Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

After a couple of days in Miami I took a flight to LA. Almost two months without Jeanne and missing her like mad, but I was arriving home to her pictures. By that time I was texting her on a daily basis with the excuse of checking on her thesis. I didn’t tell her I knew her viva voce was coming soon though. It would be admitting I was receiving information on her, and I couldn’t allow myself such a childish mistake. She was being so kind, even letting me act my cheeky self, and I wasn’t going to risk that. It was little compared to what I wanted, but at least it was something.

Once I stepped a foot inside my house I threw my handbag to the floor and dismissed the minders. I left the keys over a table and glanced around the lounge. It was white and didn’t even smell like a proper home. It smelt like new, and impersonal, like another people’s home. At least Anne had helped me bring some life to the place, especially with the blue painting over the fireplace. As her name crossed my mind I rushed to the vacant spare room on the ground floor, where I found the pictures wrapped and leaning against the walls. There were many of them, and I couldn’t help but start shivering. I grabbed a cutter from the office and returned to the room. I walked up to the biggest parcel. I knew too well what was behind all the wrapping and the plastic… The full frontal. I laid it on the floor and carefully began to cut the Manila paper. A few minutes later I was contemplating Jeanne’s beauty at its fullest. My mind grumbled as the episode of Philadelphia crashed into my memory, the surreal call, the rushing down the streets, seeing Jeanne as god Mars for the first time, and the madness that came after that…

Before unwrapping the rest I went to the kitchen to have a glass of water. I needed a minute to pull myself together. I took the glass to the office and sat at the bureau, trying to find the envelope with the documents of the acquisition Anne had left for me. The sign from my lawyers was in order. I glanced at the amount I paid for the whole thing. The hairs of the nape of my neck stood on end. How deeply to be feeding that French bastard bothered me… Anger arose quickly, but when I was about to snap a piece of paper that resembled a letter caught my attention. I began to read casually to calm me down.

Precious: I wanted to mention this before but I wasn’t sure, and I’ve been so busy in Venice purchasing art and visiting my mother. I didn’t know you were acquainted with Antoine’s work, and I’m curious because this is not the first time you buy my daughter Jeanne’s pictures. So call me when you get this, Anne.

I was sitting; otherwise I would have dropped to the floor. The words were like a slap across the face. In shock I straightened up. What was all about? How could it be possible? No, it simply couldn’t be… Were her mum and my art consultant the same person? I hurriedly reread the letter to clear things up. She was… My second Anne was her Anne as I realised in astonishment. I mentally punched myself for not asking further when the issue came up the first night at ‘La biguine.’ I remembered fairly well the way we ended up talking about me as always… How could I be this self-involved arse? But what pictures was she talking about? A sudden anxiety overtook me and I ran to look at every piece of art I had hanging from the walls, as I began to dial her number.

“Is it true?–––I asked in the hopes it could be some sort of strange joke. Are you Jeanne’s mother?” I claimed, confusedly walking around the corridor, a hand to my forehead.

“Hello, there, Harry–––Anne said blithely. I am, and you have a lot to explain…” For a fact it was all the way around. I didn’t even know she was French. I always assumed she was English… How else could she have a British accent? Because she had studied abroad like her freaking daughter, and she was bilingual from the cradle as well, and a translator with a perfect diction? What an oblivious dick I was.

“But you are Darcy, not Mars…” I mumbled, forcing me to understand.

“Oh, that–––she laughed. I never took my husband’s surname. You might consider it my only rebellious act–––she joked. How come do you know my daughter? Because you know each other, don’t you?” Her words sounded like a death sentence.

“We do,” I muttered, letting my back fall against the wall as my fingers slipped to cover my eyes. Much more than that actually… But I didn’t really know how much I should tell. “We met in Paris; no, in London–––I hesitated. It’s a long story…”

“I can tell, precious,” Anne said in a joyful tone. God, they were the same. “You bought tons of her pictures less than a year ago–––she muffled a giggle. Sorry, but I find it extremely funny…”

“I see you share sense of humour,” I chuckled bitterly as I mentally started to compare her with Jeanne. I had to admit to myself for a woman of her age Anne was still hot as hell. Now that I got the hint it became so obvious they were mother and daughter. Both had that sophisticated air, and their body type resembled enormously. But there was no way I could have possibly related her with Jeanne’s mum before. I didn’t get to see her face on the pictures at ‘La biguine.’

“We share many things, but she has more from her father.” I gulped. Like I had been fearing since the book club.

“What pictures are those, Anne?” I shook my head, defeated.

“Don’t you remember?–––she teased me. The set on the top of the stairs, the small, squared pictures of skin in extreme close-up? You have twenty-five photos of my daughter’s body…” God, it was too much. I hurriedly climbed the stairs and stopped there, my jaw dropping in amazement. I loved those pictures… Each one of them had a muscle, a shadow or a detail letting know which part of the body it was. And it was Jeanne…“Those were taken by a friend of our family, Roland Martel.” At the name my mind grunted so hard my temples hurt. No, no way; it couldn’t be… Roland… The major creep who took Jeanne’s flower. For a moment I felt compelled to tell Anne everything about them, but I controlled myself. Jeanne would never forgive me. But how could I have those photos? How? God, her skin… I watched closely as I slid a finger through the nearest one. “Exquisite work–––Anne remarked. You bought them when you moved to the house,” she carried on. I trembled. How fascinated by the subtleness of the pictures I became when Anne showed them to me on her iPad. I could have never believed someday I was going to know the feel of that skin by heart, to lick and savour it inch by inch, and that the model was in fact the girl whom I was practically obsessed with. God, it was just too surreal… “Your little girl friend was not very pleased by your purchase.”

“They never are,” I whispered, working hard to push aside the memories of the opportunist on duty trying to make a career out of me Anne was referring to.

“Well, beside those…” Were there more? “In your mother’s bedroom you have three pictures of Jeanne and me playing when she was little, taken by Didier.” I immediately rushed there. Little Jeanne on a beach, the same set I had seen at ‘La biguine’… My mum and I commented it once. Maybe that was the reason I found them vaguely familiar, because I had actually paid them attention once they were hung. “Then in your sister’s bedroom–––she continued. There’s a set of two over the tallboy.” I changed to the next room and my mind was literally blown away. I knew the first picture too well. Jeanne walking by a green field. Her profile picture on the site and Twitter… It was actually her and not a random statement as Stan suggested. I just wanted to die. “The last session Jeanne and her father did before he died,” Anne was speaking languidly. Fuck… And to make things worse on the second picture she was turning around, and you could see her face so perfectly. My mind complained, frustrated. Why didn’t I remember these pictures when we started our research? If I were able to spend more time in just one place I would have known who she was… “You have plenty of Didier’s paintings,” she carried on, quite unaware of my mad state. I had dropped to the bed, knackered, and was just staring at the pictures absentmindedly. “The most important one is hanging over the fireplace.” What? The blue painting? From her father? Was Jeanne haunting me? Because she was in fact everywhere. It wasn’t just me. “It’s a fire in the woods, as Didier had synaesthesia and perceived things quite differently. Jeanne has it too, but not to the same degree–––she explained, and I nodded my head as if she could see me. But I guess I told you all this before…”

“I hardly listen,” I admitted, feeling like the most stupid arse in the face of the earth. It was as Jeanne had suggested in Sainte-Mesme… I did buy art as an asset and not to enjoy it. “Does she know you work for me?” I mumbled, overwhelmed. It couldn’t just be a coincidence.

“No–––Anne spoke very sure of her words. She knows I work with high profile clients, but I never disclose the names.”

“I’m in love with your daughter,” I let out before I could even realise what I was saying, as my first precautions had surrendered to the surrealism of the situation.

“You all seem to get flustered quite quickly,” she said after a brief moment. God, I hated every part of that sentence.

“Not me–––I stated. I mean, I am flustered but I love her.”

“Of course, precious.” What the hell with the women of that family? Did they think I was an absolute fool? “I guess you know each other intimately then, and it’s not just you obsessing over a girl you fancied on a picture,” she sounded relieved. Well, it didn’t start with a picture as Anne was fearing, but a piece of writing, and I couldn’t deny that either way everything seemed a bit creepy.

“We do…”

“I don’t tell who the client is, but I usually mention when I sell something from her–––Anne claimed, and for some reason I held my breath. Last time some part of me knew there was something going on. And I was right…”

“What?” I asked, confused, fearing the worst.

“This last time you called…–––she muttered. Once I had the information I realised you were speaking about Antoine. He’s Jeanne’s ex boyfriend…” Yeah, I knew exactly who he was. “Because of my business I’ve worked with him many times. Not my favourite person in the world yet, I must say, a magnificent artist.” I understood from whom Jeanne had got her earnestness. “I felt like calling her–––Anne explained quietly, and my heart just froze inside my chest. I didn’t mention your name, but once I told her one of my clients had bought the entire exhibition she begged me not to tell she was aware of it and not to give any sort of information about her. I’m doing the opposite, like most of the time…”

Oh, no.

–.–.–

Notes

I've been hiding so many things from Harry I actually feel a bit guilty... If you want to freshen up memories on Jeanne's mum, check chapters 31 (first-time mention), 38 (pictures at 'La biguine,') and 39 (second mention.)

Told you there was more in Philadelphia than met the eye... Next chapter will bring many more answers, but don't let me fool you: Things are not as simple as they might seem ;)

Thank you for sharing you time with this story. Your honest support makes me work harder. You feedback helps me work faster, so don't forget to let me know your thoughts. I love your comments on last chapter. We'll have all the answers in time! Love you all!