Agnes and Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)
Chapter Twenty-Six
(Plot Twist with Yves ex-girlfriend returning and she’s not happy when she discovers Agnes. Sparks fly).
Meanwhile on a road just outside of Paris…
Anne-Marie’s pink Toyota zipped in and out of traffic. She honked her horn a few times and swerved into a lane. Checking her makeup in her rearview mirror, she didn’t miss a beat. She embarked on a mission to save a relationship that she had invested too much energy to liberate her future husband.
She stopped by the beauty salon where she last worked. As she strode in the front door, aromatherapy oils of lavender and lemon greeted her. She glanced at her colleagues, all wearing high heels and tight rayon dresses that clung to their ample breasts working on their clients.
Anne-Marie found a vacant chair and sat in it. She crossed her legs dangling her ankle and foot seductively, dropping her high heels onto the floor. She sighed hoping one of her colleagues would notice.
Monique, a redhead with dazzling green eyes and a figure that would cause American male teens to die for, stopped working on her client and glanced at Anne-Marie.
She strode over to her colleague, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She kissed Anne-Marie on the cheeks. “Bonjour, ça va? Have you returned to Paris?”
Anne-Marie kissed her friend on the cheeks. “Yes, I have returned to claim what is mine.”
Monique sighed. “But you said that your relationship was through with him, kaput.”
“Yes, but while I was lying on the sand in Nice I had the time to think. I will not give up now after being with him for ten years.”
Tomboyish Michelle, a mutual colleague of Yves entered the salon. She overheard the conversation between the women and interrupted.
“You had better hurry if you want to reclaim Yves. We have seen him around Paris with an American. And she is not bad either.”
Anne-Marie gasped. “No, no, no, this cannot be true. Where did you hear such a rumor?”
“You know Maurice at La Coupole? He told me that Yves found an American muse and that she is pretty hot.”
Anne-Marie played cool even though she was on the verge of a tantrum.
“How can he find another woman so soon after we… I cannot even say the word.”
Michelle shrugged. She kissed Monique on the cheeks.
“I must go now. Au revoir.” She glanced at Anne-Marie. “I am sorry to tell you the news, but maybe it would be better if you returned to Nice.”
In another section of Paris, Agnes’ feelings towards the French city softened around the edges like a croissant dunked in water. She still had an urgency to travel to Barcelona and claim her lover, but she also found parts of Paris agreeable.
Agnes stood on another quaint boulevard staring up at the Eiffel Tower. Sandstone townhouses lined the streets. While dog excrement still littered the streets, not to mention the acrid smell, she enjoyed watching all the diverse Parisians go about their business. All those little annoyances seemed to melt into thin polluted air.
She waited for Yves to return with the latest Spanish paper and breakfast. Though she was not sure she could gag down another croissant, she did not wish to aggravate her friend by denying yet another Parisian experience. Still how many of those croissants could she eat and still look okay in a bathing suit? He promised this time he would bring her some fruit and low fat yogurt too.
After he arrived with the goods, they made their way to the riverbank where they planned to eat their breakfast. A cool morning breeze caused Agnes to shiver. She didn’t complain though since she knew it would be too hot later that morning.
After they found a shady spot, Yves placed a picnic cloth on the ground and spread out the breakfast items. He handed a croissant and yogurt to Agnes.
“So do you still despise Paris?”
The American pulled out a few paperbacks that she bought in a vintage bookstore earlier. “I’m happy to see that Paris is a literate city. But it still isn’t Barcelona.”
Yves cut up some melon. “This is true. We do not speak Spanish in Paris.”
“Nor is Paris famous for flamenco troupes.”
“This is true, but we have gypsy music.”
“Really, I didn’t know that.”
“I will take you to a club tonight and you will hear hot gypsy jazz. A group I like, Paris Combo will be performing.”
Agnes stared at her watch. “Yes, but I might need to leave if a car becomes available. Last time I called too late. There was a car, but someone else took it before I could call and confirm a reservation. This is starting to get on my nerves.”
“Okay, if a car becomes available you leave and if not, you listen to Parisian music. Maybe you fall in love and stay here.”
Agnes scoffed. “You are joking, right?”
Crestfallen, Yves grinned at the American. “Have you seen the movie An American in Paris?”
“Everyone over a certain age has seen that movie, so what’s your point? I’m an American stranded in Paris because of a bunch of hotheaded Parisians that decided to strike. I didn’t move here to make it in the world as a painter.”
“I know. You need to rent a car so you can go to Barcelona to see Pablo.”
“Is this so hard to understand?”
“I don’t understand your urgency. I think it is best to take what life offers you and right now, you are sitting by the Seine eating a French breakfast with a painter.”
“If only you knew.” Agnes envisioned Jane shaking her head and laughing at her predicament. “My friends back in San Francisco would stone me if they knew.”
“With friends like that, you are better off here than in San Francisco.”
Agnes considered the irony of the Parisian’s words.
Later that day, her frustration mounting as Agnes reclined on the couch speaking on the phone to the car rental agent.
“It doesn’t help me to know that the strike will be over in a few days. I need to rent a car now.”
She wiped perspiration off her forehead.
“I’ve already been in Paris for two week. Yes, I know that cars did become available and you could not reach me… Oh, alright I’ll call again tomorrow morning.”
Yves entered the room dressed in a casual black suit and jaunty hat.
“So, we go listen to Paris Combo?”
“Sure, but let me change my clothes.”
“I will phone a taxi.”
Agnes pulled together what clothing she had available, a short black dress, Mary Jane shoes and a silk scarf she picked up in a boutique. She quickly reapplied her makeup. She glanced at herself in the mirror and frowned. She was turning into the enemy—the Parisian mistress.
Oh, and I look the part.
They arrived in style at the club, emerging from a black taxi in the manner of glamorous stars. Agnes wondered if Yves had lived a lush lifestyle in his early days as a Parisian painter-star. Perhaps, she had discovered the real reason for his frustration as an artist.
When they entered the club, accordion, violin, guitar, and piano greeted them. Agnes stared at the redhead vocalist who graced the stage. When the vocalist sang her first notes in a suave, almost sarcastic voice, Agnes felt oddly at home.
Yves found a table near the stage. He ordered house wine for himself and chocolate cake for the muse, hoping to woo her at last. As far as he was concerned, the American muse would change her mind and not venture to Barcelona.
Agnes’ pipedream had little substance and would fizzle out soon enough. If seeing Pablo is urgent, Agnes would have hitched her way to Barcelona by now; she would have walked there.
After a few bites of a heavenly chocolate cake, Agnes fell under the spell of the band’s gypsy swing. She had never liked accordion previously, but Belle du Berry played the instrument remarkably well and her guitarist Potzi swung like mad.
She also felt a stirring, amore welling up inside her. She wondered if those feelings belonged to her or if she picked up a love virus from her friend, the eternal Parisian romantic.
She guessed that the French lyrics Belle sang were of a romantic nature, but since fans in the audience smirked and laughed over Belle’s wit, she doubted it. She glanced at Yves dressed to the nines and enjoying himself.
Were Frenchmen really her enemy?
Anne-Marie and Monique entered the club. The two women in short black dresses and heels to match found a table near the stage. Anne-Marie glossed her petulant red lips and pouted as she watched the musicians on the stage. Monique nonchalantly sipped wine while her heels tapped to the rhythm Potzi played on his guitar.
Anne-Marie’s green eyes scanned the room and then landed on Yves. She noticed a brunette sipping wine from Yves’ glass. She scowled and nudged Monique.
“She must be the American.”
Monique’s eyebrows arched and she whistled under her breath when she spied the brunette with the painter.
“So you see it was not just a rumor. He sure did not take his time replacing you, my dear.”
Anne-Marie kicked one of the table legs and she banged her hand on the table.
“This is unbelievable! Do you think they already knew each other before he broke it off with me?”
Monique shrugged. “I doubt it. Maurice said they met because of the transportation strike.”
Anne-Marie glared at the international couple.
“She will not get away with it.”
Monique smirked.
“Don’t worry about it. She is a tourist and I am sure Yves is just having a bit of fun before she leaves. It is just one of those holiday romances.”
“That is little comfort to me.”
Monique sipped the rest of her wine. “So what are you going to do?” She poured Anne-Marie a glass of wine.
Anne-Marie gulped down the wine.
“I still have a key to the flat.”
“Just don’t make a scene here. I adore Paris Combo, but I do not wish to become one of the fools that Belle sings about in her songs.”
“She can sing about Yves for all I care. He is a piece of work, no?”
“Might I remind you that he did break it off with you so he is a free man?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Later that night, the Parisian and American returned to the studio. Yves gave Agnes a red dress and a pomegranate.
“I have an idea. Let me paint you in this dress.”
Agnes examined the stylish red cotton dress. “Where did you find this?”
Pablo never bought her any dresses. In fact, she recalled buying everything for Pablo, putting dinner on her credit card, and paying for the rental car too when they headed out to Big Sur for a week. She paid for the romantic lodging too while the spoiled musician just lapped up the whole experience like an Old English sheepdog.
“I bought it for you when we were visiting the shops. Do you like it?”
Do I like it? I love it. “It’s gorgeous. But isn’t it too late to be painting my portrait?”
“You mentioned that you would be leaving for Barcelona soon and I had this idea of a modern Eve-Persephone image. I like painting you in reds and ambers.”
Agnes yawned. “Yes, I’m flattered, but I’m exhausted and if I’m able to rent a car, I’ll need energy to drive to Spain. How far is it from here?”
“It is far.” Yves gestured with his arms. “You have to drive through most of France and then over the mountains. It would be better to wait for a train or plane.”
“The problem is…”
Yves placed two fingers on his muse’s lips. “There is no problem. Tonight you pose for me.”
Throwing caution to the wind, Agnes changed dresses in front of the Parisian. She felt electricity lingering on her skin as she slipped into the dress that Yves had recently held in his arms like a lover. Thoughts of rolling in bed with the artist emerged which she quickly brushed aside. How absurd.
“Okay—fantastic! Please recline on the couch and hold the pomegranate up to your mouth.”
Yves quickly set up his easel and paints. His brown eyes trained themselves on Agnes sensual body. He thought that it was a shame that she would be heading to Barcelona soon, but he seized the moment.
As he painted, he felt that his brush was caressing Agnes’ skin. He was not originally looking for a romance with her, but suddenly the room heated up. Electricity traveled between them and he felt an inspiration beyond just painting her. She came alive for him.
He noticed that she was falling asleep on the couch. He strode over to her and repositioned her limbs. Her hair brushed against his face and his lips brushed against her lips. Suddenly, Agnes pulled Yves against her body and she kissed him.
They made love on the couch with the red dress flung over a canvas across the room. Agnes’ dress ended up stuck between the couch cushions. Yves’ black clothing fell in piles on the paint-splattered floor.
The next morning the couple woke up and glanced at each other. Agnes wondered how she lost control of her senses, leaving her feeling torn between a Parisian man who showed her real affection and the hollowness of the Spaniard who seemingly dumped her for some dancer.
She still felt an urgency to get to Spain and prevent Pablo from marrying the wrong woman, but she found herself in the throes of passion with a Parisian—something she swore that she would never do! Yet, it was the most natural thing in the world. Yves’ taste and smell delighted her.
However, she couldn’t allow a relationship to develop between her and the French painter—it was not destino.
Yves kissed her. “So, we did not finish the painting. Now, I must have breakfast. Are you hungry?”
Agnes shook her head. “What happened?”
Yves laughed. “I don’t know, but it is okay, no?”
Agnes laughed. She studied the dimples on Yves’ tan face and she gazed into his large brown quizzical eyes. “It’s complicated as you say here in Paris.”
“No, no, it is completely natural. We spent time together and then I painted you…”
Agnes felt her skin prickle and she recalled the French painters she had interviewed and the way they seduced their models. Had she allowed Yves to exploit her? She panicked when she thought of Yves’ paintings hanging in San Francisco’s galleries.
“Oh, God, what have I done?”
In his own version of heaven, Yves caressed Agnes’ face and his gentle eyes sparkled.
“We made love. Is this a sin? You are after all in Paris.”
“But I’m on my way to Barcelona.”
Yves sat up and he held Agnes’ head in his lap.
“But if you were supposed to go to Barcelona then you would already be there. Every time you tried to get a car, someone else got to it first so maybe these things we experience are meant to happen this way.”
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