Paris Dreaming

by Anita Heiss

  I giggled at Canelle’s obsession with Jake’s arse, but had to put her straight. ‘Canelle. The reality is I’m here to work. I’ve only ever been screwed by men, and not in a good way. He is my boss, and most importantly, what kind of person pours their heart out to you when they hardly know you, and you’re not even on a date?’

  ‘You are sometimes a hard woman,’ Sorina said, to my surprise.

  Canelle smiled as if she’d been vindicated.

  Sorina continued, passionately, ‘Sometimes time has nothing to do with how much you know someone. My parents were married within months of meeting each other. My mother said she knew my father was the one when he waltzed with her in a little restaurant in their village, the first night they met. He didn’t care what all his friends thought about it. He just wanted to make her happy, and that’s what he’s been doing ever since.’

  Sorina made me think about my own parents and the true love they knew. I momentarily wanted to believe in it, but I couldn’t.

  ‘There are no rules, Elizabeth, only the ones you seem to make up for yourself that somehow stop you from having fun,’ Canelle added. ‘You know what I know, Elizabeth?’

  ‘What do you know, Canelle?’ I felt under fire and was getting annoyed. It was like being harassed by Denise and Lauren back home.

  ‘I know that when you talked about this Jake man just now, your eyes lit up and they haven’t lit up like that at all since I met you. This Jake man makes your eyes sparkle. This I know.’

  I felt like I’d been sprung telling lies to my parents about something I didn’t really do.

  ‘Well, I’ve hardly seen him at work anyway, he’s probably avoiding me now.’ I just wanted the conversation to be over.

  ‘So, now we toast to Sorina,’ Canelle said, raising her glass towards my talented friend, ‘and her future on the European catwalks and in French fashion houses. And we toast to my new man who is the sexiest man on the planet. And you, Elizabeth, we toast to your eyes sparkling more often.’

  I was looking forward to the embassy’s screening of Samson and Delilah that Judith had arranged before I started in my post. Canelle and a few others from the musée were coming along as well.

  On Tuesday, the embassy bustled with energy and people eager to see the movie which had won numerous awards and opened in cinemas across the world. Judith was on fire, introducing Warwick Thornton, the writer and director of the film, to everyone and coordinating the dignitaries. I could see she was coordinating Jake as well.

  I helped by ushering the VIPs to their seats. When it was time for me to take my seat, I realised there was only one left: in the front row, next to Jake.

  ‘The universe has a sense of humour,’ he said, as the lights went down and our knees touched.

  I was so aroused I couldn’t imagine how I was going to sit through the film without at least holding his hand. As soon as it started though, the storyline took me to another place: one of sadness, hopelessness, despair. I almost forgot Jake was there except I could smell his aftershave wafting into my nostrils, down my cleavage and into my lap. Knowing we were watching the film through the same lens – both being Blackfellas – made me feel closer to him.

  At the end of the evening, the audience was buzzing with conversation about the talent of the new actors in the film, the issues of substance abuse in remote communities, the love story of the young couple and the international impact the film was already having.

  When the last guest had left the building, I went back up to my office, grabbed my bag from my desk and headed to the lift. As I entered it, my phone rang. It was Canelle.

  I answered with an apology for being so busy making sure Warwick was well looked after that I hadn’t said goodbye to her before she left.

  ‘Je suis désolé. I am only just leaving work now.’

  ‘Elizabeth, it is fine,’ Canelle was her cruisy French self. ‘We are, how you say, tiddas now, no need for apologies when you are working so hard like that. I know you well enough.’

  I was relieved. After all the hospitality and fun Canelle had shared with me, she really was my tidda, as if the universe had brought her to me.

  ‘I lost my glove, my left one,’ she said down the line. ‘I think I may have dropped it in the theatrette. Can you check tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m still here, I’ll look now and I’ll text you if I find it. I can give it to you on the weekend, à bientôt.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ The phone went dead.

  By the time I got back to the ground floor, everyone had left except the security guards. I didn’t think I needed to tell them I had to race back into the theatrette, expecting to be only a few minutes. So I upped my pace and opened the huge doors, only to find Jake up the front of the room.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, surprised to see him.

  ‘I might ask you the same thing,’ he laughed.

  ‘Canelle lost a glove.’

  ‘I lost my favourite pen,’ he had a pathetic little-boy look on his face, as if he’d lost his favourite football.

  ‘Canelle was sitting almost behind us,’ I said, conscious of staying on-topic and getting out fast. ‘You check the front row, I’ll check behind. Your pen may have fallen down here.’

  We searched the rows and just as I found Canelle’s glove, the lights went out and the theatre was pitch-black.

  ‘What the …’ Jake exclaimed.

  ‘Hey!’ I said.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jake sounded concerned.

  ‘Of course, but why did the lights go out?’

  I was worried about security getting angry that we were there. I pushed a seat down and sat on it, not sure what else to do.

  ‘Did you tell anyone you were here?’ Jake asked.

  ‘No, I was only going to be a minute, did you?’ I said.

  ‘No. Same. Can you get to the aisle? I’ll meet you there.’ Jake was in professional mode.

  I stood up carefully and felt my way along the backs of the seats with my right hand. It was the blackest space I could recall ever being in. I couldn’t see anything other than ‘SORTIE’ signs to guide my escape.

  ‘Are you here yet?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Shit!’ I growled as I arrived at the end of the row.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dropped the glove. Hang on.’ I bent down to rummage for it, and so did Jake. We bumped heads on the way down.

  ‘Shit!’ he said.

  ‘Sorry.’ I fumbled, trying to rub my head.

  ‘Here.’

  Jake grabbed my forearm pulling me towards him. He ran his hand around the side of my face, like a blind man might, and then kissed my forehead better.

  In an instant, the lust of every teenager in the city had made its way into our bodies. With a sense of urgency, we kissed like we’d never kissed anyone else before and never would again. Jake’s mouth was devouring mine and then he was on my neck, nibbling my ear. I ran my hands down his chest and then pushed him away.

  ‘We can’t do this.’

  I ran up the aisle as fast as was possible in the dark, hearing only, ‘Libby, please!’ from Jake behind me.

  I quickly walked out of the embassy, nodding to the security and ran to a cab.

  As I lay in bed that night, I was confused because I didn’t want to get involved with someone I worked with, and I was still bruised from the recent trauma of Ames, and yet I couldn’t help but smile at the kiss that was the most passionate I’d ever had. I was strong enough to stay away from Jake, but I couldn’t deny my growing attraction to him.

  I busied myself without effort over the following days, working through the tasks that had been originally set for the strategy of getting more exposure for Indigenous artists in Europe, and following up new contacts I’d created already.

  On Friday I went to the Bibliothèque Nationale de France to meet with their events people and librarians about coordinating some visiting Indigenous authors, and to assist them in building a collection of Indigenous authored b
ooks. I aimed to broker a relationship between the head librarian and the national coordinator of the Black Words research community back at AIATSIS in Canberra.

  The French national library was extraordinary. There were four towers representing four open books which I thought was pretty cool. The NLA back home was so bland by comparison. The whole Paris Rive Gauche district where the library was located was an exciting, still developing urban area that extended from the Gare d’Austerlitz to boulevard du Général-Jean-Simon, running along the Seine on one side and rue du Chevaleret on the other. The library was the flagship building of the area, but there were also new housing, offices, commercial outlets, services, schools, universities and public and cultural amenities gradually being built in the area.

  I was glad for the distraction of the library. It took my mind off the few fleeting but memorable moments with Jake: the dinner, the conversation, the attraction and especially the kiss in the theatrette. The intensity of confusion over Jake was nothing like I’d known before and certainly far beyond what I felt for Ames.

  I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage the project if I was going to see Jake often, because I knew how strong my physical attraction to him was now. I’d even come to find his thin lips inviting and I wanted to kiss him again. I hadn’t spoken to or seen him since the movie night three days before, but as I walked out of the library he texted me.

  I was nervous with excitement but knew I was going against the rules I had set down: not to see each other socially, and definitely not romantically. But I couldn’t help but walk faster to get to the venue.

  I arrived early, taking a few minutes to stroll around Place de la Madeleine and all the shops I’d fallen in love with when I’d first arrived. I saw Jake standing on the base of the steps of the Palais Garnier – the grand old opera house where Phantom of the Opera was set – wearing a black coat and grey scarf. The December weather was the coldest it’d been since I arrived.

  I crossed the street carefully, having learned some lessons over time in how to negotiate the crazy traffic.

  ‘Hey,’ Jake said, holding two baguettes.

  ‘Hey yourself.’ I tried to sound casual but I knew there was a nervous quiver in my voice. Jake was the first man to ever make me feel that way. ‘I didn’t know it was a picnic.’

  ‘I grabbed these on the way. I thought we could sit and get some sun, it’s been days since I’ve had any.’ He motioned me to his left. ‘If we get a spot out of the wind, it’s really pleasant here.’

  ‘Great idea.’

  I wondered if he too was thinking about the kiss from days before and if, like me, he wanted to do it again.

  ‘I like it here,’ he said, as we sat and looked out onto bustling traffic.

  ‘It’s got a good feel. The sun’s great too. God, it’s hot in Canberra now, and I seriously want to thaw out!’

  I looked at the huge Lancel shop windows across the way to the left and smiled at my gorgeous red bucket-bag resting at my feet.

  ‘Sometimes I sit here and think about what’s going on back home. I really do miss Deni and Albury where Mum lives.’ I knew exactly what Jake meant. ‘I write cards to Mum and my nieces and nephews. It’s kind of like my “homesickness spot”.’

  ‘Is it okay to be here with someone else then?’ I felt like I could be intruding on his sacred place in Paris.

  ‘It feels good to share the place with someone from home.’

  He was right, and suddenly the nervousness subsided and a feeling of comfort took over. I also felt honoured that he wanted to share it with me.

  We bit into our baguettes as a fire truck drove past, sirens blaring. It was a natural instinct for me to check the fireys out and they didn’t disappoint. I wanted to be near a fire on such a chilly Paris day.

  ‘Libby,’ Jake said cautiously.

  ‘Jake,’ I said, almost mocking his tone.

  ‘I want to see you.’

  He looked directly into my eyes and I hoped I didn’t have food on my face or in my teeth. I didn’t answer.

  ‘And when I say that, I mean I want to see only you. I’ve wanted to see you socially since we met at Nomad’s and I know now that I probably freaked you out that night at Procope, but please understand I am a novice at this.’

  I still said nothing, waiting to see what else he would expose about himself. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t take my eyes from his face. His smile somehow warmed me.

  ‘I’m just a lad from the country,’ he said nervously. ‘And I thought being honest with you straight-up was the best thing but maybe not.’

  ‘You freaked me out a bit,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry. This is all new to me.’

  ‘In many ways it’s new to me also.’ I could hear the vulnerability in my voice.

  ‘I’d like it if you would go on a date with me. Dinner or a movie or whatever. Just give me a chance as a bloke and not the first secretary.’ He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘I know you’re worried about that, but don’t be. We’re grown-ups, we’re both single. We are allowed some happiness outside of work.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  Oh god, I thought to myself. I did want to go out with this man, but I didn’t want to fuck up my heart again, or my job.

  He stood up quickly, motioning me up also, and pulled me close to him, our bulky coats only slightly getting in the way.

  He kissed me tenderly and it made me melt. If I never kissed another man, it wouldn’t matter.

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he said.

  This is not love, it’s just lust, I need to break the man-fast, I told myself over and over the following weeks as I was challenged by the exercise in discretion and diplomacy that confronted both of us.

  I was paranoid about people at work finding out about Jake and me dating and that my project would be pulled out from under me. Worse still, Jake would be accused of doing favours by appointing me. I was sure something would go wrong, it always did.

  As far as I was concerned, the universe had spoken in terms of my love-life – and clearly she said romance was a bad idea for me – but there was no turning back as neither of us could get enough of the other. When we were apart, we wanted to be together. When we were together, we wanted to be touching each other. The physical attraction was only heightened by the respect that grew between us every day.

  Nevertheless, I had decided that, unlike Ames and jumping in headfirst, I’d wait to have sex with Jake. He was as polite as possible, but I knew it was difficult for him. I just wasn’t prepared to sleep with the boss until I was absolutely certain it wasn’t going to affect my job.

  When we were together, we talked about every Black issue possible: the politics of identity, how native title rights were the only rights Blackfellas had and how few understood that though there were two groups of Indigenous Australians – Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders – Australia was Aboriginal land.

  We laughed at the same things. We both liked the colour red – his tie, my shoes and bucket-bag. We both liked walking. We were both workaholics. We believed we had a choice to be happy over sad. It was uncanny how we thought alike. We were perfect for each other in every way. Could the universe have known what she was doing in bringing us together in Paris, without the eyes of our mob dissecting our every move? There’d be plenty of time for that when we eventually got home.

  I couldn’t believe my luck in meeting Jake. Maybe it was like Lauren meeting Wyatt, maybe it wasn’t. I knew he wasn’t like Ames: Jake was honest. He liked a bit of flesh anyway, so no skeletons for him either.

  We hung out on weekends as much as we could but we never disclosed our friendship at work. I only told Canelle, and Jake told his mate Joseph, a lawyer friend across town. We remained formal and professional in front of our colleagues, but when we were alone in the office, it was hot.

  I was waiting to tell Lauren, Denise and Caro because I wanted to be sure before they all got excited as well. I didn
’t want to have to explain anything after the Ames disaster. I knew they’d only worry if it happened again. Although, the one thing about Jake I believed to be true was that he would never intentionally hurt me.

  When I was with Jake, I couldn’t fathom why his ex would ever have let him go. If nothing else, he was drop-dead sexy: thin lips, eyes too close together and all. There was only one thing that really bothered me about him: he was so affectionate, a little too much for my liking.

  On our first weekend outing, we strolled around the Marais and visited the Musée Carnavalet, learning more about the history of Paris. When we met at the Métro stop first thing in the morning, he went to hold my hand and I shied away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jake asked, confused. ‘It’s highly unlikely that we’ll bump into anyone from work.’

  ‘I don’t do handholding.’ I put my hands in my coat pockets.

  ‘What?’ He stopped still in his tracks. He was clearly annoyed. ‘Libby, let me get this clear, you’ll let me kiss you passionately for hours, but you won’t let me hold your hand?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Jake looked at me confused.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, we can shag, eventually,’ I joked.

  ‘Please don’t say it like that, Libby.’

  Jake was conservative when it came to talking about sex. It was something that I liked about him, that he wasn’t throwing it around back home or across Paris. Having been with his ex for so long meant that there wasn’t a lot of sexual history I had to worry about.

  Jake was shaking his head. ‘I’m just trying to get this clear: you’ll let me sleep with you eventually but you don’t want to hold my hand today?’

  ‘I’m just not big on public displays of affection is all.’ I couldn’t understand what the drama was. ‘I thought men would choose shagging over handholding any day.’

  ‘What a lot of crap.’ He took control of the situation. ‘I’ve kissed you in public, now give me your hand.’

  He held out his left hand and smiled.

  ‘I guess I shouldn’t cross the road without holding someone’s hand anyway,’ I said, reluctantly taking it.