LITMIR.BIZ

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overcoat.

      Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the topcoat to her smart woollen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed supernatural. A slender tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.

      Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.

      She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and grey this afternoon; a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant here. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad…so much had happened to her here.

      First love – oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen – and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness that she had been stunned. And oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she had eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.

      It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.

      City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists…it had so many names. But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.

      Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.

      The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.

      But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

      One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art-adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, had started their own company. The two of them had made a great success of this venture, which they had named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients, and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband Doug, and the Valiants.

      A few days ago she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.

      Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made it from the hotel faster than she had expected, and as she went into the museum she experienced a little spurt of excitement. Inside were some of her favourite works of art.

      The museum was deserted and this pleased Laura; she disliked crowds when she was looking at paintings. It was really dead this afternoon, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the click of her heels on the floor; her footsteps echoed loudly as she walked towards the hall where the Renoirs hung.

      She stood for a long time in front of Nude in Sunlight. Renoir had painted it in 1875, and yet it looked so fresh, as if he had created it only yesterday. How beautiful it was; she never tired of looking at it. The pearly tints and pink-blush tones of the model’s skin were incomparable, set off by the pale, faintly blue shadows on her shoulders which seemed to emanate from the foliage surrounding her.

      What a master Renoir had been. The painting was suffused with light – shimmering light. But then to her, Renoir’s canvases always looked as though his brush had been dipped in sunlight. Lover of life, lover of women, Renoir had been the most sensual of painters, and his paintings reflected this, were full of vivid, pulsating life.

      Laura moved on, stopped to gaze at a much larger painting, Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. It represented gaiety and young love, and there was so much to see in it – the faces of the dancers, merry, sparkling with happiness, the handsome young men, their arms encircling the beautiful girls; how perfectly Renoir had captured their joie de vivre. His use of colour was superb: the blues and greens in the trees, the blues and creams and pinks in the girls’ dresses, the soft, clear yellow of the men’s straw boaters, and the…

      ‘Hello, Laura.’

      Believing herself to be alone with the Renoirs, Laura jumped when she heard her name. Startled, she swung around. Surprise registered on her face, and she froze.

      The man who stood a few feet away from her, went on, ‘It’s Philippe, Laura. Philippe Lavillard.’ He smiled, took a step towards her.

      Laura recoiled imperceptibly. Dislike and a flick of anger curdled inside her.

      The man was thrusting out his hand, still smiling warmly.

      Reluctantly, Laura took it, touching her fingers quickly to his and then pulling them away. This man had always spelled disaster and trouble. She could hardly believe he had run into her like this.

      ‘I thought you were in Zaire,’ she managed to say at last, wondering how to get rid of him. There was a slight pause before she added, ‘Claire told me you were…living in Africa.’

      ‘I am. I arrived in Paris a couple of days ago. Actually, I’m en route to the States. I’m going to see the head of the CDC.’

      ‘The CDC?’ she repeated, sounding puzzled.

      ‘The Center for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I have some meetings there.’

      ‘Claire mentioned you were working on Ebola in Zaire.’

      ‘And other hot viruses.’

      Laura nodded, tried to edge away.

      He said, ‘Are you staying in Paris long, Laura?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How’s the famous Doug?’

      ‘He’s well, thanks.’

      ‘This is one of my favourites,’ Philippe Lavillard

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