French Kissing

by Lynne Shelby

  ‘Where are we going next?’ I asked him.

  ‘The Arc de Triomphe.’

  We continued down the hill, skirting around the famous carousel (instantly recognisable from so many movies set in Paris), edged through the bottle-neck of tourist-jammed streets at the bottom (Alex firmly leading me past the souvenir shops) and took the Metro to the iconic monumental arch that looms over the western end of the broad, tree-lined Avenue des Champs-Élysées. We debated whether to go up to the viewing platform, but in the end Alex decided we didn’t have time – and there are only so many aerial views a girl needs to photograph, even in a city as scenic as Paris.

  From the Arc de Triomphe, we walked along the Champs-Élysées, past cafés, shops, and the Lido nightclub, taking a brief detour along the Avenue Montaigne, where the haute-couture fashion houses have their flagship stores (I gaped at the windows full of designer dresses, Alex talked about the time he’d photographed the backstage craziness of Paris fashion week). Continuing along the Champs-Élysées, we came to a large hexagonal square with a high stone obelisk in its centre, and cars and motorbikes roaring around its perimeter.

  ‘This is the Place de la Concorde,’ Alex said. ‘Once we get across the road, you can take a photograph along the entire length of the Champs-Élysées, with the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. And over there, on the other side of the square, is the entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries.’

  After the noise of the traffic in the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries Gardens were a haven of quiet. We had lunch at a café under the trees, and then we walked along the dusty gravel paths, among the flower beds and manicured lawns, until we came to a circular pond with green metal chairs set all around its rim. Nearly every chair was already taken, but I spotted one that was free, Alex dragged another over from further around the pond, and we took a break from sightseeing to sunbathe. I watched the people going past, some obviously tourists, laden with rucksacks, maps, and camcorders, others French, mothers pushing buggies or shepherding toddlers, a perspiring man in a business suit, students, and white-haired seniors. A French father appeared with two small boys carrying toy sailing boats, which they proceeded to launch, scurrying to meet the brightly painted wooden vessels as they drifted across the pond’s smooth surface to the other side.

  ‘Did you sail boats here when you were little?’ I asked Alex.

  ‘Yes, my father would often bring me here on a Sunday morning. Sometimes my mother and Hélène came too, but it was usually just the two of us.’ He smiled, and stared off into the distance. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Are you ready to move on to the Louvre?’

  The dark grey roofs of the Louvre were just visible from where we were sitting. A few minutes later, we were standing in the main courtyard of the museum, and I was asking Alex for advice on the best angle to take a photograph that included both the imposing royal palace that was the original building and the modernistic glass pyramid that was now its entrance. It was impossible for us to see all the works of art housed in the miles of galleries within the Louvre in one afternoon, but I saw the Mona Lisa, and despite the crowd gathered in front of this most famous painting, which limited where I could stand, I was able to verify that her eyes do indeed follow you as you move. For me, it was wonderful to see this masterpiece, and so many others that I knew from my studies, hanging on a wall instead of in the pages of a book or on the internet. Especially as I was able to discuss what I was seeing with Alex.

  When we came out of the Louvre, the sun was low in the sky, and our shadows long on the ground, but it was still pleasantly warm. I didn’t take any persuading to agree with Alex’s suggestion that we take another walk by the Seine before returning to Montmartre. A broad ramp took us down to the stone quays that run alongside the river, Alex took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and we strolled by the water, enjoying each other’s company without the need to talk. There were other people walking along the quays, couples holding hands or with their arms about each other’s waists, and joggers and cyclists, but not many. More were sitting on the edge, soaking up the last rays of the afternoon sun.

  ‘It’s the golden hour,’ Alex said. ‘The best time of day for photography, when the shadows are no longer harsh.’ He reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair off my face, and then he took a picture. And then, without my asking, he put his arm around my shoulders, held out his camera, and took a selfie of us both together.

  I smiled at him and he smiled back, and then we went and sat on the edge of the quay, our feet dangling over the water. The sun sank lower, and the river grew almost too bright to look at. The Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower just visible in the far distance, became a silhouette.

  For a while we sat in silence, and then Alex said, ‘When Cécile finished with me, I had to get away from Paris. Our lives here were so intertwined. We had the same friends, we were invited to the same events. Everywhere I went – restaurants, bars, clubs, and theatres – had an association with her. I thought I’d find it hard to come back here – but I haven’t found it hard at all.’ His eyes met mine. ‘I’m over her, Anna. Over Cécile.’

  Finally. ‘I’m so glad, Alex. I’ve hated seeing you so wretched.’

  ‘That last terrible phone call, when all we did was yell at each other, I think that was what made me accept that she really was never coming back to me – and I was finally able to let her go, and start to move on. And now, showing you Paris, I’ve remembered so much about my life, so many good memories of growing up, studying, working and living here, that the bad memories suddenly don’t seem to matter. I’m no longer in love with Cécile. Talking about her now, all I feel is indifference. It’s as though all the pain and hurt I went through happened to another person.’ His mouth lifted in a smile. ‘Thank you, Anna, for being there for me, for listening. Thank you for coming with me to Paris.’

  Affection for him overwhelmed me. Sitting there with him in the golden light, the water gleaming beneath our feet, looking into his warm, dark brown eyes, I felt closer to him than I’d ever felt before. The longing to draw his head down to mine, to feel the touch of his lips on my mouth, became a physical ache, a craving for him that was so strong that I couldn’t believe that he didn’t feel it too.

  ‘I’m always there for you, Alex.’

  ‘And I for you, mon amie Anglaise.’ He raised his hand to shade his eyes against the light, and gazed out over the river.

  Mon amie Anglaise. My English friend. He was no longer hung up on his ex, but he still didn’t see me as anything other than a friend. Between us, nothing had changed.

  Alex said, ‘Time we started for home, I think. We’ll pick up a bottle of wine and something to eat tonight on the way. And then, I’ll need to call Marcel – it shouldn’t take long. Later, I thought we’d go to Le Cave, a bar I like on the Rue Oberkampf. I’ll ask a few people to join us … Luc, Henri, Marthe. If that’s OK with you, Anna?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I tore my gaze away from Alex’s full, sensual mouth that I was never going to kiss, and made myself focus on his plans for a night out in Paris.

  Twenty-eight

  ‘Ah – there’s Luc and Édith.’ Alex stood up and waved his arm above his head. The man and woman who’d just entered the bar started to make their way over to our table.

  Alex’s friend, Henri, a tall lanky man, with a pleasant, amiable face, said, ‘Did Alex ever mentioned Luc or Édith in his letters?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. You’re the only one of his friends here tonight that I remember reading about.’

  Henri had known Alex since they were students. His name had at one time, cropped up regularly in Alex’s letters. Usually in such comments as

  Henri and I got wasted …

  or

  Henri and I met two American girls studying at the Sorbonne …

  ‘Obviously, I’m Alex’s most interesting acquaintance,’ Henri said.

  Like many of the bars in Paris, Le Cave, situated in a vaulted stone cel
lar, became a club after dark, with live music. Alex and I’d found ourselves a table in an alcove, far enough away from the stage and the dance floor to hold a shouted conversation. Before we’d left his apartment, he’d texted a number of his friends, asking if they wanted to join him for a drink in the Oberkampf district, and sitting with us were Henri, a guy named Léon, and a couple whose names were Marthe and François. Chatting with a group of people in French meant that I’d had to concentrate far more than when I was only talking to Alex, but I’d been pleased to discover that I understood almost all of what they said about the merits of this or that Parisian restaurant, the films they’d seen, the books they’d read. I’d tried to memorise any idiomatic or slang expressions I didn’t recognise, so that later I could ask Alex for a translation. Henri had complimented me on my French accent – or lack of an English accent – and expressed surprise that this was my first visit to France. Like my friends in England, he’d been amazed to learn that Alex and I actually wrote letters to each other.

  ‘Salut tout le monde.’ Luc and Édith arrived at the table. They greeted Alex with air kisses each side of his face, exclamations of pleasure at seeing him back in Paris, and congratulations when he told them the reason for his return. He introduced me as his friend from England.

  ‘Having your work shown at the Galerie Lécuyer is an achievement in itself,’ Édith said, taking the seat on my right. ‘Let alone being nominated for the Lécuyer Award. You must be thrilled’

  ‘I am,’ Alex said. ‘I admit it.’

  Luc fetched a chair from another table and sat down beside Édith. ‘We’ll go and see the exhibition, of course,’ he said. ‘Whether you win or not.’

  ‘The photos you’re exhibiting are portraits?’ Édith said.

  ‘Yes,’ Alex said. ‘There’s a shot of Anna that I’m particularly proud of.’

  I smiled at him. He raised his glass to me, and drank.

  ‘Are you a model?’ Henri said.

  ‘Not professionally,’ I said. ‘Only for Alex. I work for a graphic design company.’

  ‘My round,’ François said, getting up from the table. Luc went with him to the bar. The live band finished their set, and were replaced by a DJ playing club anthems.

  Henri said, ‘Would you like to dance, Anna?’

  ‘Oh, I –’ I didn’t particularly want to dance with him, but there wasn’t any reason why I shouldn’t. It seemed mean to refuse him in front of all these people that he knew. ‘Yes, I’ll dance with you.’

  I followed Henri onto the dance floor. While he wasn’t nearly as good a dancer as Alex, he did at least lurch and shake in time to the music, and didn’t stamp on my toes. A slow track came on. I’d have been happy to go back to the table at that point, but Henri put his hands on my waist, confining his dance moves to an occasional sway. I put my hands on his shoulders, making sure I kept plenty of space between us.

  When the slow track came to an end, I dropped my hands to my sides, smiled, and said, ‘Merci, Henri.’

  He looked a little disappointed, but didn’t try to detain me.

  We went back to the others. Alex was having an intense conversation with François and Léon, and Henri joined them. Luc was talking to Marthe.

  Édith moved her chair close to mine and said, ‘So how long have you and Alex been together?’

  ‘Oh – No – We aren’t together. It’s like Alex said – we’re friends.’ As I needed to keep reminding myself.

  Édith arched her eyebrows. ‘You do surprise me. When you were dancing with Henri, Alex couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’ I glanced over at Alex. He seemed entirely absorbed in whatever Léon was saying to him.

  Édith smiled. ‘I can think of several reasons – Oh, I love this song! Shall we girls go and dance?’

  Calling for Marthe to follow, Édith dragged me back to the dance floor. The three of us strutted our stuff for a while, and then the guys came and joined us, and we all danced together, with much raising of arms in the air, and vocal accompaniment. The tempo of the music changed. Alex caught hold of me and pulled me close. Slow-dancing with his arms about me, I thought how good it was to have a night out with him in Paris, to meet his friends, to be a part of the life he’d described to me in his letters.

  ‘One more drink?’ he said. ‘And then we’ll go back to mine?’

  ‘D’accord.’

  The others had already abandoned the dance floor. Alex steered me back to the alcove, Édith giving me a very knowing smile when she saw his hand on the small of my back. I decided that if she was determined to believe that I was more than his amie, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Alex bought a final round of drinks, and after everyone had drained their glass, we all left Le Cave together. Amidst a throng of students and twenty-somethings bar-crawling along the Rue Oberkampf, Alex said á bientôt to his friends. They all wished him the best for the exhibition, hoped that I’d enjoy the rest of my stay in Paris, and then we went our separate ways.

  Alex and I reached his apartment at around one in the morning. We discussed the arrangements for tomorrow – he had to go to the gallery, I was to go shopping with his sister – and then he took first turn in the bathroom, reappearing in about two minutes. I took far longer, scrupulously removing my make-up, and brushing my hair. I took off the jeans and top I’d worn to Le Cave. Then I put my baggy T-shirt on over my bra and thong. If I’d known I was going to be sharing a bed with Alex, I’d have brought something less revealing to sleep in.

  I went back into the living area. Alex was already in bed, his head resting on one hand. With his other hand, he pulled back the duvet, and gestured to the mattress.

  ‘Are you happy sleeping on this side of the bed?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think to ask you last night, but most people have a preference.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ I wondered if he lay on that side of the bed when he slept with other women? My face flushed. All the awkwardness I’d felt the previous night came rushing back. Hoping Alex hadn’t noticed my unease, I lay down on the mattress, making a conscious effort not to position myself right on the edge, and covered myself with the duvet. My body jerked involuntarily when Alex’s foot brushed against mine.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, but could you move your foot – it’s freezing.’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘No worries. Pas de quoi.’

  He switched out the light. I turned onto my side and shut my eyes.

  He said, ‘Was Henri hitting on you tonight?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘At least – I didn’t notice.’

  ‘He seemed very taken with you.’

  ‘He was just being nice – I think.’ I thought back over the evening, unsure now whether Henri had been flirting with me or not.

  ‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ Alex said. ‘Not that I’d blame him if he’d hit on you. You’re a very beautiful girl, Anna.’ He also turned over so that we were lying back to back.

  I was in bed with Alex and he’d just told me that I’m beautiful. I was intensely aware of him, almost naked, so close to me. If I turned to him, and kissed him right now, I couldn’t see him pushing me away. My stomach clenched.

  ‘Bonne nuit,’ Alex said.

  Having sex with Alex would be a really bad idea. He was barely over his ex. He’d never shown any sign of wanting a relationship with me. It would be casual sex and nothing more. I lived in London, he lived in Paris, so there was no future in it. Having sex with Alex could – would – ruin our friendship.

  ‘Bonne nuit, mon ami,’ I said.

  Twenty-nine

  ‘Do I look all right?’ I twirled around so that Alex could inspect my denim shirt-dress, caught in at the waist with a wide leather belt. Mindful of the number of cobbled streets we’d walked down the day before, I’d made the reluctant decision to stick to my flats rather than the ankle boots I usually wore on shopping expeditions. Luckily, my shoulder bag matched my belt and my shoes.
‘Is this smart enough for me to wear to go out with Hélène, do you think?’

  Alex, sitting crossed legged on the bed in his jeans, going through the photos he’d taken yesterday on his camera, looked at me blankly. ‘I’ve no idea. Why would you care what you wear to go shopping with my sister?’

  ‘Frenchwomen are known to be effortlessly stylish. I don’t want Hélène to think that just because I’m English, I don’t know how to dress. What sort of clothes does she usually wear? Smart or casual?’

  ‘I don’t take much notice. She usually looks OK, I guess.’

  ‘Alex! How can you not notice your sister’s clothes? You do fashion shoots all the time.’

  ‘But I don’t choose the garments. All I do is turn up in the studio and photograph them on the models. And try to keep the peace between the client, the art director, and the stylist.’

  A thought struck me. Hélène worked as a book illustrator. She’d been to art school. Perhaps her style of dress was bohemian. Would she come floating into Alex’s apartment, trailing patterned scarves and a long skirt?

  I said. ‘Maybe I should change back into my jeans.’

  The front door bell rang.

  ‘No time now,’ Alex said. ‘Anyway, you look great. You always look great, by the way. Just saying.’ He went to the door and opened it to let in his sister.

  ‘Bonjour!’ Hélène stepped into the vestibule and flung her arms around her brother. ‘It’s good to see you, Alexandre.’

  ‘Bonjour, Hélène. Ça va?’ He air-kissed each side of her face.

  ‘Trés bien, merci.’She came further into the apartment, and immediately I saw the resemblance between her and Alex. They had the same very dark hair – hers curling past her shoulders – and dark eyes, and like him, she was very good-looking. She was tall for a woman, as tall as me, enviably slender, and dressed very elegantly in a pair of well-cut, cropped, light-tan trousers and a loose white shirt. I decided I’d made the right choice of outfit for a day out shopping with a Parisienne.

  ‘Bonjour, Hélène,’ I said. ‘I’m Anna Mitchel.’