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COPYRIGHT 2004 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc.
"Finding an apartment is a lot like falling in love," the real-estate agent told us. She was a stylish grandmother in severe designer sunglasses. Dyed blond hair, black stockings, a little scarf tied just so around the throat: for three months, she drove us around Paris in her sports car, Hugh up front and me folded like a lawn chair into the back seat.
At the end of every ride, I'd have to teach myself to walk all over again, but that was just a minor physical complaint. My real problem was that I already loved an apartment. The one we had was perfect, and searching for another left me feeling faithless and sneaky, as if I were committing adultery. After a viewing, I'd stand in our living room, looking up at the high, beamed ceiling and trying to explain that the other two-bedroom had meant nothing to me. Hugh took the opposite tack and blamed our apartment for making us cheat. We'd offered, practically begged, to buy it, but the landlord was saving the place for his daughters, two little girls who would eventually grow to evict us. Our lease could be renewed for another fifteen years, but Hugh refused to waste his love on a lost cause. When he was told that our apartment could never truly be ours, he hung up the phone and dialled the real-estate grandmother, which is what happens when you cross him: he takes action and moves on.
The place was officially dead to him, but I kept hoping for a miracle. A riding accident,...
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