien and while that didn’t stop some people, Natalie would hate to seem a plagiarist.

Besides, there were loads of things more interesting than her neighbor. And, again, much of it was to be found in the Latin Quarter. Museums. Libraries. Shops. Universities. Cafes and bars and bistros and brasseries. She’d gained eight pounds since moving to Paris and she hated the way it made her look. Not terrible. Amelia would have said it made her look better. Softer, approachable. What bull. It made her feel fat. It was no wonder Lucian preferred Ashton. Even last time Natalie had seen the girl, pregnant and balloon-stomached, she had lithe limbs and it’d be no time before she was a hard, cream-coloured body, gliding against Lucian’s—

Oh God. It always went back to that. It was a wonder Damien hadn’t slapped her over Christmas. The drunker she’d gotten then, the sappier she’d been. The sappier she was, the more Damien drank. The only time she’d talked to Lucian was a few days after Christmas, but before New Year’s. He’d called and she thought, Well, this is nice. He’s wishing me a happy holiday. Instead, he’d asked why she’d sent him a hung-over, vomiting version of Damien for Christmas Day. He asked if something dreadful had happened and Natalie hadn’t been able to own up to drinking with Damien so she blithely said, “Dunno, Luc. It’s possible he went out with friends after he left my place. You shouldn’t be calling me; your new wife might get jealous.” He’d said “Happy New Year’s” then, but might as well have said, “You poisonous, crazy b*tch” from his tone. Natalie supposed she felt guilty for Christmas, but not very. Lucian had a new baby on the way; he’d do well to remember that fatherhood wasn’t all sunshine and daisies, that even his perfect, precious new baby would one day be twenty-four and drunk. That he already had a child, who, despite being grown, needed him.

But that was weeks ago. Months, actually. It was now February and she supposed the impending Valentine’s Day was what had her out of sorts. She had no lover, no husband, and it was one month until her one year anniversary of being divorced. Some women celebrated, like they would a wedding anniversary or a birthday, but Natalie thought that was silly. Especially since she hadn’t escaped much of anything except the awkward, bitterness of an empty-nest. Why was it so much easier for men to rebound, anyways? Move on, get married again. They could have kids until the day they died. Charlie Chaplin, Pavarotti, dozens of monarchs. All in that quest to have the perfect child, the ideal son. She thought of Ashton Greene—fleetingly—as the Anne Boleyn to her Katharine of Aragon. It made her laugh. Out loud. Oh, God, who would be Ashton’s Jane Seymour? As if there’d be one. Haha. Oh, God.

A few people in the bistro looked at her. The hermit, nursing tea and sandwiches alone, laughing about some private joke. God, she was going mad. She didn’t actually think of her ex-husband as Henry the VIII. He had two sons now. He didn’t need any more. Damien had told her. He didn’t bring pictures. He just showed up for lunch late on January second, looking exhausted.

“Ashton had the baby this morning,” he said. “I spent most of the night in the waiting room with her dad and brother-in-law. No one told me it’d take, like, twelve hours.”

“Girl?” Natalie asked.

“Nah, a boy. Greggy… Gregory, sorry. Yeah. He was early so there was a lot of…”

Damien gestured wildly with his hands to indicate hospital madness. Natalie had smiled then, glad to know that she and Ashton were evenly matched, that the girl hadn’t given Lucian something Natalie couldn’t, even if she’d given Damien something Natalie never had.

That sobered her laughing up quickly. Just in time, too, for a waiter to come by and replace her cold teapot with a new, steaming one. Natalie thanked him and pressed her hands to her forehead for a long moment after he walked away. Sometimes, she wondered what was considered too early to be drinking, not because she even liked alcohol that much, but because at least having a glass of wine or two would give her an excuse for these mood swings. Well, an excuse besides menopause. Forty-five didn’t seem so old now that she was almost forty-six.

All a woman’s problems are rooted in men…

What was this, bad stand-up? Natalie played mother for herself, pouring and preparing the tea in silence. When she was satisfied with the caramel color of her drink, she looked around the bistro. Everyone was minding their own business. Some holiday-makers were snapping photos of each other and talking in what sounded to Natalie like German. A couple natives—or perhaps expatriates—dined the way people do at their favorite restaurants. Still others were students and with classes recently started again, they had laptop computers out and situated dangerously near their coffee. And one table away was a mother and child, both of whom struck Natalie as heartbreakingly familiar.

For all the thought she’d given her, Natalie was surprised it had taken this long to notice Ashton Greene. She looked much the same as Natalie remembered, except she no longer carried a beach-ball around her middle. Instead, there was a carrier at her side and a baby—Gregory—in her arms. Natalie, who since her laughing spell had been quiet, could suddenly hear how loud her own heartbeat and breaths were. She gulped down some tea and the glugging sound was deafening; the tea scalding. She winced and set it down, never once looking away from Ashton and Gregory.

“You could go on medication, Nat, you know. Loads of women go on medication after they’ve had a baby, it’s the new thing. Anti-depressants or something.”

“You aren’t making me feel better, Lucian.”

“It was an idea. I just… Tell me how to make you happy.”

“You can’t.”

“What?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Just… shut up about the medication, will you, dear? I’m fine. And I’m not bloody depressed.”

It made Natalie happy that Ashton’s face was still rounded. Not terribly fat, but she hadn’t gotten back that look of childish youth, which was just as well. Natalie imagined Ashton’s stretch marks and thought, Yeah, join the club. Her own had faded, but never evaporated. She wondered if Lucian helped Ashton rub cocoa butter and other, less traditional salves over the purple and red marks or if he told her she was being foolish and vain in that not-quite-teasing way of his. She decided not to speculate about that.

“Oh, God, no! Don’t come home, I’m fine! Jesus, Lucian! I’ll just have Bea pop in and check on me.”

“Natalie, our six year old found you lying on the floor in the bathroom, bleeding. That’s not ‘fine’.”

“I’m fantastic. Don’t you dare come home.”

“I’ve already told my secretary I’ve had a family emergency.”

“Lucian, if you come home, I swear, I’ll kill you.”

“Idle threat, love. Promise me you’ll at least call the hospital?”

“I don’t need a hospital. I’m fine.”

There was no Lucian in sight, which was just as well as far as Natalie was concerned. She could imagine how awful that would feel. Watching her ex-husband hold his new fiancée’s hand, holding his new baby… It would make her violently ill to see herself so neatly replaced. Instead, his absence made her think, Well, some things don’t change since she’d lost track of how many times she’d taken Damien out alone while Lucian was busy being important in London or Paris.

“Well, what did the doctor say?”

“Mostly medical gibberish.”

“Natalie…”

“It’s not cancer, Lucian. We’ll discuss it later.”

“Is Mummy going to die?”

“No, Damien. Your mum’s just… Fine. Your mum is just fine. She’s just tired, is all.”

Also a comfort was that the baby looked more like Ashton than Lucian. Certainly at first glance. Blonde, feathery hair, glowing skin. If the baby had dark hair and Lucian’s complexion, or his funny shaped ears and aristocratic nose, Natalie would have been sure there was no justice in the world. Damien looked like Lucian. He was the only baby who had any right to. Even if Lucian had a hundred children, he was their only one. Always Lucian’s first. Always Natalie’s only.

“Lucian, you have to be home tonight.”

“You know I can’t do that. We have a committee hearing in the morning.”

“F*ck committee hearings! If you don’t come home tonight, we’re going to miss our window of opportunity. The doctor said—“

“F*ck the doctor, then.”

“I might have to, if we want a baby this time.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny. Look, how late can you wait up?”

“Lucian…”

“Or drop Damien off, come into the city. I’ll get us a nice hotel room, some wine, we’ll do this right.”

“I’m not asking you to pencil me in to seduce me, you moron.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Silly me, thinking you’d actually want this to be a bit romantic.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I just meant I’m not driving to London tonight.”

“I’m serious. Send Damien to the MaCarthys. I’ll get us a penthouse suite. I’ll have Laura make reservations for us.”

“Don’t drag Laura into this.”

“That’s what secretaries are for.”

“Not for fooling around with?”

“What has gotten into you?”

“I’m sorry… I just… I want this baby more than anything.”

“And I don’t?”

“Sometimes, I wonder…”

“Fine. Don’t come to London then. We’ve only been trying for this baby for ten years.”

“Rub it in.”

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll come home?”

“No. … Yes. Of course.”

Ten years of trying, only the one baby, the one son. Just Damien. Damien, who had been conceived somewhere in Oxford—whether in Lucian’s ugly, old car or in his apartment or in Natalie’s dormitory the night Lucian actually jumped out of a second story window to avoid being caught by her roommate. Damien, who had been the catalyst for their marriage, the reason Lucian would never measure up to her parents’ standards, the one good thing in Natalie’s life. How long had Lucian and Ashton been “trying” for Gregory? Did they try at all? Or was he like Damien, an accident? Lucian was allowed to have accidents. No consequence, except a few sleepless nights, a few angry fathers. Natalie had one accident—one she wouldn’t trade for the world—but also one that took her plans, her body, her everything as payment.

She realized with sudden embarrassment that she’d been staring at Ashton’s chest for a minute, sizing her up in comparison. Natalie hadn’t been able to breastfeed; she hadn’t been able to do a lot of things after her first pregnancy. And now, looking at Ashton’s chest, she couldn’t refer to her as Lucian’s “child-bride”. Her eyes darted to her menu, although she already had tea and sandwiches.

From the corner of her eye, Natalie watched Ashton maneuver the baby—Gregory—to an upright position so she could put away the bottle. Gregory looked away from his mummy long enough to make eye contact (insofar as babies made eye contact) with Natalie.

And somehow, she knew that Gregory would have Lucian’s eyes. Her chest hurt, breathing hurt.

“Mumma loves you, Gregory…”

Ow. Oh God. Natalie looked up and stared into those beautiful, blue eyes. Her menu hit the table with a loud “thwack” and Natalie tinged pink, looking away from the blissful domestic scene across the way before she erupted into tears or swears. She wanted the check. Now. Any time. That would be nice. Why had she ordered another pot of tea? She couldn’t stay here. Not here. Not in Paris. Not anywhere. Oh God. Ow. Breathing still hurt. She scrambled to right her menu, her silverware, but bumped her hand against the tea pot, which was too hot against her skin. It didn’t hurt, per se, but she jerked back.

Oh God. People were looking. Ashton was probably looking. Natalie smiled apologetically for her clangor and tried to gather her thoughts. Thinking hurt. And then she made eye contact with Ashton. Cue the tears. Cue the accusations. Cue the shouts of ‘husband-stealing-hussy-slag’. Cue the catfight.

“He’s precious,” Natalie said, surprisingly calm, nodding towards Gregory. “I can see why Damien’s infatuated.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

There was something magical about kissing her son’s head, not only for the fact she had managed to squeeze that melon-sized bulb out in a matter of nine hours, but because it was acting like a sponge, taking in everything he heard and saw and absorbing it, storing it for later use. But Gregory’s head was soft, more fragile than a sponge, and capable of so much more. It sat on Atlas’ shoulders, a heavy load to bear for someone who was just now developing his neck muscles, and it would become the brilliant thinker Lucian was, produce the fire-cracker words of Ashton, and a new way of living that was purely Gregory’s. It would form thoughts and opinions on everything—from the quality of grapefruit to the war in Uganda. He would start a legacy of his own while carrying on the ones left behind by Lucian and Ashton. This little baby who was no more than four weeks old now, his head fitting perfectly between the natural nook of Ashton’s clavicle, but one day, he’d be all grown, no longer the little baby Ashton held now, but the memories of these early days would burn fresh and alive on Ashton’s brain. Even when Gregory’s hair was no longer that soft, fine patch, his face no longer round and childish, but long and mature. Ashton had never understood how her mother and father could still see her as that little baby they carried home, that toddler they rushed to the hospital because she ate bees after thinking they were made of honey, that young girl who demanded to be referred to as a lady (despite never becoming such in adulthood), that teenager who danced and sang and played piano. She never understood how Henry continued clinging on to the past image of her. Until now. Someday, this moment, here and now, would become history. She had better take as many pictures, mental and physical, as she could.

He cooed against her as she put the bottle away. “I know, it’s not gourmet, Gregory, but thank you for drinking it anyway. Someday, you’ll be appalled to know what it was you just drank…” Ashton was mildly amused by the idea. Allan had refused for years to believe he was breastfed. Finally, Aunt Mathilde gave up and said “you’re right, Allan, you were an alien baby and only ate scrap metal for the first two years of your life.”

Gregory looked at her as if he understood everything Ashton said with big blue eyes that were full of understanding. Though some would say it was too early to tell, it was obvious those were Lucian’s eyes; the way they gleamed when Ashton was happy, the way they lit up at good things, the way grew bigger with worry or concern, and now, when they seemed to understand everything Ashton said, even when she made no sense.

Ashton laughed and sipped her tea before Gregory, who had been fascinated with these new toys he had called “hands”, stuck is fingers in her mouth. Ashton didn’t mind. Gregory seemed to enjoy it, it seemed to calm him at times. Ashton was cautious as to not accidently bite down, but acted nonchalant as if putting babies’ fingers in your mouth was the norm, as if they were a menu item.

Speaking of menus, Ashton planned on order a salad and she absently traced the fat, red letter ‘I’ that loomed over the top of the menu over and over. She had almost zoned out completely when an almost familiar voice rang out:

“He’s precious.”

It took Ashton a moment to realize it was Natalie who spoke to her now. All the times she had heard the woman speak, it was always hard and cold. But it seemed softer, warmer just now that Ashton, had she not seen the woman, would have sworn someone else was speaking. “I can see why Damien’s infatuated.”

Ashton suddenly realized how foolish she looked with her son’s hands in her mouth and she released him. He grew fussy and she rubbed his back gently, rhythmically.

“Oh… Thanks you, yes. He really is. Damien seems to have taken to him quite well, actually.” Gregory let out a soft little gurgle, a combination between happiness and a burp. “You know he painted the nursery, right? Did he tell you that?” Ashton tried her hardest to keep the conversation civil and on a topic they both could rejoice in: Damien. Not Lucian, not marriage. Not even Paris or England. There was no use getting into an argument with the woman in front of Gregory. She lacked the energy, anyway.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Natalie wanted to gag. She could feel the dry retch building in her throat, but it never came. Precious? Lucian and Ashton’s son? Who was this alien taking over her body, making her speak, making her say things she never would in a million years? Natalie remembered the day she thought she might lose Lucian to Ashton. The first time the thought had entered her head. She’d been in the throes of an affair herself, and yet, she didn’t think she was in love with Anthony. Not conventionally, anyhow, because it was all about compartmentalizing. In one compartment, there was Natalie Michaud, wife and mother. In another, Natalie Blackwood, a young woman—no older than twenty-two—scratching to get out of her old-woman body an make up for lost time. She’d been Natalie Michaud when she saw Ashton and Lucian duck into his study, slinking off for some inane sing-along and pinpricks of jealousy bled through her heart. Lucian didn’t serenade her anymore. She may not even have deserved him to, but Natalie remembered thinking—perhaps irrationally—that if Lucian wasn’t serenading her, he wouldn’t serenade anyone. Had no right to. It was the only time during Natalie’s affair she’d actually fought to keep her marriage together for more than appearances. Too little, too late. Later, once the divorce was finalized and Ashton was knocked up—hateful words for a hateful situation, Natalie thought—Natalie entertained all sorts of magical thinking. That the baby wasn’t Lucian’s. That it was a hysterical pregnancy or a fake. Never that Ashton would lose the baby, though. Natalie wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy. Hadn’t. Seldom, though, had Natalie been able to conjure up a picture of life once Ashton gave birth. Not fully. She imagined Damien rejecting his paternal family and sloughing off Lucian’s last name.

She hadn’t even imagined how she would feel once there was a little person cemented on Lucian and Damien’s joined family trees.

She suspected—retrospectively, anyways—that she ought to feel for Gregory the same mildly bitter, almost blasé nothing she felt towards Anthony’s children. She had met his eight year old daughter twice. Gertie. She had her mum’s plain face and her father’s greenish, almond-shaped eyes. Her mum’s dark hair, gapped teeth, freckles. And when Natalie saw her, the only hurt she felt was that Anthony said, “This is Daddy’s friend, Miss Natalie”, but he could hardly have said, “This is Daddy’s lover”, could he? When he sent pictures of his second child, a son, back in September, Natalie felt nothing looking at the baby. Blaming an infant was stupid. The baby was neither precious nor vile. It was a baby. Someone else’s, at that. Instead, she looked at his wife, holding the baby and wanted slap that beaming smile off her fat face. She expected to feel that way about Ashton and about the baby she now held.

Instead, she said precious and with a pang, Natalie realized she meant it. She wasn’t indifferent about Gregory. She didn’t hate Ashton. Not as much as she hated Anthony’s wife and her fleshy, fertile body. Honestly, Anthony wouldn’t have left her if his wife never got pregnant. Lucian was so far gone by the time he left; Natalie was too far gone.

Still, her stomach was hollow with wanting. Craving. She wanted to hit her head against the table, like a petulant and dramatic teenager. She thought maybe it would stop the thoughts, the racing, analytical, why-is-he-precious? thoughts.

“Oh… Thanks you, yes. He really is.” Ashton seemed confused. Gracious, though. At least she didn’t say, “I know, right?” and blow her off. Although, part of Natalie wished she had done just that, so the conversation would end before it got awkward. It was by nature awkward. “Damien seems to have taken to him quite well, actually.” Gregory let out a soft little gurgle, a combination between happiness and a burp. “You know he painted the nursery, right? Did he tell you that?”

“No, he didn’t,” Natalie said. She could hear peevishness creep into her voice. But, of course Damien hadn’t told her. Why should he? She was just his mother; she just wanted to know what he was doing with his life. Instead of knowing, Natalie was forced to imagine Damien trading his palate and brushes for buckets and rollers. She envisioned him in an old t-shirt—one of Bill’s or Lucian’s, since she was hard-pressed to imagine Damien sacrificing one of his own shirts. He’d done his own walls in Wiltshire with acrylic paints over the cream-colored walls. When he left for Oxford, Natalie sat and looked at the ever-expanding, mostly abstract mural. It had an air of un-done-ness to it. Like the artist had just packed up and abandoned his canvas. He had.

“Thinking of turning it into a sewing parlor?” Lucian teased when she came out of the room.

“Shut up.” Natalie’s eyes hurt from crying; she was getting a migraine.

“You can do what you want to the furniture. He’d kill us if we touched the walls, though.”

Natalie wondered if Damien was as possessive about the nursery as he had been—still was—about his old bedroom. When Gregory inevitably outgrew his crib and whatever Damien had done to the walls, what would happen? Natalie wished she could see this room, this first true labor of love she could recall Damien taking on. Fat chance of that. Lucian would put a restraining order on her if she so much as tried. Still, she’d bet every single alimony check she got from the man that the nursery was stunning.

“He did his own room, Damien,” she said. “We whitewashed the walls when he was eight and let him do whatever he wanted until the day he moved out. I have no idea where he gets his knack for painting from. I mean, Miriam—Mary, Lucian’s mum-- used to run an art gallery, but that was before Damien was born, so maybe it’s genetic.”

She hoped not. She wanted her baby to be one-of-a-kind. Better than Gregory at something because Damien deserved to have something to set him apart no matter how many children Lucian had.

“What does it look like? The nursery?”