Me Before You: a novel

If your supervisors hear that you modeled for an artist, they will doubt your morality. You
could lose your job!
He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St. Péronne. The plain foil to Hélène’s beauty.
Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could not
refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle. . . .
But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow myself
this one experience?
Any day after 2:00 
P.M.
, the note had said. The address was two streets from the
Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway, checked the
number, and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door was
slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow
staircase, until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman
singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably his.
I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the door.
A vast room was flooded with light. One wall was bare brick, another almost entirely of
glass, windows running along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing
chaos. Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on
every surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of
glowing color. There were canvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates of half-finished food. And
everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine—mixed with oil paint, echoes of tobacco, and
the vinegary whisper of old wine. Dark green bottles stood in every corner, some stuffed
with candles, others clearly the detritus of some celebration. A great pile of money lay on a
wooden stool, the coins and notes in a chaotic heap. And there, in the center of it all,
walking slowly backward and forward with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur
Lefèvre, dressed in a smock and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the
center of Paris.
“Monsieur?”
He blinked at me twice, as if trying to recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly
on a table beside him. “It’s you!”
“Well. Yes.”
“Marvelous!” He shook his head, as if he were still having trouble registering my
presence. “Marvelous. Come in, come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.”
He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood
clutching my bag awkwardly as he began clearing piles of newspapers from an old chaise
longue until there was a space.
“Please, sit. Would you like a drink?”
“Just some water, thank you.”
I had not felt uncomfortable on the way there, despite the precariousness of my position. I
hadn’t minded the dinginess of the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a
little foolish, and this made me stiff and awkward. “You were not expecting me, monsieur.”
“Forgive me. I simply didn’t believe you would come. But I’m very glad you did. Very
glad.” He stepped back and looked at me.
I could feel his eyes running over my cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as
rigid as a starched collar. He gave off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but
almost overpowering, in the circumstances.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a glass of wine? Something to relax you a little?”

---

“No, thank you. I’d just like to get on. I . . . I can only spare an hour.” Where had that
come from? I think half of me already wanted to leave.
He tried to position me, to get me to put down my bag, to lean a little against the arm of
the chaise longue. But I couldn’t. I felt humiliated without being able to say why. And as
Monsieur Lefèvre worked, glancing to and from his easel, barely speaking, it slowly dawned
on me that I did not feel admired and important, as I had secretly thought I might, but as if
he saw straight through me. I had, it seemed, become a thing, an object, of no more
significance than the green bottle or the apples in the still-life canvas by the door.
It was evident that he didn’t like it either. As the hour wore on he seemed more and more
dismayed, emitting little sounds of frustration. I sat as still as a statue, afraid that I was
doing something wrong, but finally he said, “Mademoiselle, let’s finish. I’m not sure the
charcoal gods are with me today.”
I straightened with some relief, twisting my neck on my shoulders. “May I see?”
The girl in the picture was me, all right, but I winced. She appeared lifeless. She bore an
expression of grim fortitude and the stiff-backed primness of a maiden aunt. I tried not to
show how crushed I felt. “I suspect I am not the model you hoped for.”
“No. It’s not you, mademoiselle.” He shrugged. “I am . . . I am frustrated with myself.”
“I could come again on Sunday, if you like.” I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t as if I had
enjoyed the experience.
He smiled at me then. He had the kindest eyes. “That would be . . . very generous. I’m
sure I’ll be able to do you justice on another occasion.”
But Sunday was no better. I tried, I really did. I lay with my arm across the chaise longue,
my body twisted like the reclining Aphrodite he showed me in a book, my skirt gathered in
folds over my legs. I tried to relax and let my expression soften, but in that position my
corset bit into my waist and a strand of hair kept slipping out of its pin, so that the temptation
to reach for it was almost overwhelming. It was a long and arduous couple of hours. Even
before I saw the picture I knew from Monsieur Lefèvre’s face that he was, once again,
disappointed.