Page 37 of Forgiving Paris
The next day she was walking to work at the gallery, fighting nausea and wondering who she had become, when she saw Jean-Claude again. This time he was with a blond girl, the same age as Ashley. Maybe younger.
Jean-Claude kissed the girl’s hand.
The overnight change was more than Ashley could grasp. Had Jean-Claude been seeing other people the whole time? Whenever he wasn’t with her? Ashley worked that day in a fog, and by the time she walked home the reality set in. Of course he’d been seeing other people. He was a married man who spent his days and nights chasing whatever conquest he could charm into his bedroom.
A week passed and on a rainy Tuesday while Ashley was working the desk, Jean-Claude finally walked through the front doors. He smiled at her as if no time had gone by and immediately he was at her side. He took her hand and tried to kiss it.
This time she pulled it away. The masquerade was over and she could see Jean-Claude for who he was. Ashley took a step back. “We need to talk.”
He looked surprised, but his smile remained. “Very well, mon amour.” He nodded toward the back room. The one where Marguerite had called her artwork American trash. “We will talk there.”
Ashley followed him and when they were in the small room, she shut the door behind her. She was hurt and angry and her heart was breaking. But more than all that she was disgusted with herself. What had she done? Who had she become?
“You are angry, ma belle?” Jean-Claude approached her. His mouth was on hers before she could stop him.
Despite all she knew about the man, at first Ashley returned his kiss. The feel of him close to her was that intoxicating. But then she remembered the situation. “Stop!” She pushed him away. “Don’t.” Her breathing was fast and uneven. What sort of spell had he wielded on her?
For the first time, Jean-Claude did not smile at her. His eyes turned cold. “Say what you have to say, Ashley.”
Her fear doubled. Gone were the days when she had thought he would leave his wife and marry her, raise theirchild together and retire with her in Rue de Passy. Things were over between them. But where did that leave the child inside her? She summoned her strength and stared at him. “Jean-Claude… I’m pregnant. I’m going to have your baby.”
His expression became hard and unyielding. “You, ma chérie, are not going to have my child.” He spat the words at her. “Only my wife will have my children.”
“Your wife?” Ashley couldn’t believe this. “You don’t love your wife. You love me. You told me so.”
Jean-Claude’s laugh sounded mean, different than at any time since Ashley met him. “Indeed, I love my wife. She is respectable, refined. I care about her and my children very much.” He sneered at her. “You… you are American trash.” He lifted his chin, arrogance personified. “Like your paintings.”
Ashley backed up till she was against the wall. “Don’t say that. You… you loved my paintings.”
“No.” He dusted off his hands and checked his cuff links. As if this matter was over. “There is a clinic down the street. You will take care of this situation.” He scowled at her. “I would have thought a tramp like you would be on the pill.”
Ashley felt her knees buckle. In slow motion, she began to slide down the wall to the floor.No… this couldn’t be happening.Jean-Claude had loved her, she had seen it in his eyes. She was willing to look past the other people in his life, as long as he committed himself to her. “How… can you say that?”
“Easily. It’s true.” He uttered a single, condescending laugh. “Bonjour, chérie. I will not see you again.”
She wanted to scream, wanted to order Jean-Claude to stop this game and be the person he was before. The man who exuded passion and seduction and romance. Her lover who had called her his personal work of art. What happened to him?
But before she could say another word, Jean-Claude was gone. The next day when she reported to work, Marguerite found her at the desk. “I have heard… about your situation.” Clearly Ashley made the woman sick. “Get it taken care of… or you do not have a position at Montmartre.”
Ashley couldn’t eat or drink or sleep. Her entire world had imploded, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She had been tricked, played. No matter how smooth Jean-Claude had been or how he had seemed, it was all a lie. He didn’t care about her.
And now that she was pregnant with his child, he loathed her.
She missed work the next day and went to Square des Batignolles. The park where Jean-Claude had promised future picnics and long walks. On a bench near a quiet pond, Ashley let the tears come. She cried until she was sobbing, until she thought she’d pass out from the horror and shame and sorrow.
There, bit by bit, Ashley remembered who she had been back in Bloomington. She was an awful person now, a tramp, just like Jean-Claude had said. She wasn’t surewhich part of her situation was the most devastating. The fact that she’d been played or that she’d so willingly walked into an affair with a married man?
Her family would disown her after this.
And what about the baby inside her? The child would never know his father, that much was sure. If she didn’t have an abortion, she would lose her job. Ms. Martin would know, of course, and then Ashley would be sent home overnight. Whether her family took her back or not.
If she did find a way to live life on her own, and if she kept the baby, then the child would grow up knowing how cheap and promiscuous his mother was.Ashley Baxter, American trash.Not only that, the child would know she had failed in every possible way. Morally and professionally.
What sort of mother would she be given that truth?
She had just one choice. Her sickness built and grew and she dry-heaved into the nearest trash can. There was nothing in her system. She hadn’t eaten for days.How could you let this happen? You’re the worst person ever, Ashley Baxter. No one is more terrible than you.
The accusations came, one after another.
