by Jojo Moyes
He finishes the last pan. He stacks it with the others, then flicks the tea-towel over his shoulder.
‘Okay. Olivier is working his shift tomorrow night, yes? So you and me. Out for some beers. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Well, what else are you going to do? Spend the night in your tiny apartment. Monsieur Hollande, our president, on the television will tell you there is no money. Your empty home will tell you there is no woman.’
‘You’re not making things sound any better, Emil.’
‘I am! I am your friend! I am giving you a million reasons to come out with me. Come on, we’ll have some laughs. Pick up some bad women. Get arrested.’
Fabien finishes his coffee and hands the cup to Emil, who puts it in the sink.
‘Come on. You have to live so that you have something to write about.’
‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Chapter Six
It is the knocking that wakes her. It comes to her at first from a distance, getting louder, then she hears a voice: ‘Housekeeping.’
Housekeeping.
Nell pushes herself upright, blinking, a faint ringing in her ears, and for a moment she has no idea where she is. She stares at the strange bed, then at the wallpaper. There is a muffled rapping sound. She reaches up to her ears, and pulls out the plugs. Suddenly the sound is deafening.
She walks over to the door and opens it, rubbing her eyes. ‘Hello?’
The woman – in a maid’s uniform – apologises, steps back and says something in what must be French.
But Nell has no idea what. So she nods and lets the door close. She feels like she has been run over. She glances at the American woman, but there is only an empty bed, the cover ruffled and the wardrobe door hanging open. She glances over, panicky, at her suitcase, but it is still there.
She hadn’t realised the woman was going to leave so early, but Nell is relieved not to have to face that cross red face again. Now she can shower in peace and –
She glances down at her phone. It is a quarter past eleven.
It can’t be.
She flicks on the television, skipping through until she hits a news channel.
It really is a quarter past eleven.
Suddenly awake, she begins to gather up her things, dumping them in her suitcase, and pulls on her clothes. Then, grabbing the key and her tickets, she runs downstairs. The Frenchwoman is behind the desk, as perfect as she had been last night. Nell wishes suddenly that she had paused to brush her hair.
‘Good morning, Mademoiselle.’
‘Good morning. I wondered if you could … if … Well, I need to change my Eurostar ticket.’
‘You would like me to call Eurostar?’
‘Please. I need to get home today. A … family emergency.’
The woman’s face does not flicker. ‘Of course.’
She takes the ticket and dials, and then speaks in rapid French. Nell runs her fingers through her hair, then rubs sleep from her eyes.
‘They have nothing until five o’clock. Will this suit you?’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘There were some spaces on the early trains this morning, but nothing now until five.’
Nell curses herself for sleeping late. ‘That’s fine.’
‘And you will have to buy a new ticket.’
Nell stares at her ticket, which the woman is holding towards her. And it is there in black and white. NON-TRANSFERABLE. ‘A new ticket? How much is it?’
The woman says something, then puts her hand over the receiver. ‘One hundred and seventy-eight euros. You want to book it?’
A hundred and seventy-eight euros. About a hundred and fifty pounds. ‘Uh – um – You know what? I … I just have to work something out.’
She dare not look at the woman’s face as she takes the ticket back from her. She feels like a fool. Of course a cheap ticket would be non-transferable. ‘Thank you so much.’ She bolts for the safety of her room, ignoring the woman, who is calling after her.
Nell sits on the end of the bed and swears softly to herself. So, she can either pay half a week’s wages to get home, or carry on alone with the World’s Worst Romantic Weekend for one more night. She can hide in this attic room with its French television that she can’t understand. She can sit by herself in cafés, trying not to look at the happy couples.
She decides to make herself a coffee, but there is no kettle in the room.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she says aloud. She decides she hates Paris.
And it is then that she sees a half-open envelope on the floor, half under the bed, with something sticking out from it. She bends down and picks it up. It is two tickets to a show by an artist she has vaguely heard of. She turns it over. They must have belonged to the American woman. She puts them down. She’ll decide what to do with them later. For now she needs to put on some make-up, brush her hair, and then she really needs to get a coffee.
Outside in the daylight she feels more cheerful about Paris. She walks until she sees a café she likes the look of, and orders a coffee and a croissant. She sits out on the street, huddled against the cold, beside several other people who are doing the same thing.
The coffee is good and the croissant is delicious. She makes a note of the café’s name in her book, in case she wants to come back. She leaves a tip and walks back to the hotel, thinking, ‘Well, I’ve had worse breakfasts’. An elderly Frenchman tips his hat to her, and a little dog stops to say hello. Across the road there is a handbag shop, and she gazes in through the window at some of the most beautiful bags she has ever seen. The shop looks like a film set.
She cannot work out what to do. She walks slowly, debating with herself, scribbling her reasons for and against taking the five o’clock train, into her little notebook. If she got that train, she could actually make the late train down to Brighton and surprise the girls. She could save this weekend. She could get blind drunk and they would look after her. That was what girlfriends were for.
But the thought of spending another hundred and fifty pounds on an already disastrous weekend makes her heart sink. And she does not want her first trip to Paris to end with her running away, tail between her legs. She does not want to remember the first time she went to Paris as the time she got dumped and ran home without even seeing the Eiffel Tower.
She is still thinking when she arrives at the hotel, so she almost forgets until she reaches into her pocket for the key. And pulls out the American woman’s tickets.
‘Excuse me?’ she says to the receptionist. ‘Do you know what happened to the woman who was sharing my room? Room forty-two?’
The woman flicks through a sheaf of papers. ‘She checked out first thing this morning. A … family emergency, I believe.’ Her face reveals nothing. ‘There are many such emergencies this weekend.’
‘She left some tickets in the room. For an artist’s show. I was wondering what to do with them.’
She holds them out and the receptionist studies them.
‘She went straight to the airport … Oh. This is a very popular show, I think. It was on the news last night. People are queuing for many hours to see it.’
Nell looks at the tickets again.
‘I would go to this exhibition, Mademoiselle.’ The woman smiles at her. ‘If you can … if your family emergency can wait.’
Nell gazes at the tickets. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘Mademoiselle?’
Nell turns back to her.
‘We will not be charging you for the room, if you choose to stay tonight. To make up for the inconvenience.’ She smiles in apology.
‘Oh. Thank you,’ Nell says, surprised.
And she decides. It is just one more night. She will stay.
Chapter Seven
Sandrine, Fabien’s ex-girlfriend, always said he got up too late. Now, standing near the end of a queue that is marked with signs saying ‘One hour from this point’, ‘Two hours from this p
oint’, Fabien kicks himself for not getting up at eight o’clock as he had planned.
He was meant to visit his father, to help him put up some shelves. But somehow, as he rode his bike beside the river, he had seen the signs and stopped. He had stood at the end cheerfully some forty-five minutes ago, thinking the queue would move quickly. But he has moved forward just some ten feet. It is a cold, clear afternoon and he is starting to feel the chill. He pulls his woollen beanie further over his head and kicks the ground with the toes of his boots.
He could just quit the queue, head off and meet his father as he had said he would. He could go home and tidy up the apartment. He could put more oil in his moped and check the tyres. He could do the paperwork he had put off doing for months. But nobody else has ducked out of the queue, and neither does he.
Somehow, he thinks, he might feel better if he stays. He will have achieved something today. He will not have given up, like Sandrine says he always does.
It is, of course, nothing to do with the fact that Frida Kahlo is Sandrine’s favourite artist. He pulls up his collar, picturing himself bumping into her at the bar. ‘Oh, yes,’ he would say casually. ‘I just went to see the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo exhibition.’ She would look surprised, maybe even pleased. Perhaps he will buy the catalogue and give it to her.
Even as he thinks about it, he knows it is a stupid idea. Sandrine is not going to be anywhere near the bar where he works. She has avoided it since they split up. What is he doing here anyway?
He looks up to see a girl walking slowly towards the end of the long line of people, her navy hat pulled low over her fringe. Her face wears the look of shock he sees on everyone else’s when they see how long the queue is.
She stops near a woman a few people down from him. In her hand she holds two slips of paper. ‘Excuse me? Do you speak English? Is this the queue for the Kahlo exhibition?’
She is not the first to ask. The woman shrugs, and says something in Spanish. Fabien sees what she is holding and steps forward. ‘But you have tickets,’ he says. ‘You do not need to queue here.’ He points towards the front of the queue. ‘Look – if you have tickets the queue is there.’
‘Oh.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you. That’s a relief!’
And then he recognizes her. ‘You were at Café des Bastides last night?’
She looks a little startled. Then her hand goes to her mouth. ‘Oh. The waiter. I spilled wine all over you. I’m so sorry.’
‘De rien,’ he says. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Sorry, anyway. And … thanks.’
She makes as if to walk away, then turns and gazes at him, and then at the people on each side of him. She seems to be thinking. ‘You’re waiting for someone?’ she asks Fabien.
‘No.’
‘Would you … would you like my other ticket? I have two.’
‘You don’t need it?’
‘They were … a gift. I have no use for the other one.’
He stares at the girl, waiting for her to explain, but she says no more. He holds out a hand and takes the offered ticket. ‘Thank you!’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
They walk beside each other to the small queue at the front, where tickets are being checked. He can’t stop grinning at this unexpected gift. Her gaze slides towards him and she smiles. He notices her ears have gone pink.
‘So,’ he says. ‘You are here for a holiday?’
‘Just the weekend,’ she says. ‘Just – you know – fancied a trip.’
He tilts his head sideways. ‘It’s good. To just go. Very …’ he searches for the word ‘… impulsif.’
She shakes her head. ‘You … work in the restaurant every day?’
‘Most days. I want to be a writer.’ He looks down and kicks at a pebble. ‘But I think maybe I will always be a waiter.’
‘Oh, no,’ she says, her voice suddenly clear and strong. ‘I’m sure you’ll get there. You have all that going on in front of you. People’s lives, I mean. In the restaurant. I’m sure you must be full of ideas.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s … a dream. I’m not sure it’s a good one.’
And then they are at the front and the security guard steers her towards the counter to have her bag searched. Fabien sees she feels awkward and does not know if he should wait.
But as he stands there, she lifts a hand as if to say goodbye. ‘Well, thank you,’ she says. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition.’
He pushes his hands deeper in his pockets, and nods. ‘Goodbye.’
He doesn’t even know her name. And then she heads down the stairs, and disappears into the crowd.
For months Fabien has been stuck in a groove, unable to think of anything but Sandrine. Every bar he has been to reminds him of somewhere they had been. Every song he hears reminds him of her, of the shape of her top lip, the scent of her hair. It has been like living with a ghost.
But now, inside the gallery, something happens to him. He finds he is gripped by the paintings, the huge colourful canvases by Diego Rivera, the tiny, agonized self-portraits by Frida Kahlo the woman Rivera loved. Fabien barely notices the crowds that cluster in front of the pictures.
He stops in front of a perfect little painting in which she has pictured her spine as a cracked column. There is something about the grief in her eyes that won’t let him look away. That is suffering, he thinks. Not the loss of Sandrine who, by the end, only ever seemed to criticize him anyway. Fabien feels as if a weight has lifted.
He finds himself standing again and again in front of the same pictures, reading about the couple’s life, the passion they shared for their art, for workers’ rights, for each other. He wants to live like these people. He has to be a writer. He has to.
He is filled with an urge to go home and write something that is fresh and new, and has in it the honesty of these pictures. Most of all he just wants to write. But what?
And then he sees her, standing in front of the girl with the broken column for a spine. Her gaze locked on the girl in the painting, her eyes wide and sad. Her navy hat is clutched in her right hand. As he watches, a tear slides down her cheek. Her left hand lifts and, without looking away from the picture, she wipes it away with her palm. She looks over suddenly, perhaps feeling his gaze on her, and their eyes meet. Almost before he knows what he is doing, Fabien steps forward.
‘I never … I never got a chance to ask you,’ he says. ‘Would you like to go for coffee?’
Chapter Eight
The Café Cheval Bleu is packed at four o’clock in the afternoon, but the waitress finds Fabien a table inside. Nell has the feeling he is one of those men who always gets a good table inside. He orders a tiny black coffee, and she says, ‘For me too,’ because she does not want him to hear her terrible French accent.
There is a short, awkward silence.
‘It was a good exhibition, yes?’
‘I don’t normally cry at pictures,’ she says. ‘I feel a bit silly now I’m out here.’
‘No. No, it was very moving. And the crowds, and the people, and the photographs …’
He starts to talk about the exhibition. He says he had known about the artist’s work, but had not realised that he would be so moved by it. ‘I feel it here, you know?’ he said, thumping his chest. ‘So … powerful.’
‘Yes,’ she says.
Nobody she knows talks like this. They talk about what Tessa wore to work, or Coronation Street, or who fell over when they were blind drunk last weekend.
‘I think … I want to write like they paint. Does that make sense? I want someone to read and feel it like bouf!’
She can’t help smiling.
‘You think it’s funny?’ He looks hurt.
‘Oh, no. It was the way you said bouf.’
‘Bouf?’
‘It’s not a word we have in England. It just – I –’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s just a funny word. Bouf.’
He stares at her for a minute, then lets out a great laugh. ‘Bouf!’
And the ice is broken. The coffee arrives, and she stirs two sugars into it so that she will not make a face drinking it.
Fabien swallows his in two gulps. ‘So how do you find Paris, Nell-from-England?’
‘I like it. What I’ve seen. But I haven’t been to any of the tourist places. I haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame or that bridge where all the lovers attach little padlocks. I don’t think I’ll really have time now.’
‘You will come back. People always do. What are you going to do this evening?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe find another place to eat. Maybe just flop at the hotel. I’m quite tired.’ She laughed. ‘Are you working at the restaurant?’
‘No. Not tonight.’
She tries not to look disappointed.
He glances down at his watch. ‘Merde! I promised my father I would help him with something. I have to go.’ He looks up. ‘But I am meeting some friends at a bar later this evening. You would be welcome to join us, if you like.’
‘Oh. You’re very kind, but –’
‘You cannot spend your evening in Paris in your hotel room.’
‘Really. I’ll be fine.’
She hears her mother’s voice: You don’t just go out with strange men. He could be anyone. He has a shaven head.
‘Nell. Please let me buy you one drink. Just to say thank you for the ticket.’
‘I don’t know …’
He has the most amazing grin. She feels herself wobble. ‘Is it far?’
‘Nowhere is far.’ He laughs. ‘You are in Paris!’
‘OK. Where shall we meet?’
‘I’ll pick you up. Where is your hotel?’
She tells him and says, ‘So where are we going?’
‘Where the night takes us. You are the Impulsive Girl from England, after all!’ He salutes and then he is gone, kick-starting his moped and roaring away down the road.
Nell lets herself back into her room, her mind still buzzing with the afternoon’s events. She sees the paintings in the gallery, Fabien’s large hands around the little coffee cup, the sad eyes of the tiny woman in the painting. She sees the gardens beside the river, wide and open and the River Seine flowing beyond them. She hears the hiss of the doors opening and closing on the underground. She feels like every bit of her is fizzing. She feels like someone out of a book.
