His Lovely Wife

His Lovely Wife

by Elizabeth Dewberry

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Overview

When tall, blond, and beautiful Ellen Baxter enters the Paris Ritz the day before Princess Diana dies, she’s mistaken for Diana by the paparazzi. The next morning, as Ellen’s older, Nobel-laureate husband attends a physics conference, she goes to the site of the fatal crash and finds an uncharacteristic photograph of Diana. Surprised by how deeply the death has affected her, Ellen pockets the photo. As she hears Diana’s voice in her head and begins to understand the parallels between their lives, she tracks down the person who took the photograph, hoping that this man who deals in surfaces can penetrate her beauty, as he did Diana’s, and help her love the woman inside.



Elizabeth Dewberry’s complex, surprising novel uses string theory to weave together two women’s lives and explore a culture that celebrates women for their beauty—then exacts a terrible toll.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780156032551
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date: 03/05/2007
Edition description: First Edition
Pages: 300
Product dimensions: 5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Elizabeth Dewberry has written three previous novels, including Sacrament of Lies. Her plays have been produced in a variety of venues. She lives in Tallahassee, Florida, with her husband, Robert Olen Butler.

Read an Excerpt

Princess Diana was declared dead at four a.m., about an hour ago, but I don’t know that yet. I can’t sleep, so I’ve just put on my jogging clothes and slipped out of my room at the Paris Ritz, where I’m staying with my husband. He’s attending a meeting of physicists about black holes and the chaotic order of the universe, and I’m here mostly to shop. Or so I think.

I also think Diana’s staying here with her boyfriend and I’m passing their suite. Actually, I’m stopped in front of it. The bodyguard is gone—off duty, I assume—and I don’t want to warm up outside the hotel where I’m expecting two or three hundred paparazzi to be waiting for her as they were yesterday, so I’m standing in front of her double doors, but discreetly separated from them by several feet, and I’m pulling first one arm across my chest, then the other, when I notice there’s no newspaper hanging in a little white plastic bag from her gilded door handles, as there is on ours.

I tell myself, —She must be up already, reading her paper.

I clasp my hands behind my back, slowly bend forward, and wait, perfectly still, stretching my arms and my legs and straining my sense of hearing. The walls are surprisingly thin here, but there’s not a sound coming from the room, not the turning of a newspaper page, the murmur of a television newscast, no early-morning lovemaking. So I assume one of them woke up, got out of bed, grabbed the paper, read the headlines, then went back to sleep.

I straighten up, feeling slightly ashamed of myself. Wanting to hear them watch TV was borderline all right, but hoping to listen to them make love is going too far. So I leave.

Just before I get to the revolving door in the lobby, I slip on a pair of sunglasses and put on a baseball cap, pulling my ponytail through the hole in the back. I’m thinking that maybe in the dark, with the cap and the sunglasses and photographers who’ve waited up all night to see Diana, I have a shot at being briefly mistaken for her. It happened yesterday, but at the time, I didn’t understand what was going on—I felt like I was under attack—so I want to do it again. It’s a fantasy, a harmless fantasy for a Buckhead housewife on vacation in Paris.

But I walk out into silence—not a single photographer is here—and I feel as if I’m the one who’s being stood up.

I shrug it off, though, and go down to the rue de Rivoli and cross the place de la Concorde. I turn right at the river, where I run along the cours de la Reine, which I’m trying to remember how to translate: —The heart of the queen? Hearts of the queen? The queen’s corpse?

—Surely not.

After a mile or two, I come to a street that’s closed to motor traffic, though people are stepping over the barricades, walking down the middle of the road toward the entrance to a tunnel, where a small crowd is gathered. The sun isn’t up yet, but the tunnel—the pont de l’Alma underpass, actually—is brightly, almost blindingly lit, and so many cameras are pointed at it that the thought crosses my mind that I’ve wandered onto a movie set. But there’s no director, nobody yelling, Action! or, Quiet. There’s no noise to quiet—no traffic or bustle, no human voices. And the sadness in the people I might have taken to be extras feels all too real.

I cross the barricade and move closer to find out what they’re looking at: a huge black Mercedes that’s been crumpled like a wad of paper.

I stand for several minutes with a group of strangers, watching the car being hoisted onto the back of a truck. There are no bodies, no ambulances, but it’s obvious that someone has died. Some people are taking pictures, but none of us is saying a word. Everybody’s barely breathing except for one woman in a sari who starts weeping and can’t stop.

The flashes from the cameras keep hitting the car and screaming off, and the air is full of a scent that’s not exactly oil or smoke or wet pavement or muddy water or human sweat or the smell of your own skin after you’ve wept, but some combination of all that and something else, something earthy and otherworldly and sorrowful, and I hear a distant sound like musical voices echoing inside a metallic cave, and I feel a tearing in me, a memory starting to rip open: my mother’s gold station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the sides and sleek chrome luggage rack on top, and the last time I saw my father, he was tying my little blue and white vinyl suitcase to the roof with a rope, and the last time I saw the car, in the dark, through the cracks between my mother’s fingers, it looked black, not gold, and it was not a car. I thought it should have been making a noise, a hiss, a steely scream—somebody should have been screaming—but the only sound I could hear was crickets, crying in the night. I didn’t know what had happened—I still don’t remember the crash—and I tried to tell myself the car had exploded like in a cartoon and my father had been ejected and he’d gone for help, he would come back with a little X-shaped bandage on his forehead and save the day. Though another part of me knew he was still in the car, and he was dying, or dead.

My mother, a former Miss Alabama with a singing ventriloquist act, had been performing at a church in Mobile, after which we’d gone to the beach for a day, and on our way home, late on a starless, moonless night, we’d hit a black bull in the middle of a black country road, and I found myself sitting in the dirt next to the car, hearing my mother call my name. The stuff in my suitcase—books and bathing suits and sundresses—was scattered over the road like so much garbage. My mother held Katie, her dummy, under one arm, and when she found me, she took my hand in her other hand, and I stood up. I didn’t ask about my father and she didn’t say anything about him, and we left our footprints on my things as we walked away from the car and into the black of the night. We never spoke directly of the accident again.

And thirty years later, in Paris, I’m trying to put my father’s violent death out of my mind—I don’t think of him that often—as I linger a few more minutes in front of the remains of someone else’s crash. Part of me wishes I could call my mother now, but what would we say?

—Hi, Mother, how are you?

—Fine.

—Good . . . I’m fine, too.

And then what?

I can’t get myself to imagine her saying, Ellen! or, How nice to hear from you!

But she’d have to say something. She wouldn’t hang up on me.

Maybe, —I thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet.

I wouldn’t point out that I could have come to the same conclusion about her. I’d just say, —No, I’m still hanging on.

A man in a bright blue jumpsuit quietly sweeps up the last of the broken glass. Then a few other men in jumpsuits turn off the floodlights and take them away while another, almost imperceptible odor begins to fade—a combination of sulfur and silver and the way paper smells after whatever was written on it has been erased. I think we would stand here longer, gazing at the empty space where the car was, but men in uniforms are quietly asking people to move off the street.

The woman in the sari is moving in the general direction of the drift of people toward the huge fake flame on the plaza above the underpass, a life-sized replica of the flame on the Statue of Liberty, and I’m following her. I’m debating whether to try to comfort her or give her some privacy when she crosses a side street ahead of me while the walk signal—a green man with one foot extended in front of him—blinks. Then he changes to red, feet together, and I stop at the curb and she disappears into the crowd.

So I’m just waiting to cross the same side street, not headed anywhere in particular, when I hear a cell phone ring and turn to see whose it is and I look at the man standing next to me and he looks at me. He seems familiar, though I can’t place him instantly. He sort of nods at me, though whether it’s because he recognizes me or he’s apologizing for the loud ring, which seems disrespectful under the circumstances, I can’t say. Then he pulls back from the curb and speaks softly into the phone: “Oui?” His voice is familiar, too. He’s standing behind me now, so I can’t see his face, but I listen.

He says, “Yes, I’m here,” in English, and his accent is American and I think I remember where I’ve seen him before, and he says with some irritation in his voice, “No, there’s nothing left for me to photograph now, anyway, just a bunch of rubbernecks,” and I know where I saw him. Then he says, quietly but with some disgust in his voice, “Right,” and then, even more quietly, almost a whisper, “Go f*** yourself.”

And the walk signal comes on again and we cross the street and I move slowly until he catches up with me and now we’re walking side by side toward the flame. Maybe somewhere in my unconscious, I’m already starting to put things together—the missing newspaper, the silence in Diana’s room, the lack of paparazzi at the hotel and the abundance of them here—and I don’t want to know it. But for whatever reason, I’m not going to ask him who died. I tell myself that’s because I think he’s assumed I already know and I’m grieving, as he is, or at least paying my respects, when what I was actually doing there at the tunnel, I have to admit, was more like rubbernecking. I tell myself I probably won’t recognize the name when I do hear it, assuming the person is French. I try to convince myself that this odd feeling I’ve got in my stomach is about him, an intuition that being Americans in Paris in this particular spot at this particular time of this particular day means we have something important in common. Which will turn out to be true, though not in any way I’m imagining right now.

Copyright © 2006 by Elizabeth Dewberry

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