if roping the girl in.
The skies rumble and, in an instant, rain pours down. This part of the boat isn’t covered—everyone turns and pushes back, under the white umbrellas or down below, under the deck. Josie stands there, watching the bridge, the bed, the girl, the man.
“Come on,” Nico says. “This is crazy.”
“Go ahead,” she tells him. “I want to watch.”
“There’s nothing to watch. They’re going to wait for the rain to stop.”
But the director signals for the cameras to keep rolling.
Josie keeps her eye on Dana Hurley. Dana doesn’t run. She’s already soaked, her hair matted to her head. She walks toward the bed as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She won’t lose her man to a young girl. She won’t lose anyone to cancer or plane crashes. If something terrible happens the director will call “Cut!” and Dana will saunter back to her tent, where a fawning assistant will bring her a towel and a glass of champagne.
Josie realizes that Nico is right: This is not great art—this has nothing in it that will last longer than a day. The only thing that lasts is love, even when it’s gone.
“Please,” Nico says. “Come inside.”
She turns to him. He is the nicest man she has ever met. For a moment she feels unburdened by grief. Even the sound of his voice offers something like hope. Yet she can’t go to Provence with him. They are writing an ending to their own movie, a fairy-tale ending, and she no longer believes in fairy tales.
“I need to go back to my hotel,” she tells him.
“Now?”
“I’ll pack my bags,” she lies. It is so much easier than saying goodbye. “I’ll meet you at the train station at six.”
His face lights up. Thunder crashes and, in an instant, lightning blasts through the gray skies and all of Paris shines in its glow.
he decides the minute she wakes up—with Cole pressed against her back, Gabi’s tiny feet in her face, and Vic gone at some ungodly hour of the morning—that she will meet her French tutor somewhere else, anywhere else other than in this apartment. She usually has her lesson at her kitchen table. Today she needs to get out. She slides Gabi’s feet—powdery-smelling baby feet—away from her and glances out the window. Rain. She hates Paris. It’s the secret shame that she carries inside her. What the hell is wrong with her? Everyone loves this fucking city.
Riley has lived in Paris for a year, long enough—or so everyone says—to learn French, the métro system, and how to dress. She’s a dismal failure. She should also have friends, cook soufflés, and have the energy to have sex with her husband in the middle of the night. Except there are always children in her bed in the middle of the night, and she has no energy, day or night. But she’s what her mother always called “a tough cookie,” and so she tells no one that she’s miserable. Besides, who would believe her? She’s living in Paris.
Here’s what she has accomplished in a year in Paris:
1. She had a baby—no mean feat, since she never understood a word that the doctors and nurses at the clinic barked at her all day and night.
2. She has gained thirty-five pounds and lost twenty-five pounds and still eats a pain au chocolat every day, even though she can no longer blame it on the cravings of pregnancy.
3. She has learned where to buy paella at the street market near her home and serves it out of a bowl to the astonishment of Vic’s co-workers.
4. She has lost contact with most of her old best friends from New York because she can no longer send them emails extolling the virtues of expat life.
5. She has convinced her mother—every day—not to visit. Yet.
6. She has watched two-and-a-half-year-old Cole learn French, make friends in the playground, lead her home when they are lost, and say the words, “It’s okay, Mama,” so many times that she worries that one day she’ll murder someone and he’ll pat her hand and say, “It’s okay,
The skies rumble and, in an instant, rain pours down. This part of the boat isn’t covered—everyone turns and pushes back, under the white umbrellas or down below, under the deck. Josie stands there, watching the bridge, the bed, the girl, the man.
“Come on,” Nico says. “This is crazy.”
“Go ahead,” she tells him. “I want to watch.”
“There’s nothing to watch. They’re going to wait for the rain to stop.”
But the director signals for the cameras to keep rolling.
Josie keeps her eye on Dana Hurley. Dana doesn’t run. She’s already soaked, her hair matted to her head. She walks toward the bed as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She won’t lose her man to a young girl. She won’t lose anyone to cancer or plane crashes. If something terrible happens the director will call “Cut!” and Dana will saunter back to her tent, where a fawning assistant will bring her a towel and a glass of champagne.
Josie realizes that Nico is right: This is not great art—this has nothing in it that will last longer than a day. The only thing that lasts is love, even when it’s gone.
“Please,” Nico says. “Come inside.”
She turns to him. He is the nicest man she has ever met. For a moment she feels unburdened by grief. Even the sound of his voice offers something like hope. Yet she can’t go to Provence with him. They are writing an ending to their own movie, a fairy-tale ending, and she no longer believes in fairy tales.
“I need to go back to my hotel,” she tells him.
“Now?”
“I’ll pack my bags,” she lies. It is so much easier than saying goodbye. “I’ll meet you at the train station at six.”
His face lights up. Thunder crashes and, in an instant, lightning blasts through the gray skies and all of Paris shines in its glow.
he decides the minute she wakes up—with Cole pressed against her back, Gabi’s tiny feet in her face, and Vic gone at some ungodly hour of the morning—that she will meet her French tutor somewhere else, anywhere else other than in this apartment. She usually has her lesson at her kitchen table. Today she needs to get out. She slides Gabi’s feet—powdery-smelling baby feet—away from her and glances out the window. Rain. She hates Paris. It’s the secret shame that she carries inside her. What the hell is wrong with her? Everyone loves this fucking city.
Riley has lived in Paris for a year, long enough—or so everyone says—to learn French, the métro system, and how to dress. She’s a dismal failure. She should also have friends, cook soufflés, and have the energy to have sex with her husband in the middle of the night. Except there are always children in her bed in the middle of the night, and she has no energy, day or night. But she’s what her mother always called “a tough cookie,” and so she tells no one that she’s miserable. Besides, who would believe her? She’s living in Paris.
Here’s what she has accomplished in a year in Paris:
1. She had a baby—no mean feat, since she never understood a word that the doctors and nurses at the clinic barked at her all day and night.
2. She has gained thirty-five pounds and lost twenty-five pounds and still eats a pain au chocolat every day, even though she can no longer blame it on the cravings of pregnancy.
3. She has learned where to buy paella at the street market near her home and serves it out of a bowl to the astonishment of Vic’s co-workers.
4. She has lost contact with most of her old best friends from New York because she can no longer send them emails extolling the virtues of expat life.
5. She has convinced her mother—every day—not to visit. Yet.
6. She has watched two-and-a-half-year-old Cole learn French, make friends in the playground, lead her home when they are lost, and say the words, “It’s okay, Mama,” so many times that she worries that one day she’ll murder someone and he’ll pat her hand and say, “It’s okay,
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