Part 1 Ava
Sabine always wore black. Along with the opera length cigarette holder perpetually in her hand, it was her trademark. If one ignored the wild carrot coloured hair leaping around her pale face in untamed abandon, one would say she was classy. The hair, along with the constantly flashing green eyes, eyes that were angry and agitated, and not filled with youthful passion like our peers, kept her from achieving any status among our classmates. Like me, the foreigner, she was relegated to the rank of wannabee.
Seeing her dressed in a form hugging deep forest green cocktail dress, her hair smoothed into a respectable chignon at the nape of the neck and her eyes resting on my face as I approached the door of her building for our study session, was a shock. This was not Sabine the student I knew.
I had come over from Canada in September to study French literature in the City of Lights for a year at the Sorbonne. A flight home for Christmas had been out of the question. While the bedsit I rented was affordable, it was the not being able to cook for myself that had blown my budget. If I wanted to finish my year abroad, I had to make some heavy handed changes. Mooching meals off Sabine twice a week was a start. Her snacks were not the chips and grease-filled treats of my high school and early university days. They were meals in themselves. Cheeses, raw vegetables, grapes and berries, spicy sausages when she received a package from home, and never anything fattening. I’d lost more than my freshman fifteen, pounds I had doubled second year, by the end of December. Unbelievably, I was almost back to my fourteen-year-old weight. The clothes I’d brought from home hung on me, but I couldn’t afford new ones. Unfortunate considering I was living in the fashion capitol of the world, so with needle and thread, I took in what I could. Forever marked as the uncouth American.
“Cherie,” Sabine said as she locked the door behind her. “I forgot I have an appointment. Can we do this tomorrow?”
A long black car idled at the curb. Its liveried driver stood with his hand on the rear passenger door.
“Sure, I guess, we have a week,” I replied as I followed her to the car.
“Mademoiselle,” the driver nodded, opening the door.
Sabine slid gracefully from sight. “I’ll text.”
The driver closed the door and with a quick nod he turned on his heels, rounded the car and got in. The black car and Sabine disappeared around the corner.
No longer wowed by the ever present subway music, I made my way home. A long night alone in a box of a room all I had to look forward to. Like the sycamores outside my window it had lost its colour. What was once cute was now a cage. The peeling wallpaper no longer historic and the water stained ceiling decrepit. I had wanted to spend the evening in Sabine’s apartment not just for the food. It was elegant. It was classy. It was truly Parisian. How she could afford it was a secret she kept. In late October, I had spent a weekend with her at her parent’s house near Dijon and knew they were not rich. Like me, they stretched every Euro as far as it would go. Sabine wouldn’t know how to stretch a Euro if it was made of elastic.
Part 2 – Sabine
Blonde sunshine. Big North American blonde upbeat sunshine. It was annoying. She’s old enough to know life isn’t like that. Regardless, I smiled a smile of welcome as I let her into my apartment. Doing what I do, these last two years I’ve become a master at faking it. This friendship was no different.
Of course, it had its benefits. Despite not being a native speaker, she was smart. She knew how to write and because she read word by word, she was an excellent editor. Collaborating with her was never a mistake. It was an academic contact worth nurturing and, by extension, feeding. Her eyes lit up at the appetizers I had set out on my kitchen table. Ava didn’t think I noticed the literal hunger in her eyes. She thought she was playing it cool. Her face was too open and her heart too trusting. Those without scruples could easily take advantage of her.
We sat down and began studying. Ava discreetly eating almost everything on the table in front of her. But she wasn’t focussed today, not like most days. There was a question hanging over the table that she wasn’t asking. Her eyes kept travelling around the lovely apartment I had been allowed to live in.
Finally, I asked, “Cherie, what is it?”
She blushed. “It’s none of my business.”
It probably wasn’t, but I urged her to continue.
“This,” she said, a sweep of her hand taking in our surroundings. “Your apartment. It’s not like our other classmates’ apartments.”
I shrugged.
“How do you afford it?” Her big innocent blue eyes widened as she waited for my answer.
I settled back into my chair. “I’m frugal. My parents taught me how to stretch a Euro.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. They live nothing like this.” Her eyes settled on a signed print hanging over the fireplace. One of only twelve and a gift from a client. “How do you afford to live like this?”
Madame would love her. She was always on the look out for girls to book. She especially liked long-limbed blonde Americans, but I wasn’t going to share. As the oldest of five, I’ve done enough sharing in my twenty-three years. This side gig paid for the schooling I had waited far too long for, and it was mine alone. Besides, Ava didn’t have what it took to be one of Madame’s girls. Like I said, she was too open.
I shrugged again. “Student loans from a generous banker.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed. “But the dress and the limo last night? What was that about?”
It had been an unfortunate mistake. She was not supposed to see the car and driver or the dress. For years the cultivated persona was my shield and she saw behind it. Today I was back in my student uniform, but it didn’t protect me from her questions. She had glimpsed my private second persona.
“An uncle called for me, a well do-to uncle so I had to dress up. He took me out to dinner.” I leaned forward. “I would appreciate it if you told no one about it. My reputation, you know. The other students don’t need to know.”
Her eyes narrowed as she sat back. “I didn’t think you cared what others thought of you?”
I shrugged again. “I do, to a degree. They are my peers.”
Ava’s eyes swung around the room. Taking in the furnishings and artwork Madame had provided.
It was her turn to lean forward as she whispered, “Are you a prostitute?”
“Don’t be foolish.” Prostitute was so bourgeoisie.
