Read Chapter 15: Anaïs

Clara met Luc's ex-wife at a printer's workshop in the eleventh arrondissement.

It was not the dramatic encounter British television had prepared her for.

Anaïs Delorme was holding a roll of architectural plans and arguing with a man about paper weight. She had short brown hair, black-framed glasses, and a red trench coat. When Luc saw her, he stopped so abruptly that Clara nearly walked into him.

"Ah," he said.

Anaïs turned.

Her surprise lasted one second.

Then she smiled.

"Luc."

They kissed cheeks. Twice. Clara, who had been warned about French social rituals and still sometimes miscalculated them, stood beside a tower of poster paper feeling like badly placed punctuation.

Luc introduced them.

Anaïs looked at Clara with open curiosity, not hostility.

"La libraire anglaise," she said.

"Editor," Luc and Clara corrected simultaneously.

Anaïs laughed.

"I have read the article. Apparently you are both famous for arguing."

"Inaccurate journalism," Luc said.

"No," Clara replied. "That part was solid."

They spoke for ten minutes. Anaïs was designing a cultural centre nearby. She knew the printer. She offered to help if the festival needed signage or temporary display structures.

"That's very kind," Clara said.

"Not kind. I like books. And Luc owes me at least seven years of moving furniture."

"Four," Luc said.

"Marriage counts double."

When Anaïs left, Clara realised she had been holding her shoulders too straight.

Luc noticed.

"You are disappointed?"

"By what?"

"No duel."

"I wasn't expecting a duel."

"British fine print."

Clara picked up the poster proofs.

"She's lovely."

"Yes."

The answer irritated her.

"That sounded very warm."

Luc stared.

"You said she is lovely."

"I didn't ask you to agree that quickly."

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Ah."

"Don't ah me."

"This is fascinating."

"I am not jealous."

"Of course not."

"I genuinely like her."

"A terrible situation."

Clara walked ahead.

Luc caught up, laughing.

Later, at the shop, Anaïs emailed Clara directly with sketches for modular display boards that could be built cheaply and reused after the festival.

They were excellent.

Clara replied with gratitude and a question about dimensions.

Within a week, she and Anaïs had exchanged twenty-six emails.

Luc regarded this development with suspicion.

"You are discussing me," he said.

"Mostly plywood."

"This is how alliances begin."

"Perhaps be less alliance-worthy."

Anaïs came to the shop on a Sunday to measure the walls. Luc was upstairs. Clara made coffee while Anaïs worked.

At some point, Anaïs glanced toward the ceiling.

"He is different with you."

Clara nearly dropped the measuring tape.

"I'm not sure that's true."

"It is."

Anaïs's tone was calm, observational.

"With me, when something became difficult, Luc disappeared into work. Not physically. Worse. He became polite."

Clara understood immediately.

"He still does that."

"Probably. People improve slowly."

There was no bitterness in the sentence, which somehow made it more intimate.

"I don't want to ask anything inappropriate," Clara said.

"Then don't."

Clara laughed.

Anaïs smiled. "You want to know whether he loved me. Yes. He did. I loved him. We were bad at the same years. That happens."

Clara looked down at the tape measure.

"And now?"

"Now I am married to a woman who leaves her socks everywhere and remembers birthdays. Luc draws books. We exchange Christmas messages. Everyone survives."

She marked a measurement on her plan.

"Do not make our failure into a prophecy for you. It belongs to us."

Clara was silent.

"Was that too French?" Anaïs asked.

"Painfully clear."

"Good."

After she left, Clara climbed upstairs.

Luc was at his desk.

"How much did she tell you?" he asked without turning.

"Everything. State secrets. The nuclear codes. Your childhood crimes."

"Clara."

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

He went still.

"What is this?"

"Nothing."

"Suspicious."

"Maybe I like you."

"Inconveniently?"

"Increasingly."

Luc turned in the chair and looked up at her.

The humour faded from his face.

"Me too," he said.

Clara kissed him before either could make the sentence larger than it needed to be.