Éclair’s apartment suited them. Tucked into a beautifully maintained Greek revival townhouse in Gramercy Park, it was luxurious without being ostentatious, stylish and classy without being too cold. I recognized the art on the walls as pieces that Sinclair would have chosen himself and the large pearly grand piano in the corner was Elena’s most prized possession, a housewarming gift from the twins. It was an older space with soft, glossy dark floors and a slightly cluttered floor plan that was so at odds with today’s open-style living spaces.
I loved it.
But it felt unspeakably strange to be in the belly of the beast, the place Sinclair and Elena shared as a couple. Especially after my previous night with him and the wonderful afternoon I had just spent at his office. As he introduced me to more members of his team and joked with Candy about my distracting capabilities, it felt almost as if I was his girlfriend. Candy had tried to emphasize exactly that point but I’d convinced her to move the conversation along to less complicated things, like her knew boyfriend Gregory, whose Russian accent was so thick that sometimes she could barely understand him. Apparently, it had made for some confusing situations in the bedroom.
Sinclair had stood silently by as I explored the place but now he stepped forward to slide his hands down my arms and link them through my fingers.
Pressing his nose to my hair, he murmured, “Is it terrible of me to say that I like seeing you here? In my space.”
I shrugged helplessly. “I think it is safe to say that we are not the best people.”
His hands tightened in mine. “You are very good, Elle. Your lightness, your kindness, is what drew me to you in the first place.”
“I don’t feel like a good person,” I said and felt him stiffen behind me, knew that my words hurt him. I spun around to place my hands on his cheeks, my thumbs against his cut glass cheekbones. “I feel selfish and gluttonous but I can’t help myself. Whenever I’m without you, I trick myself into thinking that I can survive without this and honestly, I know if I was strong and good, I could. But I don’t want to and it’s getting hard to remind myself why I should care.”
Sinclair’s electric eyes blazed down at me. I wanted to fidget or drag my gaze away but I forced myself to stay still, willfully trapped in his snare.
“What are you saying?” he said roughly. “Tell me I am not insane, si? Tell me you mean what you say.”
My mouth was beyond parched. I felt as if I had swallowed a gallon of sand and when I parted my lips to speak, I could hear them rasp apart like Velcro.
The rattle of a key in doorway had us springing apart before we could even rationally make sense of the warning. Sinclair cleared his throat and shoved his hands through his hair before turning on his heel towards the kitchen while I quickly settled onto the stone suede couch by the fireplace. That was how Elena found us when she came through the door, looking as beautifully put together as always.
“Giselle, I’m so sorry that you had to go through that today,” she said immediately, making her way over to me after carefully hanging up her coat, scarf and briefcase.
I accepted her soft kiss on the cheek and hoped she couldn’t hear my hammering heart. Immediately, she made her way to the sound system and plugged in her phone. A moment later, Chet Baker’s smooth tones spilled into the room and I was reminded of how much Elena loved music. As a girl, she had spent hours at Signora Donati’s house playing the piano and I’d often trailed after her, ducking in the dry brush beside the window to the living room in order to hear the music that pooled beneath her eloquent fingers.
“I decided to host dinner this year,” she continued, moving around the room to straighten already immaculate pieces of furniture. “It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow, Daniel, did you remember to take the time off?”
“You’ve reminded me every day this week. Of course, I did,” he called from the kitchen.
She turned to look at me, narrowing her eyes as she took in the swell of my breasts in the brightly patterned neckline of my dress and the mass of curls that fell artlessly around my shoulders. I took the time to admire how beautifully lady-like she looked in her high-necked lace blouse and black pencil skirt. I tried not to compare her to Lady and I to the Tramp.
“Is that what you wore for your date with Ulrich?” she asked with a surprisingly playful pout. “No, don’t frown, this is very much my fault. I should have lent you something. Not that I don’t love the whole Parisian artist look but Ulrich works on Wall Street.”
“Trust me, I know,” I muttered as Sinclair came back into the room carrying three wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. It was the same label we had shared together just last night. I wondered if he knew, and if he did, why he had chosen to drink it now.
“You had a date with Ulrich Wick?” he asked, after he had placed the glasses on the table and a brief kiss on Elena’s proffered cheek.
I caught the amusement in his eyes as he popped the cork on the wine and began to pour. With my chin tilted high, I replied haughtily, “I did, indeed.”
“Elena, how could you have?” he scolded lightly.
She sat down beside me on the couch, perched on the edge with her hands in her lap like a princess waiting to be served. But her eyes smiled too, sparkling back at Sinclair with warmth and good humor.
“What? Ulrich is a very intelligent and kind man.”
“He is also extremely dull, darling.”
Darling, I so clearly remembered him calling her that while we were in Mexico. I had wondered what kind of woman she was. Though it was impossible for me to have known Elena was Darling, it was eerie how close my imagination had come to conjuring her exact image based on the little I had known in Los Cabos.
Elena was laughing, her true light and trilling giggle that made her eyes squinty. “He is not boring, Daniel. You think any man without knowledge of fishing, art or travel is a bore.”
He shrugged one shoulder and handed her a glass of wine. Her fingers brushed lingeringly over his and he bestowed her with a beautiful smile.
It was hard to listen to their conversation over the roar of blood rushing through my head but somehow I managed to.
“It is not so specific. A man, or a woman for that matter, must have passion or else they are a shell of themselves,” Sinclair said.