Petite Anglaise

by Catherine Sanderson

  ‘A sensible thing to do,’ the girl replied, tapping in the door code and clattering ahead of us up the wooden staircase to the first floor, where she unlocked the door. Tadpole raced inside without a moment’s hesitation. It was our second visit, and she already seemed perfectly at home. ‘Bon, je vous laisse faire un tour.’ She stepped aside to let us pass. ‘I need to make a call, so I’ll wait out here, unless you need me…’

  Inside, a T-shaped corridor led to two rectangular rooms of a similar size: on the left ‘mine’, on the right ‘Tadpole’s’. In between, a narrow kitchen and an equally narrow bathroom nestled side by side. The bathroom was home to the smallest bath I’d ever laid eyes on; little larger than a shower basin, but big enough for Tadpole. The floorboards had been buffed and waxed, the walls were freshly painted and light flooded in through large windows. Half the size of our current home, with just one square metre for every year of my life so far, it was small, and there was no view to speak of, as all the windows looked on to an interior courtyard and a second building, identical to the one in which we stood. And yet something about this place felt right: I could visualize Tadpole and me living here. I could imagine making these rooms our home.

  ‘Nice parquet floor,’ said Mr Frog. ‘Shame they’ve ripped out the fireplaces.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not a patch on the other place,’ I said, matter of factly. ‘The buildings are the same age, but this one is working class, not bourgeois.’

  ‘I like it though,’ Mr Frog hastened to add. ‘I know it’s a lot smaller, but that’s the sacrifice you’ll have to make if you want to buy your own place…’

  ‘What do you think, sweetie?’ I said, turning to Tadpole. ‘Would you like to live here with Mummy?’ There was no reply. Tadpole was too busy flicking the light switch on and off, delighted to find the button at toddler level, but puzzled that her actions were producing no tangible consequences, in the absence of any power. I kneeled by her side and repeated my question: ‘Would you like to live here with Mummy? We could paint the walls a pretty colour, make this room into your bedroom…’

  ‘We going to paint on the wall?’ said Tadpole incredulously, gesturing at the huge white canvas all around us. I’m sure she pictured herself in a plastic smock making naïve art murals with finger paints, which was not exactly what I had in mind.

  ‘I think that’s clinched the deal!’ said Mr Frog with a grin. ‘ Vendu!’

  ‘Right, well, if you don’t think I’m mad, then I’m going to put in an offer,’ I said, suddenly decisive. ‘I’ve lived in this city for ten years. It’s about time I put down some proper roots.’

  Returning to the estate agent’s that evening after work, I did just that, signing the paperwork with trembling fingers while Tadpole doodled on a business card with a blue biro. I was taking my life into my own hands and, although it was terrifying, it was terrifying in a good way.

  I met Toby on the corner of rue Rébeval, outside Café Chéri(e), the only café I’ve ever come across with brackets in its name. I’ve always been convinced there should be a question mark too, as the name calls to mind a couple strolling down the street, pausing on a whim to peer inside, one saying to the other: ‘Tu veux un café, chéri?’ Although I’d skirted past the terrasse with Tadpole on the way to the swimming pool several times, I’d never seen its transformation into a lively bar by night, and I had to admit the cheerfully mismatched second-hand tables and chairs looked very different now, under muted red lights. Tadpole was with her daddy for the evening, and the following day was one of the many jours fériés which fall in the month of May, which meant the office would be conveniently closed the next morning.

  After exchanging self-conscious hellos and kissing the air next to each other’s cheeks, Toby and I stepped inside and took a seat at the only available table, our knees rubbing together through the fabric of our jeans in the cramped space. The conversation was stilted at first.

  ‘So. Been up to anything exciting?’ Toby enquired.

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ I replied airily, wishing I had something interesting to add to what I’d already told him in the emails we’d bounced back and forth since we met at the party. It was one thing flirting online, where I could choose my words with care and edit them to my heart’s content, another thing entirely seeing him again in the flesh. ‘Working, blogging, buying a flat… What about you? Are you around for long or is this just a flying visit?’

  ‘A few days this time, I think,’ he said evasively. I got the distinct impression that Toby didn’t like to be pinned down. I’d only discovered he was coming to Paris the previous evening. Either he had a penchant for making whirlwind last-minute plans, or he enjoyed keeping people guessing.

  Just as we managed to flag down a waitress to order one of the rum cocktails which seemed to be the house speciality, a band shuffled on to a small stage at the back of the room. A man with a mullet, the top buttons of his shirt open to reveal a mass of wiry grey chest hair, began to bellow out what I suspected was a cover version of a Johnny Halliday song. ‘You’re not telling me that the kind of people who come here actually like this sort of music?’ I said, swivelling to stare at the bobo crowd draped nonchalantly over the chairs around us. ‘This isn’t what I expected at all!’

  ‘One can only hope it’s supposed to be ironic,’ said Toby dryly. ‘But apart from anything else, it’s far too loud. How about we have one drink, then move on to a bar where we can actually hear ourselves think?’ Right on cue, the waitress appeared and set down two tumblers with straws.

  ‘Good idea.’ I picked up my drink and took a long sip of sweet punch, the sugar numbing my front teeth.

  ‘Any preference, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘None at all.’ My residual shyness was beginning to thaw. I’d eaten little that day, and I could already feel the effects of the alcohol as it entered my bloodstream. ‘You choose. Anywhere will do. I’m easy.’ Toby raised an eyebrow, and I smiled. After a shaky start, things seemed to be progressing nicely.

  It probably wasn’t a coincidence that the next bar Toby chose was on Place Sainte Marthe, seconds away from his apartment. The walls were painted red here too, but as we ducked through an arched doorway into the room behind the bar and took a seat in the corner, I was amused to see that two facing walls were decorated with a kitsch patterned wallpaper, punctuated by yellowing photographs in orange frames, as though someone’s living-room wall had been grafted on to this unlikely setting. The long-haired, wild-eyed proprietor sat down by my side while he took our drinks order, putting his sandal-clad bare feet up on a chair, and I noted with pleasure that Toby looked impressed with my ability to hold my own in French.

  Sipping ginger juice through a straw, idly wondering if it might have aphrodisiac properties, I sat cross-legged on the banquette and listened as Toby told anecdotes, ever the master storyteller, noticing how the timbre of his voice changed when he drew cigarette smoke into his lungs. I was captivated by his smile, his dark chocolate eyes, and had to suppress the urge once or twice to reach out and touch his thick, carefully tousled hair. All traces of awkwardness had evaporated now: banter ebbed and flowed effortlessly between us; time seemed unusually elastic.

  ‘I haven’t read your blog by the way,’ Toby said, without apology, when the subject came up. ‘I don’t intend to actually. I’d rather get to know you instead.’

  ‘That’s probably no bad thing,’ I retorted. ‘There’s a bit too much of me out there, and it would give you rather an unfair advantage.’ In truth I found his lack of curiosity puzzling, even hurtful. I knew for a fact that if he’d had a blog, I’d have been all over it like a rash: hungry for more information, on tenterhooks to see whether I’d merit a mention, sifting through the evidence for clues about what made him tick. Did his lack of curiosity about me signify a lack of interest? Then again, after everything that had happened with James, it would be refreshing to spend time with a man who didn’t hang on petite anglaise’s every word.

  It was
only when the owner came over to chivvy us out that I realized we were alone in the bar, and probably had been for some time. As we were ushered towards the exit, I was surprised to see the plastic furniture from the terrasse neatly stacked inside the front door. I couldn’t speak for Toby, but I for one hadn’t heard the merest scrape of a chair across the tiled floor.

  ‘Un café, chérie?’ enquired Toby, his hand on my arm as we stepped out into the deserted square.

  ‘Your place, or mine?’ I replied, with a grin, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  Toby walked me halfway home the next morning and we paused to say goodbye in front of the café where we had met twelve hours earlier.

  ‘I had fun last night,’ I said casually, as if I did this sort of thing all the time. ‘Fun’ was an accurate description of our night. It had been playful. Toby had exhibited none of James’s intensity; none of his almost religious reverence. But despite my light-hearted tone, under cover of my coat sleeves I was digging into my cuticles with my fingernails. What was supposed to happen next?

  He’d looked relieved when I explained, over coffee in his tiny flat, that I was raw from a recent break-up. As I’d suspected, he wasn’t looking for a relationship either. He was a social butterfly flitting from city to city, elusive by design, reluctant to settle on any one bloom. Once we both knew the lie of the land, we seemed to have tacitly agreed to have some uncomplicated fun. I’d teased him about his chaotic apartment, the books stacked in teetering piles, but nonetheless moved willingly towards the mattress on the floor which served as his bed.

  If we really can keep things light, I thought, casual might be just what the doctor ordered. But I’d never done anything like this before, and I hadn’t a clue how we were supposed to behave the morning after.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Toby, planting a goodbye kiss squarely on my lips, but withdrawing immediately.

  Making my way up rue Rébeval, oblivious to the ungainly high-rise blocks towering above me on either side, still warmed by the afterglow of his attention, I decided that however fleeting, however short-lived these sensations might be, I was determined to savour them while they lasted, without pushing for more.

  I liked him, and sensed I could grow to like him more. But I knew it was far too soon to beckon anyone inside the invisible circle I had drawn around myself. Too soon to risk allowing the firm ground beneath my feet to shake and tilt. Because even though, on the surface, I was beginning to feel more whole than I had in a long time, I was still conscious of my soft centre. Still unwilling to test the limits of my new-found strength.

  ‘I don’t want to see you get hurt again, that’s all. Not so soon after James,’ said Amy sharply as she unwrapped her sandwich and brought it to her lips. We’d bought lunch from a bakery close to the office and decided to take our picnic to the Palais Royal gardens, where, in the absence of any unoccupied metal chairs, we’d perched our buttocks on the stone lip of the fountain. ‘It all sounds a bit too convenient for him – he’s got you at his beck and call whenever he waltzes into town.’

  If anything, my casual fling sounded uncannily similar to Amy’s tortured long-distance relationship with Tom, but I kept that thought to myself and channelled all my energy into stamping my foot in the pale sand to disperse a crowd of over-enthusiastic pigeons. For a moment Amy and I remained silent, chewing thoughtfully on our sandwiches. The harsh midday sunlight was making my eyes water and I wished I’d had the foresight to bring my sunglasses.

  ‘I know I’m on the rebound,’ I confessed, between mouthfuls. ‘And I know Toby isn’t a serious candidate for anything long-term. Or even medium-term. But maybe that’s precisely why he’s so attractive to me, right now. Unsuitable is good. Temporary is good… And although he makes it seem like he’s calling the shots, I don’t actually have that much flexibility, so he tends to fall in with my plans.’

  Toby and I had seen each other twice more in the past two weeks since our date at the Chéri(e) and each time I’d made sure Tadpole was absent for the night, safely across the road with Mr Frog. Tadpole still spoke about James sometimes – the letter ‘J’ was still for ‘James’ not ‘jam’ – and in some ways I regretted introducing her to him so early in our relationship. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice: my daughter would be spared a steady stream of short-lived ‘Mummy’s friends’ passing through our home. The solution, I decided, was to lead parallel lives, making sure they were never permitted to overlap. On my nights off I could do precisely what I pleased. But the next morning, I’d wash the bar smoke from my hair, remove the smudges of the previous night’s make-up from beneath my eyes and become a mother again. It wasn’t so different from slipping into the role of the perfect secretary when I entered the office, or becoming petite anglaise at a bloggers’ meet-up. I’d become extraordinarily good at playing multiple roles.

  ‘And will you write about this on the blog?’ Amy stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirt, her sudden movement scattering the advancing pigeons once more. Still standing, she took a long drink from her bottle of Evian.

  ‘I might,’ I replied disingenuously. In fact, I’d spent some idle time working on a post that very morning, which I had yet to publish. ‘Toby says he doesn’t read it anyway, so I don’t see what harm it can do. And it would be good to spice things up on the blog. I’ve been struggling to hold everyone’s attention since James jumped ship. From the beginning, there was always a man in the picture, and now it’s just me and my daughter, I’m a bit stuck for subject matter…’

  ‘You might want to try putting yourself first, and not that blog of yours,’ said Amy as we gathered up our bags and rose to leave. ‘I know it’s important to you, but don’t live your life to please your readers.’

  As we walked back to the office in silence, bracing ourselves for the icy chill of the air conditioning, I wondered to what extent I really was guided in my choices by the need to find material for petite anglaise. Was I living my own life or was she the master choreographer, nudging me in the directions where good stories lay? Would I be living my life differently if I wasn’t writing about it on my blog?

  Slipping into my ergonomic chair, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, I opened up my draft blog post and re-read it before hitting the ‘publish’ key.

  I choose my outfit, my undergarments with care, because I know from experience that a drink, with him, will lead to much, much more. In the bar, I bask in his attention, happy in this moment, knowing full well it will be fleeting. I lie in bed, his sleeping body curled around mine, his arm around my waist, marvelling that someone can be so close, skin against mine, but simultaneously seem so remote, so inaccessible.

  When we part the next day and I hear the words I fully expect to hear – ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you when I get back’ – I feel a twinge of something I was determined not to feel. A brief pang of remorse that I may have been selling little pieces of myself to the lowest bidder.

  The next day, I trawled through the comments slowly, one by one. Eighty-two people had felt the need to weigh in and tell me how they felt.

  ‘I don’t know, petite,’ Lost in France lamented. ‘It just sounds like a prescription for disaster.’

  Many shared his reticence, begging me to exercise caution to avoid getting hurt so soon after losing James.

  ‘Petite, you decide what works for you,’ urged Ingrid, ‘but, ultimately, hold out for adoration and respect. Please.’

  The words which resonated with me the most came from someone called Trinigirl.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she wrote, ‘we’ve all danced to this particular tune at one time in our lives. In my experience, the majority of women are hopeless romantics, believing that, in time, he’ll realize how wonderful we are, and fall in love with us…’

  Did she have a point? By writing this post, knowing that there was a chance Toby might read it, I was up to my old tricks. Was I not sending him an open letter and hoping for some sort of response, in return?
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br />   33. Roquette

  ‘I’ve got news!’ I shrieked down the phone. ‘The estate agent just called, and my offer on the flat has been accepted!’ Mr Frog had now reverted back to being the person I invariably called when something happened that I simply had to share, and knowing that he had Tadpole with him, calling him before midday on a Saturday was perfectly reasonable, for once.

  ‘Wow! That’s fantastic news. Congratulations!’ His script was word perfect, but something in his tone of voice suggested that his enthusiasm was tempered by other, conflicting emotions. I supposed it must feel strange to him that I should finally be taking this step alone, after all the apartments we’d visited together. It felt odd to me too, as though I were slamming a door shut in his face; foreclosing on any possibility of reconciliation.

  ‘By the way, have you two eaten lunch yet?’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘Because if you haven’t, I was thinking maybe we could go to the Chinese restaurant with the fish tanks. So you can see how well your daughter uses her chopsticks. My treat.’

  ‘We haven’t eaten yet, so yes, that would be great.’ I sensed hesitation in his voice. ‘The thing is, we’ll need some time to get ready…’

  ‘She’s not watching TV in her pyjamas at this time of day, surely?’ I said, feigning disapproval. I was far more relaxed about parenting these days, now that the tasks were shared more equally between us and, above all, I was more realistic. All that mattered to me, really, was that Tadpole was spending quality time with her daddy.