Journey to the Centre of Myself

by Andie M. Long

  My shoulders droop and I start to cry. ‘H-how could you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I… I don’t know.’ He breaks down himself.

  I put the kettle on, needing something to do. ‘I’ve packed your clothes for you.’

  He presses a fist to his lips and chokes out, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I want to sell the house. I can’t stay here, it’s too hard. I’ve been thinking of renting an apartment in the city centre. It’d be better for work.’

  ‘I could buy you out. It’d be weird, but—’

  ‘You and Sam?’

  He nods and swallows. ‘And Alfie and… and the baby.’

  I imagine a family running around the space and rub my palm. ‘Fine.’

  Will frowns. ‘Don’t you want to throw a plate at my head, or something?’

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘I need some time to get a new place so I’ll be here at least another month.’

  ‘Of course, no rush. It’s your home.’

  I look around. ‘No, it’s not, I’m not sure it ever was. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. This part of my life is over.’

  ‘And don’t you dare bring Sam here until I’ve left. She must never sit on that sofa, do you understand? That is mine.’

  ‘We’ll buy a new sofa.’

  I slam the kettle back down on the worktop. ‘Jesus, Will, is everything so easily replaceable? My wife won’t have a kid, oh, I know, I’ll get someone else pregnant and move them into my house. Old sofa destroyed by ex-wife? Never mind, I’ll buy another.’

  Will shakes his head slowly, as if in disbelief. ‘Christ, it seems so strange hearing you say that—ex-wife.’

  ‘Get used to it. I’ll file for divorce soon.’

  ‘There’s no rush, Amber,’ he whispers.

  ‘Don’t you want to make an honest woman of Sam?’

  ‘No,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  After he’s left, I take refuge on my sofa with a throw around my shoulders. Now what? I’m not drinking and I’m so bored. I reach for my mobile phone and text Adrian. ‘Fancy a chat?’

  The reply comes quickly. ‘Sure. What about?’

  ‘Anything. You choose.’

  ‘Hmmm, I’ll have a think.’

  There’s nothing for ten minutes. I start to fidget on the sofa. Has he gone out or changed his mind?

  Finally, a beep. ‘Okay, let’s chat about life.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘What do you want from life?’

  I think for a second or two and then type back, ‘Fun.’

  I add a further text, ‘What about you?’

  ‘Right now? Lust. Sex.’

  ‘Wow,’ I type. ‘Direct.’

  ‘Why mess about? Why are you really texting me, Amber? Why now, when Friday you said no? What changed?’

  ‘My marriage broke up.’

  ‘Ah. Am I revenge then? Rebound?’

  ‘Could be, or perhaps now I can do what I wanted to do on Friday?’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about lust? Sex?’

  ‘Maybe lust. Not ready for the other yet.’

  ‘To be expected.’

  ‘You still up for meeting me then?’

  ‘Oh, I’m very up for it.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Lust, remember?’

  I recall darkness, shivers on my neck and tongues.

  ‘Yes, lust.’

  ‘So let’s meet. Tomorrow. Luisa’s at seven.’

  Luisa’s is a small Italian restaurant in Sale. Small. Intimate. He must have done his homework. I think about what Mirelle said about popular and busy.

  ‘I’d rather go somewhere hip in Manchester City Centre.’

  ‘No. Luisa’s. Undercover.’

  I hesitate. Oh, forget Mirelle, I think. I’ll tell her we’re meeting somewhere else. What will she know?

  ‘Sure,’ I text. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Expect lust,’ he replies.

  ‘Message received and understood,’ I send back.

  Chapter 15

  Karen

  I drink a couple of glasses of wine, a Merlot, which leaves a delicious aftertaste of blackcurrants. I make small talk with Mark and a few of the others sitting nearby. Everyone feels the need to tell me the story of why they’re on the trip. What is it about people that makes them explain everything to perfect strangers? Why do they think they have to justify, for example, taking a holiday after retirement? So they finally have some money in the bank? Good for them. Then there’s Tricia and Luke. Luke is so obviously going to propose. He can’t stop looking at his girlfriend, and he keeps feeling around in his top jacket pocket. I told people I was here because I’d been told it was beautiful and wanted to see for myself. One of the group asks me if I’m single. How it is any of their business I cannot work out. I want to tell her to keep her bloody nose out. Instead, I tell her that I’m married, but unfortunately, my husband had work commitments. I see her check my hand as if she doubts me.

  I grab my coat and stand up. ‘Well thanks, everyone, I’ll see you around the apartments.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’ asks Mark.

  ‘I’m off to flirt with Paris and start my love affair with it.’

  ‘Surely after today, you have a little crush on it at least?’

  ‘I take a little more convincing than queues and cold air, though the mussels and crepes brought me round a little.’

  ‘Well enjoy, Ma Cherie. We look forward to hearing your exploits.’

  I turn the corner from the Cafe and see place signs pointing me toward the l’hotel de Invalides and set off walking. I cut through the most gorgeous park and note that I must come back and see Paris again when it’s warmer. Then I can buy a huge baguette, bring it to the park and sit amongst the chic Parisians. It’s like I’m breathing the city in, as if it’s invading my pores. My fingers tingle and I’m not sure if it’s the cold or excitement.

  The l’hotel de Invalides is vast. There’s only a small queue for tickets and then I’m pointed toward a small courtyard. All the war museum exhibits are signposted from here. I look at different military weapons—guns with knives attached or four barrels; uniforms from around the World; land mines; swords. The glass cases go on and on until finally there’s a section celebrating freedom and I see a beautiful tea dress with a French flag print.

  I nip to the restroom and then call into the small restaurant for a coffee. Refreshed, I make my way to the building holding Napoleon’s tomb. The tomb reminds me of a Belgian chocolate. It looks brown and shiny though it’s sculptured from red quartzite. It is surrounded by statues. I am spellbound, captured by the beauty of it and I take out my camera and snap several pictures.

  I hadn’t anticipated how long it would take me to explore the museum and it is now early evening. Feeling hungry, I decide to find somewhere to eat and catch a cab to the L’arc de Triumph. As this monument looks out over the Champs Elysee, I get the chance to take in another sight and snap some more stunning pictures before wandering down to find another restaurant. I take a few sneaky pictures of people milling around the area—a family holding hands; a chic lady who is wearing a scarf draped in an elegance that would never work on me; the traffic police who descend on a row of parked cars on the street, along with a tow truck and start to move them all away. I am enjoying myself.

  When I was younger, I’d thought about studying photography but my parents told me it wasn’t a career, it was a dream. I can afford to dream now, I think. I could go back to college and study. It doesn’t have to be a career. It can be a hobby that I enjoy, that I’m good at. I begin to walk down the avenue, holding myself straighter, and feeling more confident. Here in Paris, alone, I’m enjoying my hobby and I don’t have to answer to anyone or anything right now. I absolutely love it. Then I see it, Laduree, the macaron shop the hairdresser told me about. There are people queueing out of the door. Oh my goo
dness, another queue, but I reckon they must be wondrous if people will wait for them. So I join the end.

  I fall in love the minute I’m inside. There’s an old-fashioned looking restaurant with an elegant stairway, and the counter is filled with maracons of every conceivable colour and flavour. I queue next to a display case showing tiny macarons as wedding favours. I even love the boxes, vintage looking and a pale green. There is a bar at the back, decorated in art déco tones. I can imagine myself sitting at the bar, with a chic bob. Then I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the cabinet, hair damp and limp around my face, no trace of the light makeup I applied this morning. The bar is not for me today, I’m not worthy, but again I vow to come back in the sunshine and perch on one of those seats.

  After a twenty minute wait, at last, it’s my turn, and they ask what I want. Gosh what to choose? I haven’t been able to study the lists and I can feel the impatience of those next to me in the queue. I plump for a box of six and pick two of three different colours, ending up with lemon, chocolate and a raspberry with rose. They put them in a box and wrap it in a paper bag. I feel like I have treasure. Not being able to wait, I take a seat on a bench outside and tear into the box, though I decide to keep the pretty bag as a souvenir. I choose the chocolate one; it's fluffy and goes slightly chewy in my mouth. I take my time, eating it in tiny pieces. If I ever got a meal in heaven, this is what I would expect on my plate. It is divine. Finished, I chase tiny remnants around my mouth and jump in a cab. I decide to forget the restaurant. Tonight I’m eating macarons for my evening meal because I can.

  Over the next few days my confidence at being out on the streets of Paris—alone—increases. I catch the Metro and buses to the different tourist attractions. I wander down back streets, seeking out small bookshops and boutiques. I admire the beautiful facades of the Parisian apartments where I think I could quite happily live for a while. Perhaps I could learn French and come back for periods of time? I wouldn’t want to be here permanently; at the moment I’m not sure I want any permanent roots. There’s just something about this city I’ve fallen in love with.

  Undeterred, Arjan has been posting a daily letter under my door, giving me his room and mobile number. Every day I’ve torn the note up and put the pieces in the bin.

  I’ve bought food from the local shops and eat at the apartment, as opposed to wasting money in restaurants, but today I’m giving myself a final challenge before it’s time to decide where I want to spend the final part of my two weeks to myself. I walk down the Boulevard de Grenelle and into a restaurant that appears inviting from the outside with its ambient light and general bustle. The waiter welcomes me and escorts me to a small table by the window. It’s nice because I can people watch both inside and out. There is a woman at the next table with her child. The woman is blonde, her hair wrapped in an effortless knot and she is so elegantly thin; not waif-like but so chic. Her clothes hang just right. She keeps chatting with her daughter and they giggle. I can’t help watching them and hope they don’t catch me. I think of how I look permanently messed up and sigh. Maybe if I’m contented inside, it’ll show more on the outside?

  The waiter asks to take my order. He talks to me like an old friend.

  ‘So what would you like today, Madame?’

  ‘I will try l’escargot, please. The six? Though I may not like them. I’ve never had them before.’

  ‘Oh you will love them, I promise,’ he says, ‘and to drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne please,’ I say.

  He gives me a large smile. ‘Bonne.’

  I sit back and fidget, fingering the cutlery on the table, adjusting it so it’s straight and there is room for my plate. A few minutes later he brings my drink.

  ‘Votre boisson, Madame.’

  ‘Thank… err, Merci beaucoup.’

  The champagne is dry but refreshing. I like how it fizzes on my tongue. I had decided earlier this morning that I needed to push my boundaries, take in new tastes and experiences.

  The aroma of garlic pervades as the snails are placed in front of me.

  They are covered in a garlic pesto sauce and accompanied by a tiny silver fork. I attempt to take the first one out, but can’t bring myself to do it. Now I’m back to feeling awkward and unsophisticated. I beckon the waiter over, apologise for my uselessness, and ask him to show me what to do. He takes a moment to extract it too.

  ‘Ah, this one is awkward, oui?’

  He scoops out the next and then picks up another.

  ‘I’ll try to do the others,’ I tell him.

  He nods and leaves me to eat them.

  I stare at my plate. The three snails removed from their shells resemble the rubbery black, shrivelled mushrooms that accompany a cooked breakfast. I’m not sure I can eat them. I have a gulp of champagne. Come on Karen, I will myself.

  I pick up a snail with the tiny fork and place it in my mouth. All I can taste is the garlic and pesto. I chew the snail. Yes, it's chewier than a mushroom but easily eaten. Accompanied by sips of champagne, I eat the other two. Then I use the fork to scoop out the final three. The tiny fork is adorable, small and silver and I want one, to remind me that I ate snails in Paris. I get out my camera and beckon the waiter over to take a photo of me, my tiny fork holding snail numero quatre and my glass of champagne.

  I follow the snails with Duck Comfit, again exquisite. It’s accompanied by thin, delicate fries, slightly salted and extremely crisp, and a salad.

  For dessert I ignore the menu, get up and peruse the dessert trolley. I request Tarte Tatin.

  The champagne is long gone. I order a half bottle of house red with my main course. I take my time drinking this. While the lights of Paris twinkle and its citizens walk by, the wine brings warmth and a blush to my cheeks.

  I am full and not only with food. I pay my bill, ‘l’addition, s'il vous plaît?’ Leave a generous tip and then have a slow walk back to the apartment. I don’t want to go back to England yet and then I think that maybe I don’t have to.

  I’ve never been a great drunk, but sometimes the careful control I have over myself takes flight and I do impulsive things. I know exactly when I was drunk the last time and I’ve been scared for a long time about what I did on that occasion, anxious never to repeat it. However, as I more or less swing my handbag as I jollily walk back to my apartment, it would appear my control has slipped.

  Back in the hotel, I knock on the door of Apartment 268. There’s no answer. Annoyed, I knock louder and for longer.

  The door is opened by a sleepy, mussed up Arjan.

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘It’s Karenza, remember?’ I slur as I hold onto the doorway and somehow find myself sliding inside. I’m having trouble controlling my feet. ‘Who is Karen—right now I’m Karenza, capiche? I need to ask you something,’ I say, holding my head up as if I’m completely sober.

  ‘Oh-kay.’

  ‘Do you fancy a ride?’ I burst out laughing and find I can’t stop, tears stream down my face.

  Arjan looks shocked and appears mute.

  I elbow him in the side. ‘Hey, steady on, I mean do you want to go to Disneyland? I’m going.’

  ‘Come in and we’ll talk.’

  ‘Nah, talking’s boring… blah blah blah. I’m going to bed.’ I pause. ‘Alone.’

  Huffing, I go into my handbag and pick out the tiny silver fork I stole from the restaurant. ‘If you come near me, I’ll prick you with this.’ I look at it. ‘Only I can have a little fork, you cannot have a fork.’ Then I get hysterical again and turn to head back to my own room.

  ‘You should come in and sit down for a minute.’

  I crash into the apartment and flop on his squashy sofa, and that’s the last thing I remember of that evening. The next thing I know is I wake to find myself covered with a blanket. My tongue feels like it’s covered in dust. I pick my handbag up from the floor and tiptoe out of the apartment.

  It’s five am. Back in my own apartment, I throw myse
lf into the shower to freshen up, hit the coffee and finish packing. I empty out the contents of my handbag to tidy through it. The fork falls out and fragments of conversation come back to me. I am not going back on that plane with him.

  Quickly, I phone Reception and ask them to book me a taxi to the airport. I send a text message to Celine to tell her I’ve made other arrangements and I’m travelling on elsewhere. Then I’m off.

  At the airport, I book a plane to London and once again I find myself running away. I spend the time waiting, flying and arriving in London, deciding that over the next couple of days I need to spend some time thinking about where I’ve been and where I’m going, and, this time I’m not referring to travelling.

  Chapter 16

  Amber

  Mirelle was like someone in the Army today. Say this, do that. I nodded my head like an agreeable puppy until she seemed satisfied. She wants a complete breakdown of events tomorrow.

  Now there’s not much time to get ready and I’m a mixture of nervousness and excitement. I’ve had to redo the paint on my toenails because I dropped too much on and it bled down the side of my toe. Clothes-wise I have a white shirt. I don’t have capri pants, but I do have a pair of black leggings that shrank in the wash so they reach to an inch above my ankle. A trawl through my jewellery box reveals a chain with a red lips pendant on it. It sits nicely above my breasts. When I put my hair up, I don’t like it. It makes me appear young rather than sexy, so I get the curling tongs out and add a few spiralling curls. I add light eye makeup, but a line of black eyeliner to give an Angeline Jolie feline look, and then add red lip gloss. If he kisses me, it will get messy. That’s all I’m allowed tonight, kissing. My stomach tingles when I think about the challenge. I practise pouting and flirting in the mirror for a few minutes. I work out sexy ways of talking although at first I looked like I was having a stroke.

  My reflection is hot. The leggings suit my body shape, giving definition to my thighs and backside and the blouse accentuates my chest. It’s sexy without trying too hard. Ten out of ten, Mirelle. That girl certainly knows what she’s doing.