The Luncheon Party (concluding part) by Suzanne Hudson

        
He asked her to go to the States with him. Practically begged her.  He said he wouldn’t be coming back.  Broadway was calling him. They lay in bed in his apartment as the sun came up over the river and he described the Art Scene in New York and how wonderful it would be for her career.  He said that they could get married first if it made her feel better and she laughed and told him that was an appalling way to propose and she wasn’t the marrying kind.  She said that she couldn’t leave France, her family, her friends.  Her grandmother had always said that a woman should never follow a man anywhere, that it should always be the other way around.  He said he loved her, that he couldn’t bear to be apart from her and if that was the case then he wouldn’t leave, there was plenty of acting work for him here in Paris.

         She knew that he must really love her to give up his dreams. So when they met for dinner that evening she’d made up her mind to move to America with him. She thought she’d burst with excitement while the waiter took their order and Phillippe deliberated between fish and steak.  As the waiter walked away, she grabbed both his hands.

         “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, her eyes sparkling with happiness.  His face looked grave.

         “Before you say anything, I’ve got something I must tell you,” he said.  She opened her mouth to protest and then saw in his eyes that he was about to break her heart. 

         “I’m sorry my darling, I’ve been thinking about it all day.  I know I said this morning that I would stay here, but I can’t.  I have to leave, I really believe that great things are going to happen for me in New York.  Please forgive me but I cannot give up this chance to live my dream.  Perhaps one day you will change your mind and join me there?"

         She let go of his hands.

         "So what was it you wanted to tell me?"

         “Oh, it’s nothing.’ she murmured, as the waiter poured her wine.

         She cried for two days straight when he left.  And she didn’t paint for three weeks.  When she did pick up her brush her paintings were red and black and angry.  But time healed her wounds.  Other men flitted in and out of her life, but none of them seemed quite right. She gradually forgave him and she never forgot him.  He was true to his word, he never came home.  Until now.

                                                               *               *               *

         After Simone’s invitation that day at the café, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Phillippe.  She abandoned her landcapes and began painting him.  The back of his head.  A side profile.  In the distance coming towards her.  She felt like she’d lost her mind.  She thought she saw him on the street buying a newspaper, on the metro, at the cinema.  She ran behind him for half a block to grab the shoulder of a complete stranger, who looked at her with horror.  She dreamt that they were in New York, that she had married him, that she was heavily pregnant.  I’m going to France for a holiday, he was saying, and she was hanging onto his leg, screaming hysterically, don’t go, don’t go.  She awoke in a cold sweat and felt her flat stomach beneath her nightgown and for a horrifying split second thought she’d lost his baby. 

         The day of the luncheon party arrived.  Claudette dressed with shaking hands.  A fantasy was running through her head. He was divorcing his wife.  He’d found out the baby wasn’t his.  He wasn’t really home for a holiday.  He had realised that he had made the greatest mistake of his life five years ago and he wanted a second chance.  As she applied her make-up, she rehearsed her responses.  No, he couldn’t just snap his fingers and expect her to take him back.  It was too late.  She’d moved on.   She didn’t love him anymore.  But her fantasy always ended in him grabbing her and kissing her and her falling under his spell all over again.
     
         Simone’s butler opened the front door and took Claudette’s wrap.  Simone greeted her in the hallway, exclaiming over her silver dress and beaded headband.  She swept her off through the house to the terrace.  Claudette’s eyes scanned the room, her heart pounding.  Simone squeezed her hand.
        
         “He’s over there,” she said, nodding towards the corner of the terrace where a tall dark-haired man had his back to them and was holding court to a gaggle of beautiful young women. 

         “He’s not changed,” Simone whispered.  “Always an eye for the ladies.”

         “Really?” Claudette asked, wondering what her friend meant. 

         “You’re not under the illusion that you were the only one, are you?" Simone asked, gently. 

         Claudette laughed, ‘Of course not,’ and steadied herself by holding the back of a chair.

         “He’s slept with half the women in this room.  Including me.”

         “I see.” She felt herself gasping for air.

Peals of laughter emanated from the group in the corner.

         “Henri doesn’t know of course. He likes to kid himself that I was a virgin when we married.”

         “Simone, I’m sorry, this was a mistake.  I think it might be best if I go.”

         “Are you sure?”

         “I’m certain.  Thank you my darling, but you know I hate this kind of thing.”

         Simone’s butler hailed her a cab and as Claudette sank into the back of it, the tears came.  Tears of anger, tears of regret.  She’d always imagined him pining for her, kicking himself for leaving her behind five years ago.  And a tiny part of her always thought he’d come back for her one day. 

         Later that month she packed up to leave for London.  She realised that one of the reasons she’d never left Paris was so that Phillippe would always know where to find her.  As she stored away her paintings she came across the one of the back of his head.  She decided to take it with her.  To remind her to always let go of the ones who walk away.