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Janey
Monday morning, I dressed in a sleeveless blouse with an orange checkered print, a white skirt, and white, knee-high boots. Portfolio tucked under arm, I headed to the journalism department at the Sorbonne to plead my case.
The office door of the editor-in-chief of the university newspaper said Antoine Heloin. He was a tall, serious-looking guy in a black shirt and tan corduroys. His gaze lingered too long on my legs before he finally perused my portfolio from the other side of a cluttered desk. A photo of the Earth as seen from the moon hung on his wall.
“Impressive,” Antoine said, flipping through Xerox copies of articles I’d written, covering the various academic activities and sports teams at UCSB. My hopes rose as he came to the end and lingered over the glossy black and white protest photos I’d taken just before leaving the States. “Very impressive. I think I have the perfect assignment for you.”
I sat up straighter. “I’m ready for anything.”
“The Paris Central football team is a few points away from third place in their division. If they can get into third—or higher—they will advance up to Ligue 2, a professional league. We’d already set up an interview late this afternoon with their star forward, Adrien Rousseau, but our sports writer is ill and can’t do it.” Antoine reached over the desk to hand me a small file folder and a piece of paper with an address on it. “The job is yours.”
I took the paper slowly, my hopes deflating. “Soccer? You want me to interview a soccer player?”
“In France we say football, Mademoiselle,” Antoine said. “I know it’s not a popular sport in America, but to the rest of the world, it is everything. If you knew what an honor this assignment was, perhaps you would not look so sour now.” He shrugged. “Although, I can always give it to someone else...”
And I get nothing.
I stiffened, and tucked the folder into my portfolio. “Deadline?”
“Two days.”
“Is there anything I should know about Adrien Rousseau?”
Aside from the fact he’s probably a giant, egotistical asshole, like every other athlete I’ve ever had to interview.
“He is the best center forward the sport has seen in a generation.” He raised his hands as if nothing else mattered. “And a medical student. He’s rich. The girls love him.” He gave me an almost clinical up-and-down glance. “You’re just his type, too. Try to stay focused on the job at hand. If you can.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ll have the interview with a photo spread in two days.”
“Fantastique.”
I rose to my feet and flipped a lock of hair over my shoulder. “In America, monsieur, we say groovy.”
That afternoon, I grabbed a map to guide me to the Rousseau residence. The air was sticky with early summer humidity as I made my way to the 16th Arrondissement. The map told me the Rousseau residence was close to the major soccer stadium, Place des Princes, and a smaller stadium called the Stade Jean-Marc, where Adrien Rousseau played with his team.
On the train, I read the background info in the folder Antoine had given me. Adrien was a second-year medical student at the Sorbonne, and the star center forward on Paris Central. The team was in a division called Championnat National but could advance if they had enough points.
I shut the folder with as snap. I didn’t understand this soccer stuff—the European system was a mystery to me—but it looked like Championnat National was a third division league, below the real professionals.
My irritation mounted. I wanted a Big Story, not to dodge the advances of a second-rate athlete and write yet another puff piece to stroke his ego.
I spat a curse as I made my way down an elegant boulevard lined with gorgeous 19th Century buildings, one tucked tight to the next. The 16th arrondissement reminded me of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It screamed ‘old money’ and I guessed the Rousseau family had their fair share. Their home was like every other here—three-stories of beige stonework, with wrought iron balconies along every window.
But as I made my way up the three steps to the front door, I noticed rust along the gate, and my knuckles scraped peeling paint when I knocked on the door.
“A moment!” came a soft, feminine voice on the other side—high-pitched and strained—as if unused to rising louder than a whisper. I heard a strange clanking of metal and then someone struggling with the door lock.
Finally, the door squeaked open on its rusted hinge, and a teenage girl—maybe sixteen or seventeen—shuffled into view. She had heavy-looking braces strapped to both legs and leaned heavily on one crutch. Her dark hair brushed her chin, and her eyes were dark blue, but bright with curiosity.
“May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Janey Martin,” I said. “I’m here to see Adrien Rousseau?”
The girl’s face broke open in an unguarded smile that made her seem even younger. “Ah yes, for the newspaper? My brother is in the backyard. He knows you are coming but said it would be a man. Are you a real journalist?”
I frowned at the question and the guileless smile on the girl’s face. “Yes. Or I will be once I have my degree. I’m studying at the Sorbonne.”
The girl’s smile brightened. “So is my Adrien.”
With effort, the girl stepped aside to let me in, and my senses were bombarded with the history of the building; as if I could smell its age in the plaster peeling in places from the wall, and in the dust that danced in a shaft of light from the front window. Like the exterior, the interior had the appearance of wealth in need of upkeep.
“I am Sophie Rousseau,” the girl said, closing the door behind us. “You are American, no? Your French is very good.”
“Thank you,” I said absently. I stared at the old-world charm of the Rousseau residence, with its oriental rugs, antique-looking lamps, and furniture that looked as if it belonged in a museum.
“A soccer player lives here?” I asked, incredulously.
Sophie’s eyes darted away. “Yes, of course,” she said, then brightened. “Adrien is a brilliant footballer, and an even better medical student.”
“The Sorbonne is far from here,” I said, watching Sophie struggle ahead of me, leading me through the foyer. “That’s a long commute.”
“It is for him to get to school,” Sophie said. “But we’re very close to where his team plays and practices.”
We came to a curved stairway where two young women were bounding down, talking and laughing. They stopped when they saw me, and exchanged amused glances, then hurried out, toward the front door.
“Friends of yours?” I asked Sophie.
“Oh yes, of course,” she said quickly, her voice high again. “Come. Adrien is through there.”
I followed Sophie through the first floor of her home to a small backyard patio with green grass beyond. It reminded me of my own flat, with its wrought iron furniture, though this space was much larger.
I heard someone gasp and realized with a jolt of embarrassment that it was me. Sitting on one of the chairs, wearing jeans and a tight-fitting polo shirt, and reading a book, was the devastatingly handsome man from La Cloche.
Sophie glanced up. “You know Adrien?”
Yes, he drew me on a napkin…
“No,” I said. “I thought I recognized…but no. We’ve never met.”
I tried to master my breathing, which had suddenly become short. Adrien was even more handsome in the bright summer sunshine. It caught the gold in the dark brown hair that brushed his shoulders. His scruff of beard highlighted the strong cut of his jaw and perfect cheekbones.
I realized I was standing there like a dope, mooning over those perfect cheekbones and the beautiful deep blue eyes of his that were riveted to his book. Before I knew it, my hands rose to my camera around my neck. I snapped my first photo of Adrien Rousseau, the star soccer player, at rest and reading a book.
Get a hold of yourself. Be professional.
I glanced at Sophie with her crutch and braces; she’d had to struggle through the house to let in a guest Adrien knew was coming. A cool detachment settled over me. I thrust my chin out as Sophie showed me to the small yard.
“Adrien, this is Janey Martin,” Sophie said. “From the newspaper.”
Adrien’s head came up and his eyes flared with recognition and surprise. For half a second, a soft smile graced his lips, but I was glaring coldly at him. His gaze cooled to match mine; his smile turned lazy.
“I was expecting someone else,” Adrien said, his eyes raking me up and down. “But this works too.”
His voice was velvet, with a hint of gravel. Deep. Sexy.
He’s still an ass.
I crossed my arms under my camera. “So happy to hear you approve.”
Sophie turned to me. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I said quickly.
“Please. It is so warm out.”
“You don’t have to, really…”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Sophie said cheerfully. “I’m not as fast as Adrien, but I’m happy to bring you some. Let me…”
“Yes, let her,” Adrien said in a low voice, meeting my gaze steadily.
I sucked in a breath. “Thank you, Sophie, lemonade would be lovely.”
Sophie made her way back into the house and shut the back door. I sat in the other wrought iron chair, across from Adrien.
“Let her bring me the lemonade,” I said. “Let her answer the door while you sit in the sun and read…”
“Yes? And?” Adrien returned, unruffled. “She has cerebral palsy; she’s not in a coma. She’s capable of answering the door to her own house or bringing a guest a drink.”
I sat back in my seat. “But it seems difficult for her—”
“Sophie does what she wants. I’m not going to stand in the way of letting her take on any task she feels she can handle.” His blue eyes clouded over with bitterness. “No one should.”
“You’re right,” I said, biting each word out. “I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense.”
Adrien sighed and tossed his book—a French translation of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—face down on the table. “You’re not the first to try to coddle her. She seems weak and soft, I know, but she’s got more strength in her than you and I combined.”
I stared at this man, and for some reason, Helen’s words about finding a big story within a smaller one whispered in my ear. I bent to extract the heavy cassette recorder from my bag.
“Is this okay?” I asked, readying the recorder. “Standard procedure…”
I tried not to think about how I was about to capture Adrien’s bedroom voice on tape, and inwardly scolded myself again.
His lazy smile returned. “It’s fine.”
“Groovy.” I pressed down the play and record buttons, and the cassette wheels turned. “Interview with Adrien Rousseau—”
“I saw you at La Cloche,” Adrien said. “A few days ago? You don’t remember me?”
“Uh, yes. I was there,” I said and stiffened. “But no, I don’t remember you.”
His cocky grin broadened. “I find that hard to believe.”
I rolled my eyes. My fleeting sliver of a hope that this interview might not be like any of the athletes I’d done before, died a swift death.
“I don’t remember you,” I said, “but I know your type.”
“My type? Please, tell me my type.”
“Rich, arrogant, cocky. A different girl on your arm every weekend…”
“Sometimes two girls,” he said with a wink.
“Of course. Using your God-given soccer talent to—”
“Score on and off the field?” he said, with brows raised. “I hope you’re less clichéd in your writing.”
I opened my mouth to retort but he cut me off.
“You’re American, right? From New York?”
“California.”
“Hollywood? You’re pretty enough to be an actress.”
“Speaking of huge clichés…”
Adrien shrugged, his eyes sharp again. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
I opened my mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. “I’m not an actress. I’m a journalist, or will be if you’d let me get a question in.”
I rummaged in my bag for a pencil and notepad to conceal how flustered he made me. My hand flailed too fast, and as I tore out my pencil and notebook, the cocktail napkin with his rough sketch of me flew out of the bag and fluttered down onto the patio. I bent to snatch it but Adrien was quicker; lightning quick.
He plucked it off the ground, an infuriating smile spreading over his lips.
“I believe you dropped this.”