It was a lonely walk back to the apartment through streets full of people laughing together and kissing under the lights. The Hôtel de Ville fountains were lit up and people sat around them, enjoying the warmth of the night.
By the time I was in my apartment I was angry with Anders. It didn’t help that when I checked my email, my mother had sent me a reminder that she hadn’t yet received a postcard from me and had I remembered to visit where Chanel used to live and take a photograph? Of course I hadn’t. I ignored the email and went to bed, where I spent hours composing cutting text messages that I didn’t send to Anders.
My phone buzzed the next morning and I sprang on it like a lion catching prey. It had to be Anders explaining about the night before – and it was Anders. He offered no explanation or apology, however. He just said it was a perfect day for shopping and did I remember offering to help him with a difficult purchase?
I thought about simply ignoring the text. I thought about it for all of thirty seconds and then I said sure. I hoped the single word was dignified and gave nothing away. If Anders wasn’t going to explain, I wasn’t going to ask. At least, not in a text. We agreed to meet at a cafe. He said he wanted a good breakfast but I decided he was nervous about encountering Madame Christophe again. I was too, and I evaded her questions, talking instead about how striking Fabienne was and telling her what she had worn to the opening.
‘She has style,’ Madame Christophe acknowledged, ‘but she has not yet – and it pains me to say this about my friend – comprehended that her age demands a little . . . restraint. In this she reveals her Italian father. No matter. For the moment she is safe.’
I thought of the lace dress and wondered exactly who was safe? No matter. I had evaded questioning.
PARISIAN LINGERIE
When Mum took me shopping for my first bra, she also bought me a lingerie bag that she handed to me as though it were a religious relic. Despite that I’m usually pretty casual about underwear. Unless there’s a chance it might be seen. Ami, on the other hand, only ever buys bras with matching knickers. Boy scout preparedness, she says when she’s in a good mood. Delusional optimism, when she’s not. I hope she got the stay-ups I sent.
Anders was waiting for me at the cafe. Although when I say waiting, I’m exaggerating slightly. He was eating sausages, drinking coffee and consulting his phone. He was wearing a pale striped T-shirt and he hadn’t shaved. Despite that, I felt slightly frayed around the edges. I’d rescued my shorts and teamed them, rather hopefully, with the stay-up plaid stockings. The plaids clashed, but in an edgy way. I was beginning to think wistfully of the wardrobe Mum had wanted to make me and of the sales in Paris. Could I afford new clothes? Or something really vintage?
‘Guten Morgen,’ Anders said. ‘Coffee? This is a difficult assignment, Lise. We must find something special. Something very French. I hope your shopping talents are up to it.’ I thought he was examining my outfit with suspicion and I tugged at the bottom of my shorts surreptitiously. I didn’t want to show too much lace.
‘So who’s the present for?’ I asked.
‘A person of total discernment.’ Anders smiled as he took my hand. ‘That’s why I need to employ a shopper. Gabi is total chic.’
‘And Gabi is?’
‘My sister. It is her birthday and she wants something French.’
‘A scarf?’
‘We have scarves in Germany.’ Anders dismissed the idea with a wave of his sausage-laden fork.
‘Perfume?’
‘Too obvious.’
I was getting cranky. He’d ditched me the night before and now I was supposed to instantly come up with brilliant ideas for his sister’s birthday present? ‘What happened,’ I began, ‘one minute—’
Anders’ phone dinged and he held up his hand. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the woman herself has spoken. She requires lingerie. French lingerie.’
‘Your sister wants you to buy her lingerie?’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just a little odd?’
‘Not in my country. Let us search.’
I thought we’d go to a large department store, but instead Anders strode off in the direction of the Louvre. From there we turned right into streets filled with small, expensive shops. It was designer territory. The windows of each shop were works of art and I wanted to linger in front of the patisseries where piles of rosy macarons nestled next to gleaming tarts filled with whirls of dark chocolate.
Anders paused at a window filled with haughty mannequins pretending to be wearing more than their scanties. ‘Here,’ he said and I followed him in.
The lingerie was laid out in glass cases as though the barely-there bras and panties were museum artefacts. I grabbed Anders’ elbow. ‘It’s going to be expensive,’ I hissed.
He was unperturbed. ‘Gabi is expensive.’
An attendant glided up to us, murmuring in French. When Anders spoke, she instantly switched to English. ‘For mademoiselle?’ She indicated me with a glacial smile. I pulled at my shorts again.
‘Not for me,’ I said in French, ‘for his sister. It’s her birthday.’
‘And the sister, she resembles your boyfriend?’
I looked at Anders. I had no idea. ‘Anders, what does Gabi look like? Is she like you?’
‘No, not at all. She is shorter, with dark hair and pale skin.’
‘So completely unlike?’ I was surprised.
‘She takes after my mother,’ Anders said, ‘I take after my father. This is genetics, Lise.’
It must have been clear from my ignorance that I knew nothing so the attendant switched back to English and led Anders to the counter where she rapidly laid out wisps of lace in dusty pinks, scarlet and silver-grey. ‘It depends on the look,’ she said as she all but stroked the bras, ‘perhaps not too sexy from a brother?’ and she deftly removed the scarlet push-up from the silky pile.
‘Romantic,’ Anders said, ‘definitely romantic. With a hint of sexy, but above all, something elegant. Not red or black – too obvious.’
He clearly didn’t need my help. Why had I been invited along? As the attendant flourished bras at Anders, I pretended it was my birthday. We’d been together for six months, I decided, long enough for a European man to choose underwear for his girlfriend. I knew the set I wanted as soon as the attendant held it up. Unlike the others, this wasn’t all lace. It was a silk balconette bra in blue polka dots, but what made it perfect were the ruffles. Sure, you’d only be able to wear it with certain clothes – but it would be the best bra to show off. The knickers had rows of the same ruffles forming a boy leg.
‘I like those.’ I nudged Anders.
‘They are not sleek,’ he objected. ‘And they are not Gabi’s colours.’
Sleek turned out to be the barest-pink semi-sheer lingerie set decorated with floral lace. I noted that Gabi was smaller than me but took a C cup. I was impressed that Anders knew that – or was it creepy? I couldn’t decide – I was an only child. Would I want my brother to know what size bra I took? Perhaps I would if he was prepared to spend as much on me as Anders spent on Gabi. The attendant wrapped the delicacies in the palest green tissue – almost the exact shade of the leaves that curled around the flowers.
‘Your sister is very lucky,’ the attendant said, and then to me, ‘It might be your turn next.’
‘Lise wears only tartan,’ Anders said, taking the slim box, ‘we would have to buy her underwear from Scotland.’
‘That’s not true,’ I began to protest, but my words were lost in the flurry of the attendant opening the door for us and telling Anders was a wonderful brother he was.
‘So, to thank you for your help, I should buy you something,’ Anders said, taking my hand.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ I said sulkily.
‘You provided moral support,’ he corrected. ‘Also, I wouldn’t have entered the shop without you. Come, we will get you something special.’
For one bold minute I allowed myself t
o hope – but the special thing turned out to be a pastry from a nearby cake shop. I was still smarting from the tartan underwear comment so I chose an elegant lemon tart even though I actually wanted the opera cake, which looked amazing. Predictably, that’s what Anders ordered. We sat outside, facing the street. Every woman who passed us was elegant. No one wore stay-up stockings with shorts.
‘You are gloomy,’ Anders said. ‘Why, Lise? Has no man ever bought you pretty lingerie?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think an Australian guy would be game,’ I said, ‘or if he did, it would be something dodgy – you know, something he thought was sexy, not something a girl would like to wear.’
‘You need to find yourself a European man,’ Anders said, patting the box on the seat next to him, ‘we think of the woman.’
‘Last night you didn’t,’ I blurted out, ‘you just kicked me out. More or less.’
‘Ah, this is what makes you sad?’
‘No. Well, sort of. It was a little abrupt.’
‘I am sorry, Lise. There was something I had to attend to. It was a shame. I did enjoy kissing you.’ And just like that he leant over and kissed me on the mouth, despite the crumbs of lemon tart. I didn’t have time to push him away, even if I had wanted to. ‘You taste like lemons,’ he said, ‘lemons and sugar. I wish I had more time today, Lise. I would be able to show you just how much I enjoy kissing you, but today is full of urgent errands for me. Perhaps later?’ He signalled the waiter for the bill. ‘I must hurry away now. You stay here, finish your coffee. There is no rush for you.’ He kissed me again – this time on the top of my head – and before I could protest, he had marched off, holding the box of lingerie.
What did later mean, I wondered, ordering a second coffee. Did it mean that evening? Or later in the week? Still, he had kissed me. I replayed our conversation in my head for the rest of the afternoon as I sauntered through the Tuileries, watching the children play with the little boats, and the couples lounge in the sun. If I hear three people speaking German, I thought, Anders will text me. He didn’t, even though I heard four people speak German. If I see two Bichon Frisé dogs, Anders will text me. I cheated on that one – I saw one and a rather plump poodle. Anders did not text. If I remember all the conjugations of aimer, Anders will text me. Even the subjunctive of aimer didn’t work.
Later obviously did not mean that day or even that night and I ate two-minute noodles again sitting on my bed, watching a movie on my laptop. It was part of Ami’s going-away present and it made me miss her. I left a Facebook message for her, asking what kind of man buys expensive underwear for his sister. When I woke up, she’d replied, An incestuous one. I knew that Ami had just meant to be funny, but it wasn’t. I didn’t reply.
MENSWEAR – WHO CARES?
You may think you don’t – but, trust me, you do. Ami says she doesn’t mind a good T-shirt collection, but they have to be what arthouse movies are to blockbusters. Mum says every man should own at least two suits – one for funerals and one for celebrations. The funeral suit needs to be classic, the celebratory one can be fashionable, within reason. I like a guy who isn’t afraid to wear a shirt with a collar. A guy in a shirt has the potential to be a man.
When my phone buzzed the next day I expected it to be Anders but it was Goldie, asking me to her studio for lunch that day. She’d bought too much from the market, she texted, and needed to share. Please say I could make it.
It was better than nothing, I thought, and a chance to see Goldie’s artwork, so I said yes. I took my fish-eye camera. She was on the fourth floor of the main block of studios. It wasn’t as good a position as Anders’ courtyard studio. I wondered if Goldie envied him.
She was waiting for me. The standard studio table was covered with a bright sarong that made the thick white china look rustic. ‘I’ll make coffee first,’ she said. ‘You must sit.’
I prowled around instead, admiring the glass objects that were scattered on every surface. Goldie made miniature female figures, which she arranged in coloured landscapes. At one end of the studio there was a large sculpture that reminded me of a Japanese Zen garden, except that the glass reflected the light in a hundred different directions so it was distracting, rather than restful. I liked the little women, however. There was something self-contained about them, as though they were simply content to contemplate their own beauty.
‘I haven’t any wine.’ Goldie emerged from the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t mix with glasswork. All right for the painters to drink during the day, but if I make a mistake it will mean pain.’
While we ate, I felt as though Goldie were watching me. We talked – I learnt Goldie was from the Philippines, and had two siblings, both of whom worked in IT. Her ex-boyfriend had called off their relationship before she’d left for Paris on the grounds that she might meet someone and that he had to be free, too. After this revelation she came to a standstill. It was obviously my turn to speak but there was nothing I could think of saying other than the question I’d been asking myself since the night of the open studios, which I now blurted out.
‘Did you text Anders the other night, after the opening?’
‘No. Why would I?’
‘I don’t know. I thought – a message just came at an inconvenient time. That’s all.’
Goldie nodded. ‘I’ll make more coffee?’ She turned away.
‘I wish I knew who it was,’ I complained. ‘It was really weird.’
Goldie busied herself at the sink and brought back the refilled plunger.
‘I think you should know,’ she said, ‘that Anders is a bit . . . unreliable.’
‘I know.’ I laughed. Goldie’s tone of voice had made me suspect she was going to tell me something far more serious.
‘Not like that. You must listen, Lise. There’s a girl. They have some kind of . . . arrangement.’
‘An arrangement?’
Goldie got up from the table, even though she’d just sat down, and rearranged a glass landscape on one of the shelves. Absently she brought the little woman back to the table and fiddled with her as she spoke. ‘It’s complicated, but Anders – he flirts with someone. Like you. He did this before, right?’
‘Before what?’
‘Before you. Then, just when it seemed as though it was going to go somewhere, Anders called it off. The girl, Sophie, was devastated. The next thing, Anders arrived with this German girl. He introduced her as his girlfriend. Sophie didn’t finish her residency. She just left. Anders said it wasn’t his problem, he didn’t promise anything. It was flirtation only.’
I held on to the table and stared at Goldie. Her eyes were soft and worried.
‘He has a girlfriend?’
‘She arrives when she feels threatened, perhaps? Who knows? I wanted to tell you before . . . before you were hurt.’
‘Do you think it was the girlfriend who texted Anders? Do you think she knew about me?’
‘It’s possible. Mackenzie thinks it’s a game they play.’
‘It’s an awful game,’ I said, ‘and I was so close to . . . you know.’
Goldie nodded. ‘I didn’t think things would go that far. I tried to say something, but I didn’t want to make a fuss.’
‘That’s why you glared at me?’
‘I didn’t mean to look cross. I’m sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as I am.’ I got up and went to the big windows. There was no breeze to cool my face. ‘I can’t believe it. I know he can be arrogant but sometimes he’s so nice.’
‘He is,’ Goldie said quickly, ‘but as a friend, not a boyfriend. Or maybe he is nice to Gabi?’
‘That’s her name? Gabi? He told me that was his sister,’ I wailed, remembering the expensive silk. ‘We went shopping together for her birthday present.’ I had known something was wrong with a brother buying his sister lingerie.
‘That’s not nice at all.’
‘He told me stuff about her. How she was beautiful and elegant. I was so pleased she was only his sister, not h
is girlfriend. I knew I wouldn’t have had a chance if he’d been interested in someone like that.’ I didn’t want to cry in front of Goldie but then she was beside me, her arms around me, and I was crying into her shoulder before I could stop myself.
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she said, after a few minutes. ‘He’s only this one guy, Lise. You don’t even know him that well.’
‘Maybe,’ I sniffed, ‘but I wanted to.’
Goldie shrugged. ‘He is good-looking,’ she acknowledged, ‘but what interests do you share with him?’
‘He helped me buy my camera.’ I felt like a snotty kid.
‘How difficult was that?’ Goldie asked. ‘How much time did it take from his day? Did he buy it for you – of course not. With Anders you jump to his tune. Is that what you want, Lise? To be like your little dog?’
‘Napoléon’s not like that,’ I protested. ‘He can be quite snarly and he’s very independent.’
‘So maybe you should be more like him? Snarl a little.’
‘If Anders is with someone else, it doesn’t matter what I do,’ I said mournfully.
‘Still, you can use this,’ Goldie said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘To learn,’ she said firmly.
‘That’s the kind of thing Madame Christophe would say.’
‘Oh Lise, I know it’s horrible. It is so horrible, but it only stays that way while you let it hurt you.’
I didn’t know how to stop it hurting but there was no use telling that to Goldie. She insisted that we’d spent enough time on Anders and made me take photos of her even though with my tears I could hardly see through the lens. She said it would make me feel better and strangely enough it did. I knew Ami was going to love seeing the photos and I told Goldie about her and how I’d sent her some plaid stockings. Talking about Ami didn’t make me feel homesick, despite the whole Anders thing. I missed her, of course, but Goldie was right. I was in Paris and I’d be home soon enough. Maybe by then Anders would be just another travel story?
Lisette's Paris Notebook Page 9
