Love Makes A Fool Out Of You and Me
1926, springtime, Paris
The early morning sun peaked over the rooftops, casting long fingers across the narrow street below. Joyce tilted her head as she walked, letting the sunlight kiss her face and relishing the warmth. It had been cool that morning when she'd left her apartment and, despite her ankle-length coat and quick pace, she still felt chilled.
I need a Warming Charm. Except she had no way of casting one and she didn't know anyone in Paris to do it for her. Not that she hadn't spotted the occasional witch or wizard in the past few months. Those from the magical world often had an unusual taste in clothing, they had a wary look about them when facing Muggle technology, and they shot furtive glances before darting into an alleyway to disapparate. It was nothing that a Muggle would notice but would send red flags to a sensitive Squib.
Her hand moved to the large art file that she carried tucked beneath her arm. The brocante she'd visited had proved fruitful, there was a nice set of charcoal drawings in her folder that should sell at a good profit back in London. Her employers would be pleased.
A quick check on the time, and she hesitated. Several of the dealers hadn't been at the market this morning, was there time to visit another? Hank would still be in bed and any money she made would go towards the wedding. A tram trundled past, but she thought of Hank Summers in her bed and turned for home.
Back at her lodgings, the tiny Madame Berardi was knitting in her usual spot in the hallway.
"Mademoiselle Lovegood! Did you have luck today?" she called to Joyce.
Joyce took out the bulging file and showed it to her. "A little," she replied, her French more halting than she wished. "How is, Monsieur Gregoire, today? Better, I hope?"
The elderly man lived in the flat above her and spent his days playing chess, cooking and drinking his favourite wine. Madame Berardi was obviously sweet on him for she was always taking him meals.
The widow smiled. "Better. Much better. I sent Yvette to his rooms with a bowl of soup this morning. There is nothing more fortifying than chicken soup when you have been ill. It restores a man's vigours."
Joyce kept her face blank. She really didn't want to know about Monsieur Gregoire's 'vigours', but since her landlady was allowing her fiance to stay in her apartment, she could hardly become prudish.
"Yvette's a hard-working girl," she replied focusing on the dark-haired maid rather than the man.
Yvette had come to live with her grandmother after becoming frightened by the advances of an over-ardent suitor in her village. Privately, Joyce suspected there was more to the story. Had Yvette yearned for life in the city? She couldn't blame her for that. Hadn't she done the same? Although with her, she hadn't just run from a village but an entire world.
Picking up her letters from her cubby hole, she shuffled through them as she headed for the stairs. There was one from her employers in London so she tore that open first. It contained a cheque from the sale of a small painting she'd found a few weeks previously and a long list of artwork their clients were looking for. Reading the list, she walked to her room, not noticing that the door was ajar.
Inside, she removed her gloves and hat. She quickly fluffed up of her bobbed hair and quietly opened the bedroom door.
As she expected, Hank was still in bed. What she didn't expect was Yvette Berardi half-kneeling on the bed, her white blouse undone and Hank's hand inside it.
Yvette let out a shriek. Grabbing at the front of her blouse, she scuttled away from a startled Hank. And Joyce watched his hand fall. 'He betrayed me with that hand.'
Joyce!" Hank cried, stumbling from the bed.
Yvette ran past Joyce, holding the front of her blouse together, trying to cover the grubby chemise she wore below it.
He betrayed me for a girl who wears grubby underwear.
The door to their apartment slammed and she heard Yvette's footsteps running down the stairs.
"I wonder what she'll tell her grandmother?" Joyce asked dully. Easier to think about Madame Berardi's surprise at seeing her granddaughter half dressed than dealing with what had just happened.
"Joyce. It isn't what it looked like."
He'd taken a step closer, reaching for her the hand she'd just seen him touching another woman with. Joyce shuddered and backed away. If he touched her – touched her with either hand – she'd break.
"I... trusted you." Three words. His promises broken. Her heart broken. Her world broken.
"I did nothing. Honestly."
"I saw you. Your hand was..." She couldn't finish the sentence. She'd shatter.
"Joyce, honey, she came in while I was asleep! She... she was trying to get into bed with me. I had to fight her off."
"You fought her off?" Did he think she was stupid?
"Yes." Hank nodded vigorously.
Numbness gave way to rage. "I see. You fought her off by putting your hand in her bra? Did your fingers accidentally become stuck in there?"
"Joyce... there's no need for sarcasm. You've gotta believe me. It was her. She's been coming on to me every time you turned your back. I've always ignored her."
How long had this been going on? "Are you sure?"
"Yes! I woke up and... she was there. Shoving my hand into her bra. I didn't –."
Joyce snorted. Did he really think she'd believe that? "How did she get in?
"What?" Hank rubbed his right hand through his hair – rich waves shining in the morning rays.
Hank's hair had always fascinated her. It sprung from his head in neat waves, always falling in a way that enhanced his looks and never looked messy. At first, she'd thought he must be a wizard who used use potions to enhance it, but soon realised he was a Muggle who just had well-behaved hair. She stared at those soft tresses, and fought off the urge to throw herself into his arms and pretend the last five minutes hadn't happened.
And doesn't love make a fool out of you?
"How did she get in here?" Joyce repeated. How had Yvette gotten through a locked door? "The door was locked the door when I left."
Hank shook his head. "No. You must have left it unlocked."
"I didn't." He was lying. She always locked the door when she left. Today was no different... unless she had forgotten? It was hard to remember.
"You did. You forgot. Don't forget, you were in a hurry to leave me."
She hadn't been. Hank liked sex. She did too, but knowing she had to leave early for the market he'd still delayed her. Had being in a rush made her leave the door open, allowing Yvette to enter? Was he telling the truth about this?
He'd seen the doubt in her face and scowled. "You've got no one to blame but yourself. This is all your fault. If you hadn't left me, I wouldn't have been trapped with that sex-crazed woman. Jeez, Joyce. I can't believe you're blaming me."
He walked away, leaving her gaping at him with hot tears burning her eyes.
"I've done nothing wrong."He angrily wrenched off his pyjamas, standing naked before her. "Is it my fault that women throw themselves at me? Christ, Joyce. You know, I never looked at another women since meeting you. You're the one I asked to marry me, for God's sake! Then this is the way you behave!"
Joyce stared at him, horrified. She'd caught him with his hand inside another woman's blouse and he was blaming her? "How do you expect me to react?"
Hank shot her a filthy look, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and popping one into his lips as he dragged on his clothes. "Have some faith in me. Yvette is nothing but a cheap whore looking to earn some easy cash. I didn't fall for it."
She'd never heard him talk this way in all the months she'd known him.
"Wanna know why she left that village of hers?" Lighting the cigarette, he took a long drag. "Oh, I know the story she puts about. Tells everyone that she was being pestered by an older man who was going to force her to marry him." He took another drag, smoke curling into the air. "That old bastard who lives upstairs told me the real reason she's with granny."
Fully dressed now, he moved closer. His deep blue eyes were hard and showed no sympathy for her distress.
"She was a prostitute," he spat. "Don't act so surprised. It's easy money for a girl like her. Seems a few upstanding wives didn't like their husbands' wages were being spent that way and they organised a..." he blew out a cloud of smoke, "...witch hunt. Should have burned her at the stake if you ask me."
Joyce flinched. She wasn't a witch but that comment... her family... it hurt. Eyes still bright with tears, she realised her chin. "They'd have been better off burning their husbands."
He merely smiled, then took another draw on the cigarette. "Maybe, they knew they only had themselves to blame. Most likely they'd driven their husbands elsewhere because they weren't putting out at home. Who knows... They could have felt neglected because their wives insisted on a career instead of staying home where she is supposed to."
Joyce stared at the floor. Hank thought a woman should stay at home once married, and especially after having a child. It was the elephant in the room between them. An argument for the future, both hoping the other would change their mind when that time came.
"What would you say if the roles were reversed?" she retorted. "What about a man who puts his career before his wife? Would you blame her if she found affection elsewhere"
He ducked his head, scowling and refusing to answer. Walking to the table, he yanked open the small drawer and took out his apartment keys and his wallet. "You know what? I can't deal with you right now. I'm gonna go and stay with Tony. I'll come back for the rest of my stuff tomorrow."
"Oh, take your time packing," she snapped. "I'm going out. Be gone when I get back!" She pushed past him, pausing only to collect her hat and purse before she was through the door, running down the stairs, past a started Madame Berardi, and out into the street.
She wandered blindly. Not caring what direction she took, her eyes blurry with tears... walking and walking until she collided with someone.
An elegant wooden walking stick clattered to the ground and she had to grab the elderly man's arms to stop him from tumbling.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur." She blinked through her tears, seeing grey hair and a kind face that reminded her of her father.
If only he was still alive. If only I could Apparate back to the past and hide in my old bedroom. She let out a sob and she dashed away tears, embarrassed to be crying in front of a complete stranger.
He clucked sympathetically. "Do not cry, Mademoiselle. There is no harm done. See, here, there is a cafe. Take a seat, drink coffee and compose yourself. All is not as bad as you might think."
And he was pushing her into a chair, calling for coffee and sitting facing her. Whilst she dried tears, he sipped his coffee and chattered on.
"This is my favourite time of year. The end of winter. Look around you. Flowers are coming into bloom and the birds are all singing in the trees. Ah, there is nowhere quite like Paris in the spring. Is it not a time for love and lovers?"
She choked a little, making him lean towards her. "I am sorry. I sense that this is an affair of the heart. I am sure that, whoever he is, he will come to his senses. And if he does not, why then he was never the man for you." He pushed the coffee towards her. "Drink. Remember, this will pass, like everything in life does."
He sat, chattering on about a son and daughter and the grandchildren they'd given him.
"Thank you, Monsieur," Joyce said when his conversation had died away, and she'd regained control over herself. "Forgive me for..." She waved a handkerchief at herself. "You have been very kind."
He smiled back at her. "No matter. If you are feeling better, I shall be on my way. My grandson awaits for the toy that I have in my pocket." He stood. "Stay here and drink another coffee, my dear. Simply watch the world and forget all your own troubles for a while."
It was good advice, and she nodded. With a tip of his hat, he went on his way, leaving Joyce alone to sip her coffee and watch the people passing in the small square.
"Joyce? Joyce Lovegood?" a familiar voice asked.
She looked up, meeting the emerald eyes of an auburn-haired man who was regarding her doubtfully.
"Bracius!" She jumped to her feet. "I haven't seen you since..." It had been in Gringotts when she'd been seventeen. She'd been dealing with a grumpy goblin whilst Peregrine was sorting out their parents' will. A vault set up for me? For a Squib? Not that it had contained much money.She thought of it as her emergency fund.
Bracius gave her a lop-sided smile and took her hand, bowing over it."It's been a while. May I join you?"
She nodded. Remembering how Pureblood manners had always captivated her. Her parents hadn't approved of her friendship with Bracius, saying that they were a dark family and not to be trusted. Bracius, though, had always been polite and... kind to her.
So she watched the young wizard drop into the chair opposite and signal for the waiter to bring more coffee.
"What are you doing in Paris?" they both asked simultaneously and smiled.
"I live here. I work sourcing artwork for a gallery in London." As long as she stayed away from the subject of Hank, she'd be fine.
"An art gallery in Muggle London, I take it?" A sharp note in the question caused her to shrug.
"None of the wizarding ones want to employ me."
There was an awkward pause, and he shook his head. "Yet they buy in Muggle artwork."
She nursed the coffee in her hands, nodding. While it was fine for a gallery to sell art created by someone without magic, she faced prejudice for not having any. They claimed it was because her lack of magic handicapped her ability to do her job and yet here she was, working for Muggles.
Lestrange looked annoyed. "The best of Muggle art, music, writing and fine wine are all acceptable in a magical home –."
"Yet a Squib is not," she finished.
Bracius sighed. For a few minutes, they both sat companionably, looking across the square and watching the Muggles hurry by. Then, he turned sparkling green eyes onto her. "Don't you want to know why I'm in Paris?"
Something in the way he said it, made her smile. "I did ask. Remember? Why? Is it something nice?"
"I'm on honeymoon."
That did surprise her. "Congratulations. Who's the lucky lady?"
She could see that thinking of his bride brought happiness to his face. She felt happy for him. Glad for his sake that his family had let him choose his own bride or had chosen one that he could love.
"Her name is Nanette and she's... well, she's sort of a cousin. Not a close cousin, you understand, but... well, she's an absolutely lovely girl." He beamed at her. "Joyce, you have to meet her. In fact, how about I can Apparate back here this evening and take you to her. We've been invited to a... I suppose you could call it a party with a famous guest speaker. Why don't you come? You'd be most welcome."
"Um..." An evening spent crying over a broken heart or a chance to forget for a few hours? "I'd love to."