Sweet Filthy Boy

“Hi.” I raise my hand, waving lamely, sinking into Ansel as his arm finds my waist again.

“We are so glad to finally meet you!” she says, kissing each of my cheeks again. “You are even more beautiful than your photo.” My eyes widen and Marie laughs, curling her arm through mine and pulling me farther into the apartment, away from my husband, who is nearly immediately swallowed by a circle of his friends. He lifts his chin, watching as Marie leads me down the hall.

“I’ll be fine,” I yell over my shoulder, even if it’s only half true. I really didn’t expect to be separated from him only seconds after walking in the door.

Inside, it’s every bit as elaborate as I had guessed it would be from the street. The walls are papered in muted gold damask and from where I stand I can see two marble fireplaces, each framed with delicate molding. Bookcases bursting with books and small, beautiful vases border one wall; the opposite is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, all overlooking a lush courtyard. Despite the amount of stuff inside, the apartment is charming and large enough that even with the number of people currently milling about, there’s plenty of space to mingle with some degree of privacy.

We pass a small library, wander down a hall lined with people drinking and talking, who all seem to quiet as I pass—maybe I’m being paranoid but I really don’t think so—and into a wide, brilliant white kitchen.

“I will take you back out there, but they are like wolves. Excited to see him, excited to meet you. Let them accost him first.” Marie pours me a generous glass of wine before curling my hand around it, laughing. “How do you say . . . ‘strength in a glass’?”

“Liquid courage?” I offer.

“Yes!” She snaps her fingers and kisses my cheek again. “There are many nice people here and they all love your husband so they will love you. Look around, I will introduce you to everyone in just a minute!”

She jogs off when the doorbell rings again and, after waiting a beat to see if it’s Ansel who has walked into the kitchen—it isn’t—I turn to look out the tall, narrow kitchen windows with a stunning view of Montmartre.

“I bet that view never gets old.”

I turn to find a beautiful, redheaded woman looking out the adjoining set of French doors. She’s maybe a few years older than I am, and her accent is heavy, so thick it takes me several beats to translate what she’s said.

“It’s gorgeous,” I agree.

“You’re American?” When I nod, she asks, “You live here? Or are visiting?”

“I live here,” I answer, and then pause. “Well . . . for now. It’s sort of complicated.”

“And married,” she says, pointing to my ring.

“I am.” Absently, I twist the gold band around my finger. If she didn’t hear Christophe’s boisterous announcement when we entered only five minutes ago, it strikes me as a little weird that this is one of the first things she says.

“What is his name?”

“Ansel,” I say. “Ansel Guillaume.”

“I know him!” she exclaims, smiling widely. “I have known him for many years.” Leaning in conspiratorially, she adds, “Very handsome and the most charming man.”

Pride mingles with unease in my chest. The woman seems nice enough, but a little pushy. It feels as though we’ve skipped a smoother entrée into conversation. “He is.”

“So you are here as a student? Or for work?” she asks, sipping from her glass of red wine.

“I’m just here visiting this summer,” I explain, relaxing a little. My shyness can come off as aloof, I reason. Maybe people often misinterpret her intensity as aggression. “I start school in the fall.”

“Then you are leaving soon,” she says, frowning.

“Yes . . . still trying to figure out the timing.”

“And what about your husband? His job is very important, no? He cannot just leave Paris and go with you?” Her expression shows nothing but polite interest, but her stream of questions has me back on edge. When I don’t answer for a long beat, she presses. “Haven’t you talked about any of this?”

“Um . . .” I begin, but I have no idea how to respond. Her blue eyes are wide and penetrating, and behind them I see something larger there. Hurt. Restrained anger. I look past her and see that there are a few people in the kitchen now, and they are all watching us: fascinated, eyes wide in sympathy, as if observing a car crash in slow motion.

I turn back to her, growing anxiously suspicious. “Sorry . . . I don’t think I got your name.”

“I didn’t give it to you,” she says, with a small tilt of her head. “Maybe I am misleading you by pretending I’m not familiar with your situation. You see, I know Ansel very, very well.”

Understanding clicks like a lock in my mind.

“Are you Minuit?”

Her smile is elated, in an eerily wicked way. “Minuit! Yes, perfect, I’m Minuit.”

“I assumed you had black hair. I don’t know why,” I mumble, more to myself than anything. I have the sense of being balanced on a teeter-totter: I’m still not sure whether I’ll land on my feet in this conversation. I want to turn and look desperately around for Ansel, or Marie, but Minuit is watching me like a hawk, seeming to feed on my discomfort.

Somewhere behind me, I hear Ansel’s deep laugh coming toward us down the hall, hear him sing a few lines of the crazy French rap song he’s played the past couple of weeks as he shaves in the morning.