by Lynne Shelby
‘We are.’ Izzy said. ‘On Saturday. He told me he’s been wanting to ask me out for ages. He’s such a sweet guy.’
‘Yes, he is.’
Izzy’s eyes were shining. ‘I guess I should go and do some work.’ She wandered back to the creatives’ end of the studios. Alfie glanced up as she sat down next to him. They exchanged a look that could only be described as meaningful.
That was the prom project completed. And it’d certainly reached its target demographic.
I sat at my desk and drank my coffee. I wondered what Alex was doing while I was stuck in front of a computer screen. He’d said something about a shoot in Richmond Park. It was a sunny day, and I envied him being outside.
‘What’s that you’re working on?’ Unnoticed by me, Oliver had come out of his office and was standing behind my chair.
‘Oh, this isn’t work,’ I said. ‘It’s a poster that Alfie and Izzy created at the weekend. It’s for my sister Vicky’s senior prom night.’
‘Ah – that explains the colour scheme,’ Oliver said. ‘Designed to appeal to a teenage girl.’
‘Yes, Alfie and Izzy are very good at following a brief,’ I said, glad to be able to repay my friends for their hard work by praising them to the boss. ‘They’ve designed tickets and flyers for the prom as well.’ A few clicks brought the images up on my screen.
‘They’re excellent,’ Oliver said. ‘Have you had them printed?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Print them here.’
‘At Nova Graphics? Really?’
‘I doubt it’ll bankrupt us to run off a few tickets for a school prom.’
‘Thank you so much. Vicky and her mates will be very grateful. Their enthusiasm vastly outstrips their budget.’
‘You’re close to your sister, aren’t you?’
‘I am. Despite the ten-year age difference.’
‘Are you close to your parents as well?’
‘Oh, yes. My parents are great.’
‘That’s good. Family is important.’
‘I agree,’ I said.
Oliver regarded the scene in front of him, smiling benignly at the buzz of activity as his staff went about their work. ‘Natalie and I could never have built up our business the way we have if our families hadn’t helped us in the early days with childcare and all that sort of thing.’
Natalie appeared from behind her partition.
‘Oliver?’ she said. ‘We should get going.’
‘I’ll be right with you, Nat,’ Oliver said. To me, he added, ‘We have a meeting with a potential new corporate client. We’ll be back in a couple of hours or so.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ve got my mobile number, but don’t call me unless the building’s burning down.’ He went over to Natalie and they left together.
I sighed. I wouldn’t have minded getting out of the office for a couple of hours. Focus, Anna.
My phone vibrated.
Hi Anna, The Edge entertainment dept has a bunch of comps for A Tale of Two Cities, the Musical. Tonight. 7.30. Would you like to come with me? Alex
I texted back straight away:
Yes please. Shall I meet u at the theatre? Anna xx
He texted back the name of the theatre and a smiley face.
I sighed. Alex’s friendship was important to me. I’d enjoy his company while he was in England, and then when he went back to France, we could go on writing letters to each other as we’d always done.
Alex would always be my friend, and that would have to be enough.
Twenty-four
‘Can I get you another drink?’ Oliver asked.
‘Thank you, but no,’ I said, ‘I’m just about to go home.’ Another week gone.
‘I’ll say goodnight, then. See you on Monday.’
‘Night, Oliver. Have a good weekend.’
He went over to the bar. I drained my glass and said goodnight to Natalie and those of my co-workers who hadn’t already left the pub. Izzy and Alfie were sitting together in a corner, away from the rest of us. I decided that the way they were gazing at each other (even before their official first date), they’d probably manage to have a good weekend without my telling them to, and headed to the door.
After the fug of heat and alcohol in the pub, the cool night air was very welcome. I weaved my way through the throng of people who’d chosen to bring their drinks outside, and headed towards the tube. It struck me, as I walked along Camden High Street, that I’d been working at Nova Graphics longer than any of my colleagues. Seven years I’d been there. Longer than anyone apart from Natalie and Oliver.
I reached the station, went through the turnstiles, and down onto the platform. Seven years was an awfully long time to stay in the same job, especially your first job after university. I wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. I didn’t dislike what I did for a living, but the idea that I might still be an account exec at Nova Graphics after ten years – after twenty years – didn’t exactly fill me with joy. I was drifting along at work, just as I’d let myself drift along in my relationship with Nick.
A rush of wind and noise from the tunnel at the end of the platform heralded the arrival of my train. I got on and found myself a seat. Was it time I started looking for a new job? Maybe I should consider moving to a larger design company – or look around for something entirely different to do. A new challenge. And yet … Natalie and Oliver were so nice, and such considerate employers.
I should take some time to think about this. I thought. I don’t need to decide anything in a hurry.
I put all thoughts about my job to the back of my mind, and started thinking about the weekend ahead. On Saturday night, I was invited to a friend’s engagement party. On Sunday, Beth was bringing her children over to my flat, where Alex and Rob would join us for lunch, after they’d played squash.
By the time I reached home, it was getting on for midnight. My flat was in darkness. I closed the front door very quietly so as not to disturb Alex if he was asleep (if he was even home – he’d gone out every night this week), and started to creep along the hallway towards my room. From behind Alex’s closed bedroom door came a snatch of female laughter – and the unmistakeable sound of a creaking mattress. My face grew hot. I backed away down the hall – and shrieked when a hand fell on my shoulder.
‘Anna – it’s OK. It’s me’
I spun around. Alex, wearing just his jeans, was standing right behind me.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Oh – I thought you were in your bedroom – I heard – someone. A girl.’
He said, ‘That would be Lou. Louise.’
‘Ah. Yes. Lou. Your assistant.’
‘Yeah. I was working with her again today. After we’d wrapped, I went out for a drink with her and her boyfriend, and we ended up back here.’
‘Lou and her boyfriend are in your bedroom.’ I felt ridiculously pleased that Alex wasn’t in his room with a girl, but here with me.
‘They live miles out of town. I didn’t think you’d mind if they stayed the night.’
‘Of course, I don’t mind. It’s absolutely fine.’
‘I’m going to sleep in the living room. I helped myself to your spare duvet.’
‘That’s fine too.’
He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I know it’s late, but there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. It can wait ’til the morning if you’re too tired.’
‘No, I’m all good.’
We went into the living room. Alex picked up his discarded T-shirt, the muscles in his back rippling as he pulled it over his head. I sat down on the sofa, and he took a seat next to me.
He said, ‘I have to go back to Paris.’
‘W-what?’ It was as thought someone had punched me in the stomach. ‘But – I thought – your contract with The Edge runs until July.’
‘It does. I’m only going to Paris for a few days.’
‘Ooh.’ Immediately, I felt a whole lot better. ‘And
the reason you’re going is …?’
He smiled. ‘I’ve been nominated for the Lécuyer Award.’
‘I’m guessing that’s really good news?’
He nodded. ‘The Galerie Lécuyer is highly respected in the Parisian art world. They show contemporary and emerging artists, mainly those working in photography and video. To be nominated for the award is a great honour. To win would take my career to a whole new level.’
‘Oh, Alex, I’m so pleased for you. This is really exciting.’
‘It is – and completely unexpected. It was Marcel – my agent – who recommended me to the gallery as a nominee for the award. I only found out about it today, when he phoned me.’
‘When will you know if you’ve won?’
‘Not for another two weeks. The Galerie Lécuyer holds an exhibition of all the nominated artists’ work, and the award winner is announced at the opening. It’s an important event in artistic circles, attended by collectors and covered by the media.’
‘This is amazing.’
‘Yeah.’ Alex hesitated, and then he added. ‘One of the photos chosen for the exhibition is the picture of you with the rose.’
‘I – an image of me – is going to be hung on the wall of an art gallery. In Paris?’ Delight surged through me.
‘Are you OK with that?’ Alex said. ‘Because I can tell Marcel to withdraw that particular picture –’
‘Alex, I’m thrilled. A work of art like that photo should be in a gallery where it can be seen by people who appreciate just how beautiful it is.’
‘I’m glad you feel that way, because I was wondering if you’d like to come to the exhibition with me.’
I gaped at him. ‘The exhibition? But – it’s in France.’
‘I had this wild idea that we could go to Paris for a few days, maybe do a bit of sightseeing. We could stay at my place, if you don’t mind sharing a one-room apartment. What do you think?’
I remembered a letter I’d once written to him.
… Maybe one day … I’ll just jump on the Eurostar … I would love to see Paris, and you of course …
‘I’d love to visit Paris,’ I said.
Alex smiled. ‘It will be my great pleasure to show you my city.’
Twenty-five
‘Shall I give you a hand with that?’ Alex said.
I relinquished my large suitcase, and he hoisted it into the luggage rack, next to his small canvas holdall. ‘Which way are out seats?’
Alex glanced at his ticket. ‘This way, I think.’
I followed him along the train carriage. Our seats were facing each other across a narrow table.
‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘We both get a window.’
Alex’s dark eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever travelled with anyone who finds a train journey as exciting as you do – at least not since I first came to England with my school.’
‘I am excited,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind admitting it.’ For the last ten days, all I’d thought about was my visit to Paris with Alex. Anything else, particularly any decision about whether I was going to start looking for a new job, could wait until after our trip. ‘Can I have the seat that faces the way we’re going?’
‘Of course,’ Alex said. ‘Although, I should probably warn you that for much of the way, the view out of the window isn’t particularly interesting.’
‘Maybe not for a blasé global traveller like you, but I’m sure it will be for me.’
We settled ourselves into our seats, and I arranged the provisions I’d brought for the journey – bottled water, chicken wraps, crisps, chocolate, a fat paperback, a guidebook – on the table in front of me.
‘I hope I’ve brought enough food,’ I said.
‘You do know that it only takes two and a quarter hours to get from London to Paris on the Eurostar, right?’
‘You’re the one who’s always hungry.’
Alex smiled, and ripped open a packet of crisps. ‘I think we’re just about to leave,’ he said.
The train shuddered, and drew out of the station, and then gathered speed. Looking out of the window, I had to agree with Alex that the view was unspectacular. When we weren’t plunging through a cutting, I saw a sprawl of factories, steelworks, and rusting metal girders, and as we left London behind, stretches of flat countryside, bisected by the concrete pillars of a motorway. Alex was scrolling through emails on his phone. I reached for the Paris guidebook that I’d bought at the station, and immersed myself in descriptions of Parisian landmarks and maps of the Metro. I peered out of the window again when we’d reached the Channel Tunnel, but the only thing to be seen outside the carriage was an impenetrable blackness. I went back to reading about the history of Montmartre, the area of Paris in which Alex lived. And then we burst out of the darkness into bright sunlight.
Somewhat unnecessarily, I exclaimed, ‘We’re in France!’
Alex, who’d dozed off before we’d reached the Tunnel, opened his eyes. He glanced out of the window, but didn’t appear particularly moved to be back on his native soil. I supposed he went abroad so often, that the moment of return to his homeland no longer had any emotional impact. He picked up his mobile.
‘I’ve a text from Hélène,’ he said. ‘She asks if you’d like to go shopping with her while you’re in Paris? Perhaps the day before the exhibition, while I’m occupied at the gallery?’
‘That’s so kind of her,’ I said. ‘Please text her back that I’d love to.’
‘I also have a text from my mother saying that she has been to my apartment to air it, and she has also stocked up my fridge.’
‘The women in your family really spoil you, don’t they?’
‘Mais oui,’ Alex said. ‘They adore me.’ He started to tap out replies to his doting female relatives.
I turned my face back to the scenery, but to my frustration, the train was now going through a whole series of cuttings, and all I could see were brief flashes of houses, electricity pylons, and a car park: not remarkably different from anything I’d seen as we journeyed across Kent. Then, suddenly, we were travelling through the open French countryside. I saw farmland, trees, and villages. I started to notice the subtle differences in the shape of the buildings, and that the cars were, of course, driving on the right hand side of the road. I looked at the square fields of bright green and yellow, and the tiny clusters of houses with their sharply pointed roofs, and thought how much it reminded me of some of the paintings I’d studied at university.
‘The view looks like a landscape by Van Gogh,’ I said to Alex.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It does.’ To my surprise, he reached across the table and took both my hands in his. ‘I’m so pleased that I’m at last going to be able to show you my home, the place where I grew up. I love it that you’re so excited to be visiting Paris.’
‘I’m so glad that I’m going there for the first time with you.’
He gestured at the guide book. ‘Have you decided what you most want to see?’
‘No, I want to go to all the main tourist attractions, do all the things that first-time visitors to Paris do, but I thought I’d leave the actual itinerary up to you. I shall, of course, be taking a selfie of the two of us on top of the Eiffel Tower.’
‘Bien sûr,’ Alex said.
An hour or so later, we arrived at the Gare du Nord.
‘Bienvenue a Paris,’ Alex said.
‘Merci,’ I said. ‘I can’t quite believe I’m actually here.’
We got off the train and threaded our way through the crowds on the station forecourt – Alex insisted on taking charge of both our cases – and having bought a carnet of tickets, rode the Metro to Abbesses, the stop nearest his apartment. My guidebook had warned me that Montmartre was no longer the home of bohemian artists, musicians, and writers, but full of over-priced tourist restaurants and hordes of pushy souvenir sellers, but the Places des Abbesses, the square outside the station, was delightful, with pavement cafés, plane trees
, and wrought-iron streetlamps. It was only a few minutes’ walk from the square to Alex’s home, but we took it slowly, giving me time to take in the sights and sounds of this historic part of Paris, the voices talking in French, the winding cobbled streets, the terraces and flights of steps, and the houses with shuttered windows and balconies. Eventually, we arrived at a typically Parisian apartment building. Alex produced a key to unlock the heavy double-doors that opened onto a paved interior courtyard. An archway on the far side of the courtyard led to a dim, narrow, twisting staircase.
‘There’s no lift, I’m afraid,’ Alex said. ‘Very few of the old buildings in Montmartre have lifts, but once we’re on the fifth floor, I hope you’ll agree the view is worth the climb.’
He hefted up my case, his holdall, and his camera case, and sprung lightly up the stairs, with me following rather more slowly in his wake. I was soon out of breath, and very glad when we reached the tiny landing at the top, and Alex’s studio apartment.
‘After you,’ he said, showing me inside, and switching on a light.
I found myself in a small vestibule. To the left, the wall was completely taken up with a row of cupboards. A door on the right was open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a cream-tiled bathroom. In front of me was an open-plan living area. It had a sloping ceiling, natural wood floors, white-painted walls, and French windows with iron railings across their lower half. It was furnished with a small round table and two chairs, a white, two-seater sofa with red cushions, and a double bed with a white wooden frame and a brightly striped duvet. On the side of the room where the ceiling was highest, a pair of folding doors had been left open to reveal a compact kitchen area. The overall effect was of a light, airy space, with just enough splashes of colour to relieve the monotony of the white walls and furniture. I went to the windows and looked out over the rooftops of Paris, just as the sun was setting, streaking the sky with red and golden light.
‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘I can see the Eiffel Tower. This view is amazing. The whole apartment’s lovely. Not at all what I imagined.’
‘What were you expecting?’
‘You did write that you lived in an attic. I was thinking of peeling paint and threadbare carpets.’
