Deceived - Part 2 Paris (6 page)

“Do they always drive like this in Paris?” I laughed as the cab recovered the straightaway.

“S'il vous plaît monsieur, aller petit à petit,” Ryan spoke in a loud voice to the driver asking him to please take it easy. Feeling spunky and courageous I decided to speak a little French also and threw in a “yes” and a “please”.

“Oui. S’il vous plait,” I barked. Leaning forward I spouted two of the most basic words that anyone who has ever had the slightest interest in the French language would know. I was so proud of myself.

Ryan had already filled me in on how we would move forward with the plan before we had left New York. Time was of the essence and basically we had to hit the ground running if we were going to get this gallery open on schedule, so we wasted no time settling in to our hotel. Ryan had booked us in the Castille Paris with connecting rooms. I was to stay in Paris for six weeks and help prepare the opening of a contemporary gallery featuring an eclectic combination of European artists, mostly those working in modern oil paintings, not so much sculpture. The gallery was located near Rue Bonaparte and Rue Saint Sulpice where a mix of funky galleries, cafes and boutiques drew fashionable freethinking types. Ryan was an expert at finding the best locations for his galleries.

Without skipping a beat, I pulled out my cell phone, opened my MacBook on the table in my room, as Ryan and I delved into scheduling meetings and contacting the commercial property manager to pick up the keys to the gallery. The gallery had an office space but until the next business day, we would have to work out of the hotel rooms.

It was Monday evening and along with feeling the effects of jetlag, Ryan and I were seriously starving. We decided to check out the neighborhood and look for a nice restaurant before allowing ourselves to crash for the night. We struck out walking from our hotel, intent on letting the first curious cafe that caught our eye be our choice for dinner. The streets were alive with people, tourists and locals, as we meandered down the narrow sidewalks. The vision of the street crowd searching for entertainment on a Monday night filled me with a newfound vibrancy. There was a dispute of some kind raging on the steps of a market, while at the next shop there was a man leaning with his back against a café wall, with a face as gray as an army blanket, sincerely smoking a thin dark cigarette. Couples huddled like lovers under table umbrellas, nursing their espressos. It was magical.

“I love this city, Ryan. Everything looks like a picture postcard. So different than New York,” I said excitedly.

We came upon the Cafe de Flore on St. Germain Blvd. when Ryan stopped short. “This looks like a good place,” he said with a wave of his hand.

A busy waiter was passing near the entrance. “Bonsoir,” he said with a friendly smile.  

“Bonsoir Monsieur,“ I replied with the little French I knew and before the waiter had a chance to continue speaking in French, Ryan interrupted, “A table for two, please.”

“Ah, Americanos,” the waiter said. “Come with me and I’ll find you a crappy table...ah, just kidding,” he teased. “I’ll find a good table for you and your sweet girlfriend.”

Ryan and I raised our eyebrows at each other as we trailed after the quirky Parisian. I guess that even in France we can find waiters who aspire to be comedians.

“Are you two here on your honeymoon?” he asked as he seated us at a small square table, fitted with a crisp white linen tablecloth.

“Oh, no, no, no. We are not married, just friends...well working friends.” I explained wondering if the culture differences caused a misinterpretation.

We ordered a Bordeaux red wine 2006 to pair with our chop of veal, smothered in a classic Madeira sauce. I sniffed the wine, then swirled it in my glass, noting the pattern it made as it ran back down the side of the glass.

“Ryan, the food here is to die for. We have been here barely a day and already Paris is everything I had dreamed...well, except for all the smoking. Did you  notice how the sidewalks are dotted with cigarette butts?”

“Yea, you know, smoking is a big part of the culture here. Frenchmen are stubborn and they don’t give up their vices easily,” he frowned.

I had finished most of the delicious veal chop on my plate, when Mother Nature called and I excused myself to go powder my nose. I headed to the bar area in search of the ladies room.

Belly up to the bar, was a good looking hunk of a guy, loudly conversing with a friend, while gesticulating with his hands about, who knows what, probably the latest soccer goal of the day, when suddenly his enthusiasm got the better of him and he motioned with his glass still in his hand. At that very moment, I attempted to pass by his extended arm, wine and all, but with my hand to eye coordination being as poor as it is, I couldn’t duck away from his airborne glass in time and my white silk covered breasts crashed into his glass of red wine. Actually, it was more like his wine hit my blouse, but who’s keeping track anyway? All I could remember was watching a crimson stain grow to the size of a watermelon all over the front of me.

“Oh Shit! What the hell?” I shrieked as I instinctively jumped back, frantically pawing at the red stain, as if that would do any good.
Godamnit.
It was red wine...
no chance of getting that out.

My high-pitched squeal broke the concentration of his tale tale and he turned in my direction. “Pardon, I’m so sorry, Miss...did I get you wet?” he apologized as he stood up from his bar stool to face me. I was prepared to spew forth every expletive in the book but instead I gasped. I was rendered speechless by the most intoxicating set of sea-green eyes that had ever gazed at me. He had sandy blond shoulder length hair that fell down around a slender face, and a sharp jaw line with a masculine dimple in his chin. From the looks of him, and his accent, I could surmise that he was probably Spanish or maybe Northern Italian.   

“Well.... yea...isn’t it obvious?” I said pointing to my wine soaked blouse.

“I’m sorry...again...so sorry. I get so clumsy when I drink.”

“Well, maybe you should quit drinking,” I said curtly as I pushed past him and made my way to the ladies room to clean up. I soaked several paper towels in water and rubbed at the stain in vain. Flabbergasted, I threw the towels in the trash and stomped out.

Retracing my steps through the bar, I noticed the crazy Spaniard was gone. I fluffed my hair with relief and adjusted my purse over my shoulder. All I wanted was to get back to the Castille Paris and call it a night.

***

The next two days were filled with picking up keys and handling the coordination of contractors who would finish remodeling the space. The gallery was magnificent. The facade was typical old world brick architecture sporting charming red awnings, accentuated with scalloped edges, hanging over the windows. The interior was mostly large open spaces with white walls, high vaulted ceilings with crown molding and a splash of accent color in the lobby. The open spaces, which were divided into smaller rooms, would soon be filled with colors of the artist’s work, each room getting a “remodel” so to speak as each showing changed. But for now, the entire place was in need of paint touch ups and general cleaning before it would be suitable for the first art show.  

Ryan had previously lined up his first artist, Francisco Parada, a promising young European who had several local top-rated reviews from the press. I hadn’t met him yet but his walk through was scheduled for noon the next day.

***

The next morning came bright as a diamond with the Parisian sun shining again, as I donned my clothes for work. This time, not the typical skirt and heels, but the kind of work clothes I could spill white paint on. Fate had thrown a wrench in the works and Ryan’s paint contractor’s wife had gone into labor the night before, so I volunteered to help paint and keep the project on track.

Arriving at the gallery, I quickly logged on the computer, re-checking the agenda for the day. I hadn’t counted on needing grubby clothes in Paris, so the most casual pants I had were my skin tight black yoga pants and a simple pink T-shirt.

“Good morning Chloe,” Ryan said as he popped his head in the office holding out a cup of coffee for me. “You look very sporty today sweetie. Listen, our first client is coming at noon. I’m so excited that Francisco is coming. Are you ready Chloe?“

“Why are you so nervous? It will be fine Ryan,” I said.

“I think you will know when you meet him. He is just...so yummy.”

He practically squealed and I chuckled. “Ha, so he’s gay?”

“I don’t know. You tell me when you see him.”  

I shook my head and got busy painting. I realized it was important to Ryan for the gallery to make a good impression and my job was to help him in any way I could.        

Right around noon, like clockwork, I heard a noise from the front lobby where Ryan anxiously paced, waiting to greet Francisco. I had my back to the hallway that led in from the front lobby, and I was painting over a large discolored patch on the white wall. Just as the two of them entered, I bent over to dip the paintbrush in the bucket on the floor, exposing my hind end as an unintended greeting to Francisco.  

“Chloe, our client is here...Francisco is here,” he announced to my butt.

“Oh great,” I said as I spun around covering my hiney with the back of my hand like a child about to get a spanking.  

Ohmygod! It's the loud hunky Spaniard who ruined my blouse.

“Well, hello. We meet again,” he said with a charming smile as he extended his hand. “How is that blouse...I hope it's not ruined. I’m sorry for spilling my wine all over it.”  

Ryan’s jaw dropped. “You’re the guy who spilled wine all over...Oh my God. What a coincidence,” Ryan gasped.

“Yes it is. Usually I do most of my artwork on a canvas, but in this case, I preferred the front of a beautiful young lady as my medium,” he smiled wryly.

I was still a little ticked off at Francisco, “the wine spilling artist” but it was difficult for me to stay mad at Francisco, “the freakin’ super-hot artist”. I could feel my heart soften towards him, despite his indelible first impression.

Ryan showed Francisco around the gallery with a flirtatious buoyancy in his voice, talking business, yet finding excuses to brush up against Francisco, or touch his arm as they walked. I continued painting, wondering how this was all going to play out. Francisco was very charming, very “European charming” and sometimes that could send confusing signals to us Americans, who are used to the hard-charging rugged type of men. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure if Ryan had a chance here, but damn, he was good looking.

About an hour later, after agreeing on the optimal placement for his various art pieces, Ryan offered to take all of us to lunch at a charming cafe right down the street from the gallery.

***

We made our way towards the cafe and as we sat down to indulge in yet another delicious meal here in Paris, I couldn’t help but notice how much Ryan was enamored with Francisco. There was a definite gleam of interest in his eyes.
Poor Ryan...
I could tell by the way Francisco raked his eyes over me, that he was definitely not gay. Whenever Ryan spoke, Francisco absent-mindedly ignored him and placed all his attention on me, shooting my heart rate to the moon, as he continued to bathe me in his diligent scrutiny.

I had never met a man like Francisco before. He was so different, so worldly and very creative. My senses were flooded with new words, and new cultural nuances that all added to his appealing mystique.

“Chloe, tell me more about you? Where did you grow up?” Francisco inquired.

“Well, I grew up in Iowa, er, that is if you are familiar with American geography. It’s located in.... let’s just say the middle of nowhere.” I threw a sidelong glance at Ryan and found him pouting at the fact that Francisco was giving all his attention to me. Ryan picked at his food, aimlessly pushing a piece of potato around his plate with a fork. The disappointment written on his face was all too noticeable as the realization became obvious that Francisco was not interested in him.