The Unbreakables by Lisa Barr

Author:Lisa Barr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-04-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

THE TEXT COMES THE SECOND I OPEN MY EYES THE NEXT MORNING. I HEAR THE ding, search around for my reading glasses, and bring the phone up close to my face.

O: Sophie. I am sorry about yesterday.

I sit up, find the glasses on the floor next to the bed, not knowing what to think or how “O” even got my number, and then I remember. I texted him after Ava’s procedure in Paris. I’m about to erase his text, block him for good, and then ding, another message comes in.

O: Please don’t ignore. There’s someone you should meet while you are here. She’s a sculptor. It is my gift to you, my sincere apology for my behavior.

His gift. Admittedly, a pretty good apology as far as apologies by assholes go. But again, it’s Olivier, there’s got to be a catch, something in it for him. Delete, block. I warn myself. Do it now. I tap at the phone, hesitating. The sculptor part is definitely intriguing. Who is she and why does he want me to meet her?

I reread the message again, trying to find a clue between the letters. Okay, I’m going to regret this but . . .

SOPHIE: Who?

I stare at the dancing dots as he writes back.

O: First, how long will you be here?

I shake my head. Now I’m the asshole. I’m not falling for this. It’s a trick question. This time I don’t answer. And like the man-child that Olivier is, his patience level does not exceed twenty seconds, and the dots begin to shuffle once again.

O: I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow, if that makes this easier. I won’t be around.

I respond.

SOPHIE: It does. Will be in Provence for a while. Who is the sculptor?

The dancing dots appear and then:

O: Nathalie Senard. You’ve heard of her?

I nearly drop the phone on my sheets. Heard of her? Who in the art world has not heard of Nathalie Senard and her handsome husband, the painter Luc Senard? It’s like asking a teenager if they’ve heard of Beyoncé and Jay-Z.

Nathalie, who is only in her midforties, has paved the way for contemporary women sculptors. She is famous for her larger-than-life Amazonian sculptures of women made out of every medium—metal, glass, clay, but particularly marble—always in powerful poses. Nathalie Senard’s women—“Les Bitches,” as the French press lovingly refers to her sculptures—are synonymous with Joan of Arc in stilettos. Her pieces have even been featured in several popular movies, both American and French. I can barely breathe. How does Olivier know her, and why does he want me to meet her?

In my excitement, I forget that I despise him. I pick up the phone and call him.

He laughs. “I had a feeling . . .”

“I’m sure you did. What is your connection to Nathalie Senard?” I don’t mention that she is an idol of mine, because it sounds pathetically fangirl. Nor will I tell him that one reviewer actually compared my “Mermaids and Madmen” exhibit to her work. It was the greatest compliment I ever received.

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