It's been awhile since I've posted an update on this story; your feedback, as always, is appreciated. Jm08nyc@yahoo.com
CHAPTER EIGHT
I stood looking up at the glow coming from the hotel's windows in the night sky. The dark, cool, wintry Paris night wrapped around me like a cloak. The notebook in my hand.
A deep breathe. Then two. Then three.
The sense of optimism that had filled me when I left the house on Rue Charlot earlier that evening hadn't subsided, although it was tinged with a certain sense of reality. It had been a few weeks since Cooper had left the note on my front door; I knew better than to think he had stayed in a hotel for that long--as much as he would've indulged in the joys of turndown service. The thought of that actually made me smile. Cooper always loved a good hotel.
That being said, I wasn't ready to pick-up the phone and call him. And, frankly, wasn't ready to speak with anyone we knew in common who might serve as a liaison between us.
Then four.
But, I assumed, if he had made the one trip to Paris, he had probably made more. His work allowed him to work from virtually anywhere, so hopping back and forth--homeless as it were--between Paris, London and who knew where else, was not out of the question.
This was his favorite hotel in Paris. So, this is where I'll begin.
Then five. And in through the doors.
The lobby was quiet. I signaled to one of the employees and asked for the concierge; a nice enough looking woman approached.
"Bonsoir, madame. Je crois qu'un de mes amis, M. Plimpton, a sejourne ici recemment. Je voudrais laisser un paquet pour lui, pour la prochaine fois qu'il est en ville. Serait-ce possible?"
"Oui, oui," she replied quickly, "You must be M. Walker? M. Andrew Walker? M. Plimpton let us know that you might be by to see him--you've actually just missed him, he checked-out this morning to return to London, I believe. But, we're expecting him back next week. Would you like to come back then?"
"No, merci. Thank you." Next week. Fuck... just missed him. What if I had passed him on the street? What if he had been standing in the lobby when I walked in? What would I have done? "If you could just give him this when he checks-in, I would be appreciative. Perhaps you have a slip of paper that I could leave a note on?"
"But of course, and an envelope to put the book into to keep it safe. You may use the desk here to right if you wish," she said quickly, gesturing to her desk behind her.
"Merci. Merci beaucoup." I took the sheet of paper she offered and picked-up a pen from the desk--now, what do I write?--"Everything I have to say is inside. –A." Short. Sweet. To the point.
I slipped the paper and the notebook into the envelope and scrawled Cooper's name on the front. His full name; which would be a clear sign (if my handwriting wasn't enough) that it was from me... "William Cooper Hargrove Plimpton IV." Would it be acceptable to write "aka The Asshole" after his name? Probably not, but the thought was enough to make me smile, and--almost--laugh.
I handed the package to the concierge. Thanked her. And headed back out into the night.
I stood at the foot of the stairs in the house on Rue Charlot; sometime after midnight. I took a long walk home from the hotel, meandering through the Marais, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
At this point. Whatever happens, happens. I've said my piece. Committed my thoughts to paper, and soon enough they'll be in Cooper's hands. And we'll take things from there once that happens.
Arriving home I opened a cold bottle of Sancerre that I had stashed in the fridge before leaving earlier in the evening. A long pour into a big glass. Shoes off. And now, at the foot of the stairs.
Upstairs.
It had been a big moment when the two apartments upstairs on Rue Charlot had become available. The tenets who lived there had finally moved out, and, after years of slowly expanding on our floor, we had reached the limits. I had always known Cooper wanted a space to call his own, and when the upstairs became available I jumped to purchase it.
I gave Cooper a sledgehammer for Christmas that year, so he could take the first swing at the wall that would eventually come down to become the staircase.
The upstairs would house his long-awaited studio. Plus the laundry and an extra bedroom. It was smaller than the first floor, but it opened to the sky and the light would be amazing.
Of everything I've done since being back in Paris the last few months, I still haven't climbed the stairs. I've managed to live my life in the confines of the first floor. Rarely going beyond the bedroom, study and kitchen--save for a few random moments in the living room, and that one night of frivolous sex with Jean-Pierre in the gallery.
But, it's time that I cross the boundry. So, in my socks. With glass of wine in hand. I start the climb. And, before I know it, the glass is empty and I've arrived at the top. A few quick stairs. A few quick gulps.
And, here I am. At the door to his studio. Cooper's world. I rarely came up here even when we were together. He preferred the quiet, a measure of solitude when he worked. Unlike me, who kept the music blasting wherever I was at any time.
Breathe. Deep. One. Breathe. Deep. Two. Breathe. Deep. Three.
Glass set down on the floor. Turn of the handle. Head against the door. Push. Push! PUSH!
A step inside.
A world away.
Moonlight was flooding the room, through the windows and the sky lights. Illuminating the tables and chairs that filled the space. Canvases, half-finished, cluttering the tables and easel. Half-finished. A reflection of our lives. Stopped. Jarringly. In the middle. A more accurate reflection of our lives.
For not the first time I wondered what Cooper had been doing since he left. My hand absentmindedly fell over the bottles and jars and tubes of paint that lay across the table. Picking up brushes. And putting them right back down.
Was he at his parents home in London? Or maybe out in the country? Perhaps he was staying with his sister in Copenhagen. Or his cousin in Glasgow. Was he painting? He was happiest when he was painting. Was... was... was he happy?
I shook my head, and slipped into the chair in the corner.
My one request, as Cooper had filled his studio with his belongings, with his work. With his creations. Was a little corner that I could slip into from time-to-time to watch him work. To talk with him. To be a part of his world.
From those first moments when we met on the flight to Berlin, all I could think about was being wrapped up in Cooper's world.
There were many lazy afternoons I'd spend in this chair, wrapped in a blanket. Reading a book or catching up on paperwork. And silently watching Cooper create.
I closed my eyes and imagined those days.
Cooper. Coop. And me.
Could I forgive him? Would I? What would happen to us? I wrote many thoughts in that notebook I left for him. But not once did I write those words--"I forgive you." Or. "I want you back."
I closed my eyes. And fell asleep.
"And, one last thing, Andrew. Fredrick, the head of North American marketing for our new client, is going to be in town on Wednesday with Alec and they'd like to have dinner. Alec mentioned--off the record of course--that they may be shopping for a new ad agency in the States as well... could be a great opportunity to start the relationship. We have been talking about getting into the North American market."
I was sitting in my office, listening to Thomas speak, but it wasn't until he said Wednesday that I really heard what he was saying. Wednesday. That's when Cooper will be checking-back-in to the hotel. Wednesday. A good day to be distracted.
"Yes, Thomas, thank you. Sounds perfect. Stephanie can get us a good table somewhere chic that both Fredrick and Alec will enjoy--and maybe we can take them for drinks before. I'd like for you to be there, and probably Brigitte, right? Anyone else...?"
Brigitte was our new associate creative director who was overseeing the new client's business from a creative standpoint--and had a great working relationship with Alec already.
"I think that's probably good--Stephanie and I will take care of all the details. Anything else you need before I check out, boss?"
"No, no, Thomas--thanks, as always, for everything. I'm going to finish a couple of emails and head home myself."
Wednesday. Today was Monday.
Two days until Cooper was going to be back in town. Two days until the envelope with the notebook would be handed to him upon check-in. Two days until he'd be reading all the thoughts I put in that book.
Wednesday.
This was going to be a long week.
TO BE CONTINUED.