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It happened at a cocktail party.
(These things usually do.)
She'd already downed two glasses of champagne, and the night was still young; she thanked the alcohol for keeping her mind pleasantly blank as she moved from one silly conversation to another. Rambaldo, taking no chances of having her escape again, kept her close by him these days. (Literally as well as metaphorically, if the bruises on her hips were anything to go by; there was a deceptive strength hidden in his greying body. She had come to know that all too well in the weeks and months since she'd returned.)
Her hand on his arm, they floated around the room, introducing and being introduced to face after face that she did not care to know. From time to time, he'd pat her hand. (The gesture was not one of affection, but a reminder: remember who you are, remember why you're here, and remember where you belong.)
A friend of Rambaldo's appeared beside them, beaming. "Madame de Civry, Monsieur Fernandez, may I introduce you to Monsieur and Madame Lastouc?"
He stepped to the side to reveal the couple.
Ruggero Lastouc smiled, and he was just as devastatingly handsome as when she'd last seen him. "Yes, I think we've met before. Monsieur Fernandez, Madame de Civry; may I introduce you to my wife?"
The woman at his side smiled. She was beautiful, young. With perfectly curled blonde hair and angelic blue eyes that matched her dress, she was the portrait of innocent charm and purity: everything Ruggero deserved. (Everything Magda was not.)
"Madam, Monsieur," she said sweetly. "A pleasure to meet you. My husband has been to Paris before, but I am new to the city. It's absolutely enchanting."
Rambaldo kissed her hand; Magda nodded politely. She watched as the men shook hands. She could not bring herself to meet his eye.
They moved on. From a passing waiter, she grabbed another glass of champagne. Soon the taste alone would make her sick. Rambaldo's grip on her arm tightened. She paid him no attention. The world was fuzzy and soft, and she almost didn't feel the pain of living anymore.
A group of older gentlemen sitting at a table across the room beckoned to them-- no, to Rambaldo. (She was invisible. An accessory, the man's version of a handbag or pearl necklace.)
They crossed the room. She stood smiling at his side as the men talked finances, banking, the economy. Rambaldo moved to sit down before realizing there was no seat for her. He turned to her.
"Go find somewhere to sit. I won't be long." (His breath was hot on her cheek.) She turned to leave, but still he held her hand in a tight clasp.
"And Magda?" he added. She stepped closer to him once more. "I think you've had enough to drink, my darling."
He let her go.
She told herself that it was champagne that reddened her cheeks as she crossed the busy ballroom. (She'd gotten good at lying to herself the past few years.) Even so, as she stepped onto the balcony and into the cool evening air, the illusion fell apart. No amount of lying would let her convince even herself that her eyes watered bitterly because of the breeze. A few angry tears slipped down her cheeks. She did not wipe them away, but tried to dab gently with the back of her hand. Better not to have her makeup reveal to Rambaldo and everyone else that she'd been crying again.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw she was not alone. "I didn't expect anyone to be out here," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."
She realized who it was only a moment too late. She straightened uncomfortably. "I should go back inside. Excuse me."
Ruggero stepped forward, hesitantly reaching out to her. "It's okay. I'll go. They'll be wondering where I am soon."
He didn't move.
She looked at him. "Why aren't you in there?" she asked.
"You know me," he said lightly. "I'm still not one for crowds, nor parties. But Celeste-- my wife-- she's new to the city. To her, the parties are still always gay, the champagne always decadent, the night always young. She enjoys them, and I tolerate it for her."
She gave a tight-lipped smile. "That's love," she said.
"You could say that."
"Oh, I wouldn't know." The air grew tense. (They both played the same game. Life could only go forward if the past had never happened.)
His voice was quiet. "You and I both know that isn't true. I'm not sorry I loved you, even if it nearly ruined me."
"Everything was ruined," she said. "There was nothing to save."
"We might have saved something. Then not everything would have been ruined."
"I loved you so much," she said. "We were damned from the very beginning."
He looked away. "Please don't say any more."
They were silent. The night was still and calm. A pale quarter moon was rising to the east. (Once she had found happiness in spring nights like these. Once she had dared to dream.)
"You're married now," she said. He nodded.
"I am. Celeste is a good girl. She's the daughter of a family friend."
"I'm happy for you."
He stared.
"Really," she said. "There was nothing we could do. You deserve to be happy and not look back."
"I could say the same for you."
She didn't reply. Through the glass doors she could see Rambaldo weaving through the groups of guests, looking for his little pet. She turned to Ruggero.
"It was nice talking to you," she said politely. "I should go back inside."
He looked at her intensely. She closed her eyes and he kissed her, kissed her with bruising force and passion and intensity, kissed her to make up for all those nights they'd spent in the beds of others. He kissed her like a dying man searching for a final breath, her hands tangling in his hair, his hands moving up and down her body and pulling her closer and closer to him.
She opened her eyes. (He was standing still. She was standing still. Neither of them had moved.)
Further down the long balcony another door opened. Chatter and music spilled into the waiting night like uncorked champagne. She spotted a flash of blonde against blue silk.
"It was nice talking to you, Paulette," Ruggero said. His smile did not meet his eyes.
He turned and went over to his wife and their friends.
Magda leaned heavily on the balcony, afraid she might be sick, afraid she might jump in despair. She stared into the garden below, the twisting hedges and knotted topiaries and roses with their razorsharp thorns.
The door opened behind her. (Her head hurt. She smelled his cologne before anything else.)
"Is there a problem?" Rambaldo asked in a low voice. He put his hand on her waist in a gesture that might have been mistaken as comforting.
She turned around dizzily. "All this champagne has gone to my head," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
"Why don't you go inside and sit down somewhere quiet," he told her. "I'll find you when we are ready to leave."
She swallowed dryly. "Alright."
She slipped inside and found a quiet alcove by the landing. Tucking herself in between velvet draperies and a bay window, she watched as couples slowly descended down the staircase and into the quiet night. The window was cool and safe. (She was alone here. No-one could hurt her here.)
She heard their voices before she saw them.
"That woman," a woman asked. "You knew her?"
"A friend of a friend," responded a familiar voice. "We've met before."
They came down the stairs and into view.
"You called her Paulette," the woman on his arm said. "She introduced herself as Magda de Civry."
He was silent. "Did I?" he asked. "I must have made a mistake."
"And the man she was with?" the woman he had married asked. "Was that her husband? She did not have his name..."
"She is his mistress," Ruggero replied.
His wife made some small noise of realization. "Oh," she said. "I understand."
They went out into the night.
(That was all.)