French Kissing

by Lynne Shelby

  Alex said. ‘Have you seen my photos?’

  ‘We have,’ Caitlin said. ‘And we’re all very impressed. The picture of Anna is one of the best you’ve ever taken. Everyone at the exhibition is talking about it. I feel quite sorry for the other photographers.’

  ‘I was inspired when I took that shot,’ Alex said, smiling at me.

  ‘As anyone looking at the photograph can see,’ Guillaume said.

  At that point a gallery employee approached, and informed Alex that the presentation of the Lécuyer Award would shortly be taking place in the atrium.

  ‘Now it gets serious,’ Guillaume said.

  ‘No pressure, Alex,’ Hélène said.

  Along with everyone else at the exhibition, we made our way through the white-walled gallery and down to the lower floor. Alex went and stood with the five other nominated photographers, two men and three women, at the foot of the stairs, while I stood with his family at the front of the assembled crowd. Whatever he was feeling inside at that moment, he appeared calm and relaxed, chatting easily with his rivals. He’s brilliant and talented, I thought. He has to win this award. I let my gaze travel round the atrium, spotting Marcel Guilleroy, the American woman who’d wanted Alex to take her birthday photograph, and the elderly man with the notebook. A number of people cast interested glances in my direction, and more than once I heard someone nearby mention the name ‘Anna’. We’d only been waiting a few minutes, although it felt like much longer, when two men and one woman emerged from a side-room and joined the photographers.

  ‘The guy with the beard is Edouard Geroux, the gallery director,’ Hélène said to me. ‘The others are Monsieur and Madame Lécuyer, the gallery owners.

  ‘Do you know them?’ I said, surprised. As far as I was aware, Alex was the only one in his artistic family to have made any inroads into the inner circles of the Parisian art world.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Hélène said, ‘I googled them before we came out.’

  The hum of conversation in the room gradually faded into silence. Edouard Geroux, holding a microphone, stepped forward, and made a short speech, thanking everyone for their support of the gallery, and of the artists whose work was displayed within its walls. My heart started hammering in my chest.

  ‘But you haven’t come here to listen to me talk all evening,’ Edouard said. ‘What you want to hear is the name of the photographer who has been awarded the Lécuyer Award.’

  Everyone in the gallery held their collective breath.

  ‘It is my very great pleasure,’ Edouard said, ‘to tell you that the recipient of this year’s award is … Alexandre Tourville.’

  The atrium erupted into loud applause. Alex looked completely stunned. The gallery owners shook his hand, as did Edouard and the other photographers, but he stared at them as if he either hadn’t heard what the director had said or didn’t understand. Then his eyes met mine, and suddenly his face broke into a dazzling smile. He beckoned me forward. I shook my head, but he nodded and mouthed ‘yes’. Aware that people were looking at me, and that his family were smiling at me encouragingly, I went to him. He took my hand in his, raising it to his lips and kissing it, before sliding his arm lightly around my waist. A flashbulb exploded as someone took a photo of both of us. I smiled up at Alex, my extraordinarily talented friend, and clapped my hands so hard that they stung.

  Thirty-one

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ I said to Hélène, looking around her state-of-the-art kitchen, and smiling at the children’s paintings taped to the fridge. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘Nearly nine years,’ Hélène said. ‘We moved here when I was pregnant with Véronique. Before that we lived in a place that was even smaller than Alexandre’s.’

  ‘His studio apartment is tiny,’ I said, smiling across the table at Alex, ‘but I love it. It’s wonderful to wake up in the morning, open the shutters, and look out over the rooftops – and I adore Montmartre. Alex once wrote to me that living there is like living in a village, even though it’s in the heart of a city, and I know exactly what he means.’

  Caitlin, sitting next to me, said, ‘Your first visit to Paris has been a great success, I think?’

  ‘It’s been everything I hoped it would be and more. Alex winning the award has made it absolutely perfect.’

  After the presentation of the Lécuyer Award, once the applause had finally died down, Alex had been besieged by any number of people wanting to congratulate him. I stood next to him while he accepted their compliments, thinking how handsome he looked, and feeling ridiculously proud and pleased for him.Eventually, with the woman in the paint-spattered dress wishing them au revoir and a safe journey home, people started to drift out of the gallery’s open doors. Alex, after one final conversation with Edouard Geroux and Marcel Guilleroy, joined his thrilled and delighted family. They hugged him, each other and me, before we all headed out into the night. There was some discussion about whether we should go to a bar, but Hélène and Raymond had to get home to relieve their child-sitter, and so Alex and I, and Alex’s parents, went with them.

  Back at their stylish apartment in a leafy residential avenue in Montparnasse, Véronique and Élodie were still wide awake, and very excited to learn that Uncle Alexandre had won an award, Hélène explaining that it was the same as winning a prize for coming top of the class at school. They were also very interested to meet ‘Anna, who is from England, just like your grand-mére.’ Véronique had asked me shyly if I’d seen the photograph of her sitting in a tree and smiled happily when I told her that I had indeed. Élodie, talking non-stop, had dragged me by the hand to see her room, where I duly admired the dolls’ house made for her by her papa. Once the children had been sent off to bed, the adults sat around the kitchen table, the talk flowing as freely as the wine with which Raymond kept topping up our glasses.

  ‘The first time I visited Paris,’ Caitlin said, ‘was just after I’d graduated from art college. I was sitting at a table outside a pavement café, sketching the other customers and passers-by, when this very good-looking Frenchman, also carrying a sketchbook, sat down beside me and asked if he could draw me. That was how I met Guillaume.’

  ‘That’s so romantic,’ I said. ‘How come you’ve never told me that story, Alex?’

  ‘Have I not?’ Alex said. ‘I guess I’ve heard one or other of my parents tell it so often, I never thought to put it in a letter.’ He and his sister exchanged amused smiles.

  ‘We still have that drawing, framed and hanging in our dining room,’ Guillaume said. ‘Of course, when I sat down next to Caitlin that day, the only thought in my head was to chat up this very pretty English girl, and hopefully persuade her to meet me later for a drink. I’d no idea that she was going to turn out to be the love of my life.’ He reached across the table and took his wife’s hand. ‘It took me a whole week to figure that out.’

  ‘It took me a little longer,’ Caitlin said, ‘but before the end of my holiday, I was smitten.’

  ‘So what happened after you went back to England?’ I asked Caitlin. ‘Did Guillaume visit you? Did you write letters to each other?’

  ‘I never went back to England,’ Caitlin said.

  ‘Never? Not even once?’

  ‘I had no reason to go back. My brother and his family, my only living relatives, had emigrated to New Zealand the year before. My few close English friends, girls I’d known from school and college, were scattered all around the country. When Guillaume asked me to stay with him in France, it wasn’t a hard decision to make. I soon made friends here and found myself a job. Paris very quickly became my home.’

  ‘It was a brave thing to do all the same,’ Guillaume said. ‘At the time I didn’t realise quite how much I was asking of you, ma chérie.’

  Caitlin smiled. ‘It was crazy, but we were both very young.’

  I wanted to ask Caitlin more about her early days in France, but the conversation moved on, talk about work, gossip about friends, the sort of discussions close families
have around a kitchen table. I looked at Alex’s mother, with her husband and adult children, and tried to imagine how it must have been for her as a young woman, starting a new life in a new country, with a man she’d only just met. It struck me that if I ever wanted to experience living and working abroad, now while I was still young, would be the time to do it. If I did decide to move on from Nova Graphics, maybe I could get a job in Paris, just as Alex had done in London. Not that I wouldn’t miss my friends and family in England, but going back and forth across the Channel was a lot simpler now than when Alex’s parents were my age. For the first time in years, I found myself remembering how after I’d graduated, I’d tried to get a job in an art gallery – without success. I thought of all the small galleries I’d seen this afternoon in the Marais and wondered if any of them were looking to take on an assistant …

  Alex’s voice broke in on the half-formed thoughts tumbling around my head. ‘We’re catching an early morning train tomorrow, and neither of us has packed. We should be getting back to my place – if you’re ready, Anna?’

  ‘I’d love to stay longer,’ I said, ‘but you’re right – we do have to get up early tomorrow.’

  With many hugs and promises that I’d come and see them the next time I was in Paris (and promises that they’d come and see me if they ever came to London), Alex and I said goodbye to his relatives. Caitlin accompanied us to the front door, giving me an extra hug, telling me once again that she was delighted to have met me at last. She stood watching Alex and I from the open doorway until we were inside the lift.

  ‘I do like your family,’ I said, as we walked to the Metro. ‘They all made me feel so welcome.’ Unlike Mrs Cooper. I had a sudden vision of Nick’s mother standing in front of Anna Awakening. Somehow, I doubted that she would appreciate its artistic merits. I spared a thought for Nick, wishing him well, hoping that he was over me, and that he’d soon meet someone who would make him happy.

  Alex said, ‘My family like you. While Élodie was showing you her toys, your complete and utter wondrousness was all my parents talked about. I did point out that it was me, the award-winning photographer, who should be getting all the praise and attention, but they told me not to be so up myself, and that I was very lucky to have you as a friend. Which is true enough.’

  I laughed. ‘They’re all very proud of you – as you well know.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘As am I,’ I said. ‘I’m so proud of you, Alex.’

  Alex’s eyes shone. ‘It was a good night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been better.’

  ‘I think it’s only now that it’s all sinking in.’

  Suddenly, he pulled me to him, and danced me around and around, and along the pavement. Despite my protests, he didn’t let me go until we’d reached we reached the old iron Metropolitain sign that marked the entrance to the station. Laughing, hand in hand, we ran down the steps onto the brightly lit platform of ligne 12 that would take us back to Montmartre.

  Thirty-two

  We came up out of the Metro into the Place des Abbesses – just as we had on my first night in Paris. I looked round the pretty square, golden light spilling out of its cafés and bars, and thought how familiar it seemed, even after just four days. Alex, declaring that although we did need to pack, there was no reason why we shouldn’t have another drink while we were doing it, went into a bar and reappeared carrying a bottle of champagne. Once we were away from the square, he opened it, the cork flying very satisfactorily through the air. We walked through the winding streets of Montmartre, passing the bottle back and forth between us. I looked up at the stars and the full moon overhead, and I’d never felt more alive.

  We arrived at Alex’s building and he unlocked the communal front door. Inside, the courtyard was dark and silent. We picked our way through the shadows, both of us warning the other not to make too much noise, smothering our laughter.

  ‘Wait, Alex,’ I said, when we came to the staircase. ‘I need to take off my heels or I’ll never make it up all those steps.’

  ‘I could carry you up,’ Alex said. ‘At least – I could try.’

  ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘I’ll have you know, I’m an award-winning photographer. There are very few things I can’t do.’

  ‘But carrying your model up five flights of stairs is likely to be one of them.’ I sat on the stairs and took off my ankle boots. Alex hauled me to my feet, and I straggled after him up the staircase, collapsing breathlessly against the wall when we reached the top.

  ‘What you need is more champagne,’ he said, opening the door to his apartment.

  ‘Oh, yes, more champagne is definitely required.’ I went into the living area, tossing my boots on the floor, and my jacket over the back of a chair. Alex poured the last of the champagne into two glasses, and handed one to me. He opened the French windows and the shutters, and then he switched off the lamp, so that the room was flooded with silver moonlight. I went and stood beside him, and we gazed out over Paris. A cool breeze stirred my hair and the skirt of my white dress. I sipped my champagne. In the distance, I saw the glitter of the Eiffel Tower. Alex draped his arm around me, his fingers warm on my bare shoulder. Then his hand moved to the back of my neck, and slowly down my spine, and it was as though his fingers left a trail of flame. It was not the touch of a friend.

  My heart racing, scarcely daring to believe what had just happened, I turned to look at him. He was staring at me, his eyes black in the moonlight. He took the empty champagne glass from my hand and put it on the dining table. Then he reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from my face. Suddenly I was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘Tonight would have meant nothing to me if you hadn’t been there to share it,’ he said.

  He rested both his hands on my waist, drawing me close, so that I could feel his heart beating against mine. He bent his head so that our faces were almost touching, and I knew that whatever happened now, everything between us, what we were to each other, had changed for ever.

  ‘Anna,’ he said, ‘Oh, Anna –’ And then he kissed me.

  At first it was just a brush of his lips, a butterfly’s wing, a soft caress that melted my insides. Then it was demanding, and fierce, as he crushed me to him, enfolding me in his strong arms, exploring my mouth with his tongue. My senses reeled, and if he hadn’t been holding me, my legs would have given way. When he lifted his head from mine, we staggered apart, both of us wide-eyed and breathing hard.

  I said, ‘Y-You kissed me.’

  ‘I want you, Anna.’ His voice was hoarse.

  I looked at him standing there, this tall, strong, handsome man who I knew so well, and I wanted him. All the reasons I’d given myself for not doing this no longer seemed important. Or if they were, I simply didn’t care. The taste of him was in my mouth. Desire, hot and insistent, was spreading like wildfire through my body.

  Alex had kissed me.

  He stepped towards me, and then he was kissing me again, and I was kissing him back, my arms about his neck, my hands in his hair, his hips pressed against me so I could feel that he was hard. He started unbuttoning the front of my dress, and in his haste, several pearl buttons went flying off and across the room. At that precise moment, I really didn’t care. The dress fell to the floor. Our mouths still locked together, I unhooked my bra, and my stomach lurched as his hand cupped my breast. Then he was tearing off his shirt, and I was frenziedly undoing his belt, fumbling with the stiff leather, unzipping his trousers, tugging them and his boxers down over his rear, flinging away my thong, both of us naked, as we fell onto the bed. I clung to him, gasping as he kissed my throat, writhing with pleasure at the touch of his lips and tongue on my breasts. His mouth sought mine again, and he kissed me hungrily, his hand between my legs, and then he rolled away from me, and I heard the sound of tearing foil.

  He turned back to me, his hands parting my thighs so that he could lay his body along mine, taking his weight on his elbows. And t
hen he was inside me, his body rising and falling above me, and the sensations coursing through me were so deliciously intense that I moaned aloud. I locked my legs around his hips, and he thrust himself deeper, again and again, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I was light-headed now, waves of pleasure surging and receding, as he moved within me, as we moved together, my head thrown back as he took me to the height of passion, feeling his body grow taut and then shudder, as he found his own ecstasy.

  Slowly, I came back to myself, smiling up at Alex, as he lay on me, our bodies still joined. He smiled also, and kissed me lightly on my mouth.

  ‘This has to be one of the best nights of my life,’ he said.

  ‘And mine.’ I felt him slide out of me. He kissed me again, and then eased himself onto the bed beside me, pulling the duvet over both of us. He gathered me in his arms, and with my head on his chest, we fell asleep.

  When I woke up, early morning sunlight was streaming in through the open shutters. Alex was still sleeping. I lay next to him, watching him, inhaling the scent of his skin, warmed by the heat of his body. Very gently, I brushed his hair off his forehead. Then I traced the line of his jaw, shadowed now with dark stubble. I touched his mouth and then my mouth, where he’d kissed me. Suddenly, I felt such a rush of affection for him that it left me dizzy and breathless.

  I loved him.

  My heart started pounding. I sat up, hugging my knees. Alex stirred, but didn’t wake. I gazed at him, the beautiful man asleep beside me, and knew that I’d fallen in love with my male friend. I thought of all the times over the past few weeks when I’d longed for his kiss. My head whirled as I realised I’d been in love with him even before we came to Paris.

  Then the thought came to me that while my feelings towards him had changed, I’d no idea how he felt about me. Last night had been incredible, but I wasn’t so naive as to believe that our sharing one night of passion meant that he’d want us to have an on-going relationship.

  I whispered, ‘I love you, Alex. I so want you to love me.’