Paris Dreaming Read online

  I met the cultural attaché, Judith, who was born in Melbourne to Greek parents and was, I guessed, in her mid-forties. She had clearly brought her sense of Melbourne style with her and added a dash of Paris as well. She had a blonde bob with tiny chocolate streaks in her hair and chocolate-rimmed glasses with a patent dark brown leather bag to match. What an effort to coordinate one’s accessories with one’s hair, I thought to myself.

  I was pleased that the Wiradjuri artist Emily McDaniel had been flown in by the University of Technology in Sydney. She brought life to the exhibition and would run multimedia arts workshops on how to create ephemeral soundscapes, channelling sonic spirituality, bending and sculpting sounds into shape. The young Wiradjuri woman wore a black lace dress with white cropped jacket and flat black ballet shoes. She had blood-red lips and a stylish chocolate-brown bob. I knew straightaway Canelle would love her dress sense as well as her work.

  ‘And what I want to share here with you,’ Emily’s approach to her audience was warm and inclusive, ‘is called You just keep going.’

  A woman in a black linen pant suit was signing for the audience, something I had asked for in order to cater for those with hearing impairments.

  ‘It’s about resilience and the oral history of my Elders. If you really focus on listening and watching, I promise I can take you back to nature and to the wilderness of my country.’

  ‘The hairs on my arms just stood up,’ one woman whispered in a thick French accent to an Englishman next to her, doing a dramatic shiver.

  The reactions from those engaging with Emily and her new medium were positive.

  ‘Je n’ai jamais rien vu de tel avant,’ a woman in her sixties wearing sleek black glasses said to her male counterpart.

  ‘Je n’ai jamais vu une femme comme ça avant!’ the man responded and his wife rolled her eyes.

  I knew enough French by now to work out that she had appreciated the art and he had appreciated the artist.

  A uni student put his hand in the air. ‘I would like to sign up for your workshop, Miss McDaniel.’

  ‘Great,’ Emily said, ‘there is a table near the ramp that has all the details.’

  Viewers were intrigued. Emily’s work and presence helped to complement all the other works, demonstrating the range and modes of storytelling employed by visual artists. Having her at the musée for the opening added a whole new dimension to the exhibition and also gave it a sense of ‘the real’, of the ‘authentication’ the exhibition was about.

  My mouth was dry and my palms sweaty with nerves because I knew this was possibly the most significant exhibition I would work on in my career, especially if I never got another gig in Europe. It wasn’t like these opportunities presented themselves to me often. Furthermore, I’d actually created this opportunity myself.

  I was looking at what I wanted my future to be, what I’d put in long days and weekends for years to have: something that made me stand out from the rest. I wanted to be the tall poppy, just so I could shake off those bastards trying to pull me back down. I’d worked hard for everything I’d ever had, including getting to Paris, and tonight the opening vindicated me.

  But as I scanned the room looking for someone to share my achievement with, I felt a pang of homesickness: for Moree, for Mum, for Bazza and the boys. And I missed my tiddas and Emma. I wished they could all be here to see how much our effort was being appreciated at the musée.

  I walked through the exhibition, watching the guests engage with the artwork. I could hear the whispers of academics talking in English about Tony Albert’s two canvases in the series ‘Welcome to Australia’ and how they played into notions of discovery, invasion and colonisation. Albert’s point was being made and the artwork was indeed, working.

  Another major talking point was the bark painting Incident at Mutpi, 1975 by Nyapanyapa Yunupingu, a Yolngu artist. It chillingly depicted the true story of the artist being gored by a water-buffalo. It was accompanied by video footage of the event, which was shown on a massive screen beside the painting. There was a crowd around it listening intently. It was a true drawcard wherever it was exhibited and here at the musée was no different. I got goosebumps watching the level of interest in the story.

  Roy Kennedy’s poignant painting Mission series 2, telling the New South Wales story of removal, was a powerful statement that also had the French shaking their heads at the policies of reserves, missions and the disconnection of Aboriginal people from country. I couldn’t believe the buzz in the room and the level of intellectual debate happening. It was far more powerful than I had anticipated and my expectations were already high.

  The spotlight for much of the evening was on Michael McDaniel who walked into the exhibition space looking respectfully regal in his possum-skin cloak. He took his time during the evening to talk to guests about the painstaking effort of his three thousand stitches used to sew the possum skins together, and the process of using cold tea to stain the skin and burn his designs into it. I could see a desire to have one in the eyes of some of the women, which cooled my excitement as I began to fear they would use the skin as a fashion accessory. I’d have to ask Michael what he thought about it.

  Before I had a chance to see the other artwork, Canelle was at my side.

  ‘Congratulations, Elizabeth, this is a success for you, and for the musée, I think everybody loves the work you have brought with you.’

  Canelle’s appreciation meant everything to me right then. I wished Emma and Lauren and all the other NAG staff could’ve heard her, because the moment was as much for them as for me.

  ‘Merci beaucoup, Canelle. I wish all artists could see the impact their work is having here.’ We both looked around the gallery.

  ‘I think young Emily might never be allowed to leave, so many people have signed up for her workshops already.’

  I looked over at the young woman and she was glowing with pride at the attention she was receiving from an adoring crowd. This is what I loved about my job: showcasing Indigenous artists and their artwork to the world. I was overwhelmed with the emotion of it all.

  The rest of the night was a blur of introductions, French/English small talk, thank-yous, congratulations, empty pleasantries, business-card swapping and too much air kissing. But I loved it. The musée had put on a fine spread too: loads of bubbly and hors d’oeuvres.

  ‘Come, I’m taking you for the best Mojito in Paris, Elizabeth,’ Canelle instructed me. ‘And we’re taking young Emily, I think she needs chaperoning in this big city.’

  I appreciated Canelle’s zest for life, and the time she took to include me in her social engagements.

  ‘You really are a social butterfly, Canelle,’ I said, as we walked towards the artist who was handing business cards out to eager hands.

  ‘Well, Guadeloupe is known as the “Butterfly Island” so I am just living up to its expectations.’ Canelle threw her signature sparkling white smile at me. ‘I am glad you are here, that you like to shop, to drink champagne and to party. And you stand up to Adrien, and for that I am most grateful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, we have plenty of Adriens back home. Trust me, he is a breeze compared to some others, but thanks.’

  ‘And now, we celebrate and Emily is coming with us,’ Canelle announced as Emily appeared at my side.

  ‘Are you sure it is okay for me to tag along?’ Emily asked, retouching her blood-red lipstick as she walked enthusiastically along with us.

  ‘Oui, of course, it is my pleasure that you are here also,’ Canelle said adamantly. ‘You are also exotic as an Australian, so I think the men will be drawn to you. I am actually tagging – as you say – along with you!’

  Soon we were in one of Canelle’s favourite watering holes, and as I sipped my Mojito, I scanned the luxurious club where everyone looked like a model or actor or wealthy banker. I was glad I had my ‘opening night’ best dress on. The carpet was plush, the seats leather, and most people were drinking champagne. We were served by handsome men
in uniforms and I couldn’t imagine any place in Australia let alone Canberra as flash as this one.

  ‘Let’s take our drinks out to the terrace-garden; it is a clear night so we can see the stars.’

  ‘It’s very busy, will we get in?’ I asked.

  ‘I called today, we have a table. I often bring guests here – you could say that I am a preferred customer.’

  I couldn’t believe my luck in meeting Canelle, an acclaimed curator, a fashionista, a preferred customer, and my new tidda.

  By midnight, Emily had reluctantly gone to her hotel. Although she wanted to stay, she was desperately fighting jet lag, but I was on such a high from the opening that I couldn’t imagine sleeping ever again. On the way back from the ladies, Canelle bumped into a group of friends and brought them to our table. Two friends from her neighbourhood and a friend of theirs.

  ‘My name is Libby Cutmore, je suis australienne,’ I said, extending my hand to a man in a navy linen jacket and jeans. He kissed my hand instead of shaking it.

  ‘Mon nom est Ames et je suis originaire de Bourgogne.’ He had a deep yet warm voice that I wanted to hear more of.

  I was immediately attracted to Ames from Burgundy – my heart started to race with excitement and I felt a hot flush at the sight of the classically handsome man in his late-twenties. My body was trying to adjust to his presence while my head was reciting: I’m on a man-fast, I don’t need a man.

  He didn’t say anything as he sat opposite me. I imagined myself looking at him like a lovesick fool. Or lust-sick fool, because my loins were fluttering more than my heart. It’s just the opening adrenalin and the Mojitos, I told myself.

  But I knew it was chemistry. I could feel the love drugs rushing through my body: the pleasure chemical dopamine gave that blissful feeling and norepinephrine was causing my heart to race. I’d read about them in Cleo magazine.

  I was excited being physically near Ames and was ready to get high on the cocktails swirling through my body. Then voices started in my head: He is too young for you, Libby. And he is too criminally good-looking for you as well. And he is French, so he will be sleazy.

  Ames was not much taller than me. Funnily enough, that didn’t seem to matter even though I’ve always liked tall men because short men somehow made me feel huge, especially since I had broad shoulders myself. I was concentrating more on analysing his features than the conversation going on around me. Canelle kept trying to include me.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ she asked, as if for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Sorry, yes?’ I turned to her, dragging my gaze from Ames three-day growth, green-green eyes and chiselled face.

  I can’t remember the small talk I made with the other two nondescript friends because I spoke as fast as I could, then allowed my eyes to travel across to his pointy nose and high cheekbones. I wanted to touch his skin. I wanted to touch his face. I just wanted to touch him, anywhere.

  ‘We need a photo together.’ Canelle pulled me to one side of her.

  I also wanted a photo with Ames, just to have him close by my side. He took both Canelle’s camera and my own and we posed like Black models used to the camera. I didn’t know if I closed my eyes in the photos trying to picture his arse in his jeans, but I was snapped out of my perving-daze when Canelle said, ‘Now you two.’

  I couldn’t believe my luck as she pushed me towards Ames and he put his arm around my waist.

  ‘Say ouistiti?’ Canelle said.

  I assumed it was the equivalent to ‘say cheese’ but as my eyes were misty with lust I didn’t care or say anything. The smile itself was involuntary.

  She took the photo and handed me the camera to look at it. Ames also wanted to see and as both our hands held the camera and his touched mine, a flame shot through my thighs. He had accosted me without any effort. That’s when I decided: I deserved a reward for a sensational opening, and Ames was going to be that reward.

  ‘I must go, Elizabeth, it is late and I have a very early meeting,’ Canelle said, standing up on wobbly legs.

  ‘How early?’ I asked, disbelievingly.

  ‘Nine,’ she said as if appalled. The 7 am starts Lauren and I used to have seemed a universe away in Paris. ‘So, you know, I must get my beauty sleep.’

  Canelle left with her neighbours, and Ames and I had one more drink.

  As we walked into the night air I knew that, if not my heart, then most definitely my loins had finally been won over by sexy Paris. We walked a few streets not talking. Ames held my hand firmly but gently. I felt blinded by his intensity and attention.

  I wondered if this is what Lauren felt when she finally got together with Wyatt. Surely Ames wasn’t my Wyatt? He couldn’t be. We had just met, and I was indifferent to men. I wasn’t interested in a relationship. I was never going to have another boyfriend and I couldn’t fall for a French guy anyway, Mum would never stand for it. And Caro had warned me against it. But she did say have some fun.

  I began a dialogue in my head about whether this was some kind of sick joke the universe was playing on me. My thoughts were scripted with cynicism: Look what happened to Caro, Libby. Remember all those movies, Libby. Ames might be Bertrand from The Man Who Loved Women. Perhaps he follows women all over town seducing them, just like he’s doing to you. How did I end up here?

  The laughter in the street was loud and the night sky had even more stars than usual, or so it seemed. Despite my negative thoughts, I couldn’t stop smiling at meeting this handsome local man whose hand was in mine and who just spent an hour looking at me. I didn’t care that he was probably looking at the lines around my eyes.

  I was ready to explode with too many months of untapped lust, but I wasn’t without my wits and texted Canelle to let her know I was going home with Ames, in case he turned out to be a murderer; one reason I rarely had one-night stands was the fear of being murdered.

  ‘They don’t want to murder you, they want to shag you,’ Caro had said through a fit of laughter when I revealed my secret to her once. Still, I was always cautious, so going to a strange man’s house wasn’t the normal thing for me to do, and my safety needed to be in check.

  I could feel the tension building as we climbed the stairs to his apartment and he held my hand tighter. His hands were soft, like they’d never cleaned or washed dishes and certainly never did hard labour.

  ‘Who do you live with?’ I asked, as he opened the door.

  ‘I live alone,’ he said, putting his hand around my neck and pulling my head and mouth to his, closing the door behind us and pushing me up against it.

  We kissed passionately with a gentle grind of his crotch against mine and his hands on my face. He slow-danced me across the small room while softly moving his tongue in my mouth. I was moaning involuntarily, which made him pull me closer. He lay me down on his couch in a move so smooth he’d clearly done it before.

  ‘What does the name “Ames” mean?’ I felt like I should know a little more about the man I was going to make love to.

  ‘It means “friend”. And I want to be your friend,’ he said, running his tongue down my cleavage.

  I left his place at dawn. I hadn’t done the walk of shame for years, and wasn’t proud of myself, but no-one would know unless I told them. I didn’t expect to see Ames again, even though he asked for my number. He was French after all and, according to Caro, they were all womanisers.

  Before I reached the 20th, Ames had sent me a text asking to see me that night. It made me smile. He made me smile. I wanted to see him again, but I was tired and couldn’t think straight.

  It was Thursday, the day after my night with Ames and it felt like a honeymoon for me, but I wasn’t going to say anything to the girls just yet. The last thing I needed was a long-distance interrogation from them. I didn’t even know what was going on myself without having to translate the experience to someone else. It was just a one-night stand, not something I’d normally brag about anyway. It was more important to report back on work than anything else.


  Although I was enjoying the glow from the success of the opening and my night of pleasure, I had little time to stop and think about Ames and the fun we’d had.

  Emily was back at the musée preparing workshops which I was helping out with, and emails and phone calls were coming in from all directions: artists, collectors, universities, the media – which of course meant I had to deal with Adrien who was at least becoming less controlling. I think the success of the exhibition had really put him in his box about my abilities, and although our communication was never warm, it wasn’t always a conflict now either.

  ‘Are you ready to party again tonight, Elizabeth?’ Canelle said down the line. It was only because of the second wind I had found via a 4 pm café crème that allowed Canelle to psych me up into a frenzy talking about Nomad’s. It was one of her favourite places to dine because it always had some kind of exhibition or window display going on.

  ‘There are often events here: book launches, award nights and so on, Elizabeth. I think you will like it.’

  I was mostly excited because that night we were going to the launch of a novel by a Torres Strait Islander woman. Terri Janke’s book Butterfly Song had been translated into French and was being launched by the Australian ambassador, so many Australians working in Paris were invited, as were many musée staff because of the relationship being nurtured between the two bodies.

  Canelle and I left work together and invited Emily along, but she already had plans with her father. I was glad she was comfortable and enjoying her trip.

  ‘Douze rue du Marché Saint-Honoré,’ Canelle gave the driver the address as we climbed into a cab. Even instructions to cabbies had a flair about them. And the destination sounded so much more glamorous than Northbourne Avenue.