My love affair with Paris began years ago when I visited the City of Light as a struggling art student and fell in love with everything Parisian, including the world of the Impressionists. I visited the Louvre, the art studios, the cafés where the Impressionists had hung out and an idea began to form in my mind: what if I could travel back in time and become part of their world? Now that idea has become a novel, but not without the hard work and perseverance of three special and dedicated women.
I wish to thank my editor, Susan Pezzack, whose artistic sensibilities helped me fine-tune my manuscript; Leslie Wainger, the editor who opened the door for me, and my friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who loved this story from the first time she read it and never gave up on me. Merci.
I loved the film Moulin Rouge about Paris and La Belle Ãpoque and wondered what it would be like to be slim and gorgeous like Nicole Kidman, fall in love with a handsome hunk, and sing on key when Iâm having an orgasm. I thought about it at lunch when I dieted on herb quiche with low-fat cheese and gulped down latte without whipped cream. I thought about it when I showed commercial properties to boring old men with lust in their eyes and soft putty in their pants. I thought about it when I got jilted at the altar and went to Paris for my honeymoon sans the groom.
Then I didnât have to think about it anymore because it happened. To me. Autumn Maguire.
It all started with:
Désir (Desire)
I am not a womanâI am a world.
My garments only have to fall
and on my body you will find
a whole series of secrets.
âGustave Flaubert
(1821-1880)
Paris TodayâAn Art Studio in the Marais District
The Model
âYou want me to take off my T-shirt?â
âYes, mademoiselle.â
âAnd my yoga pants?
He nods. âYes, mademoiselle.â
âHold on a Paris minute,â I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. âI ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics.â
Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.
I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldnât go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.
The jerk.
As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.
And wondering how I let silver-tongued Davidâa guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter buttonâtalk me into charging everything on my credit card. Iâve worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now Iâm not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaidsâ dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-whatâs-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare.
After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I donât mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heart-stopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feel alive, desired.
Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess.
Youth and a fab bod arenât everything, you know.
Ha! David thinks so. Thatâs why Iâm not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer.
Youâre not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh, so not thin. Thatâs why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb?
Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked.
Zap! As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos.
I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It canât get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do I really want to go back outside into that stormy mess? Thatâs why I donât protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio.