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Carol worked in a library she loved, La Bibliothèque Fornay, in a castle built between 1475 and 1519, located near the Seine in her beloved Fourth arrondissement. It was one of more than 70 libraries in Paris. The ceiling had beams hewn by hand six hundred years ago. Stone that had been carved in the Middle Ages formed the balustrade between the balcony and the room below. During breaks she could explore the stacks of books on art and fashion, the library’s specialty, by using a stone circular staircase. So lovely to look up and see it spiraling, like the inside of a nautilus’ shell, ever smaller.
Nautilus shell. It reminded her of one she’d had as a teenager that had fit so comfortably into her hand. Just like Gregoire’s small crystal elephant had. She re-lived picking it up, reaching way back for more leverage for her throw, and watching it smash into his glass-encased altar to himself. That had felt damned good. Childish, yes. She’d never do anything like it again. She could have been blinded by flying glass, Gregoire, too. He hadn’t sued. The French rarely did. It was a cool country.
She wasn’t going to fight Gregoire for her job, though she knew people who had fought for their jobs in France and had been reinstated. Who wanted to work for a boss that didn’t want them? Who wanted to work for creepy, hairy Gregoire anyway?
The art students around her hefted cocktail-table books (known as grand formats) of artists’ work to the big tables. They wrote notes in composition books or in laptops, peering dutifully back and forth, from text to notes.
Carol just typed. All these words and ideas were coming out of her body, not other people’s texts like the students writing notes. This screenplay with Naomi and Phoebe was going so well, somebody would buy it. As a screenwriter with successful films already produced, she would be paid handsomely. If she invested it wisely—maybe she’d invest it with John—she could keep going, focused on writing screenplays without having a job.
Carol thought about Louise’s father, a Frenchman living in Marseille. They had not married, so alimony was impossible, but what about child support? She made a note on a pad beside her
to find a French family lawyer—maybe the writers’ circle knew of one—and kept banging the keys.
