Ami wanted to have a cool affirming quote tattooed onto her wrist but she was worried her wrists were too small for anything worthwhile. She said ‘breathe’ was stupid as it was an involuntary act but I think sometimes it would be a reassuring reminder.
I left Goldie’s studio a couple of hours later with a film full of photos and one of her little glass women. The humid air hit me and so did my loneliness. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment where I’d be tempted to Skype Mum and get a lecture on male irresponsibility. I found myself in the Place des Vosges with its serene, ordered hedges. I sat on a bench and watched the pigeons.
There was a group of people my own age sitting on the lawn and eating. From their accents I could tell they were Irish and one of the girls had that auburn hair that always goes with pale, beautiful skin. She looked ethereal. Was Gabi as beautiful? As more friends joined them, the group on the grass jumped up and kissed or hugged each other before making the picnic circle bigger.
I had never felt quite so alone. Serves you right, I told myself, viciously scrubbing away tears before they could fall. Serves you right. You’re so stupid. Just a stupid little girl whose own father didn’t love her. Except now I knew that was no longer true. My father had loved me and he’d never forgotten about me. I could no longer chant the old mantra I had used when everything went wrong with Ben.
After Ben, before VCE finished, I’d seen a counsellor. Ami was doing psychology and diagnosing everyone. She’d pronounced me depressed and urged me to see someone. It was true that I wasn’t sleeping well. I was stressed and anxious, but you could have said the same for nearly everyone in our year level.
It was actually a good move. The counsellor didn’t lecture me for wasting her time. She listened to me and then suggested some strategies. She asked me to check in with her regularly to see if those strategies were working. She also explained how Ben wasn’t the cause of it all. It was natural to carry around a fear of abandonment if one of your parents was absent, she explained. But, I could work on that by changing the things I told myself. That would be a start.
I am not stupid, I told myself now in the kindest tones I could manage. I am not stupid. I am good at some things. I know quite a lot about art and fashion history. I’m smart. I found my apartment in Paris even though it was the first time I’d ever been overseas. My father loved me. My mother loves me. I have good friends. I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. Anders is the jerk.
I sat there for about an hour, repeating my new mantras to myself, trying to believe them. Every so often I’d glance at the Irish group and wish that one of them would notice me and invite me to join them. They didn’t. In between mantras, I’d check my phone. Just in case Anders had texted me. He hadn’t.
Paris seemed grey and empty. Which was absolutely ridiculous. But I didn’t tell myself I was being ridiculous. I told myself that I was in shock and that I was grieving and it was fine to feel this way for a while. If nothing worked out I promised myself I could go home early even though I knew I couldn’t – not without wasting a lot of money. I’d been through all that with Mum before I left.
‘But you won’t want to leave,’ she’d said. ‘Paris for three months – the time will fly!’
‘What if I get homesick?’ This had been before the lawyer’s letter, before our fight and before my world had shifted.
‘You’ll manage.’ Mum had patted my face. ‘You’ll get through it, Lise. You’ve got a stubborn streak just like . . .’ She’d paused and turned away. At the time, I’d thought she’d meant her mother. Now I suspected she’d meant my father, my stubborn father.
Anders and his stupid idea of me as a clean canvas could jump in the Seine, I thought savagely. I was so much more than that. Who knew where my passions would lead? People might laugh at my knowledge of fashion history, but somewhere it would be useful.
I could have told that stuck-up shop assistant selling lingerie something she didn’t know. I could have told her that the first report of a brassiere was in American Vogue in the early 1900s and that an American first patented the bra. Take that, Paris, fashion capital of the world. Out-engineered by the USA! I should have casually leant on the counter, with just the tip of my elbow – like Audrey. ‘Of course, once you’d have been buying a bust bodice,’ I’d have said. Except Anders wouldn’t have cared what a bra had first been called. Stuff like that didn’t interest him. Stuff like that didn’t interest any guy.
I put the little glass woman Goldie had given me on the park seat. I didn’t really want to keep her. I felt guilty about it but she would always remind me of the moment when I knew I’d been played. She was too lovely to just throw away. I could simply leave her there to be found by someone she would delight.
I thought I could walk down to the Seine and see whether the Paris-Plages beaches had been constructed yet. I could take some more photos and then I could go back to my apartment and make some postcards. Or even Skype Mum, if it wasn’t too late. I had been avoiding her but now I wanted to hear her voice. I wouldn’t tell her about Anders. I just wouldn’t mention him at all.
I walked past the Irish group. It was their last night in Paris before returning to study. I loved the accents – it sounded as though they were reciting poetry even when they were just passing plates of food around.
My phone buzzed. A message. From Anders. My mouth was dry and my stomach churned. I didn’t want to know what it said but I couldn’t just delete it without looking.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice behind me said urgently. ‘You have left this. Your object of art.’
I turned and there was a skinny boy not much older than me with thick, ragged hair and almond-shaped eyes. He wore a proper shirt, but it had come untucked from old-fashioned suit trousers. When he handed me the glass woman, I could see that his cuffs were frayed and the arms slightly too short. His French was fluent, but careful, and I heard an English accent behind it.
‘Thank you,’ I replied in French. I didn’t want to admit to having left it behind deliberately. I took it out of his palm and put it gently in my bag.
‘You’re not French,’ he said in English now.
‘No, Australian.’
‘Oh, Australian! Hugo. English. Originally from Camden.’
‘Lise.’ I shook his hand. His bitten down fingernails made his hands look as though they belonged to someone younger, although this was belied by the bony strength of his handshake.
‘Such a pleasure,’ he said. ‘I’ve been speaking French all day and my brain is going to explode.’
I was torn between wanting to talk to him and reading Anders’ text. Maybe he was messaging me to explain? Maybe Goldie had made a mistake? Maybe this time things were different? I glanced at my phone pointedly.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. You’re calling someone?’
‘A message,’ I said. ‘I’m kind of . . . Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
‘There are some Irish students back there.’ I gestured to the group on the grass, but even as I did so I noticed that most of them had drifted off. ‘They all speak English.’
‘It’s okay.’ He smiled and I noticed the smile caused two small creases to appear next to his mouth. ‘Not really an issue. It was just that I thought – hoped – you might have a gelato with me. But you’re busy and why wouldn’t you be? It’s Paris. No one comes here by themselves! Well, except me. And really I’m on business. Have a lovely evening, Lise.’
He half-waved and walked briskly away, leaving me slightly confused. He was in Paris on business? He wasn’t dressed like a businessman but nor was he like any of the hipster artists I’d met. There was nothing studied about his clothes or appearance. It was more as though he’d borrowed someone else’s once-quality garments.
My phone buzzed again. I steadied my hand and then opened the message. Meet me at the falafel? That was it. No apology, no explanation. Had Goldie told him what she’d revealed to me? What if she was wrong about him? What if he’d broken up
with Gabi? I’d turn up and he’d be romantic. He’d have flowers – dark roses. Or maybe some exquisite chocolate truffles dusted with gold leaf. I’d seen some that looked like fairytale bird’s eggs. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, didn’t I?
I just had time to whiz back to the apartment, apply some make-up and change my clothes.
I was five minutes late at the rue des Rosiers but my eyeliner was perfect and my messy bun the result of half an hour of hard work. Anders was slouched against a wall examining the queue already forming for falafel. He greeted me with a kiss – not an air kiss, but a real kiss on the mouth. I couldn’t pull away. He smelled of that nearly familiar forest fragrance and he put his arm around me straight away, as though we were already a unit.
‘Shall we queue?’ he asked. ‘Or shall we go the rivals?’
‘Is there a difference?’ I didn’t want to talk about falafels. I wanted Anders to tell me the truth about Gabi but I couldn’t just blurt out everything Goldie had told me.
‘I don’t think so, but then for me food is fuel. Perhaps not the Berthillon gelato or my mother’s stollen, but falafel? The difference is too subtle.’
That was my opportunity. I could ask how he felt about women. Were our differences too subtle? I was trying to form the words in my head when I had to decide whether or not I wanted spicy falafel and garlic sauce. It seemed too trivial to compare myself to chilli flakes so I just accepted the falafel and Anders and moved on.
‘I can’t eat this walking,’ I said. ‘I’ll spill it.’
‘We’ll find somewhere. But you must walk quickly, Lise. I don’t want my fuel getting cold! Come, there’s a square near here.’
It was not the Place des Vosges, but a small, barren square dominated by a large mural of a ghostly woman. We sat beneath her and were immediately mobbed by pigeons who stood defiantly at our feet, waiting for tidbits. Eating was serious business for Anders and he didn’t talk. I followed his lead and concentrated on my falafel. He’d put his arm around me. He’d kissed me gently. He wasn’t a jerk. He wasn’t a player. Goldie had it wrong. Maybe she’d lied? Maybe she was keen on Anders? She had said he was good-looking. But Goldie was my friend – she’d never do that. And Anders was my friend too, wasn’t he? I didn’t know what to think.
After Anders had folded our empty wrappers carefully together and disposed of them, he settled back on the park bench, and nestled me against his chest. ‘This is perfect,’ he said. ‘Such a beautiful evening with a beautiful girl. What more is life for?’
‘Family? Your sister? Art?’ I lifted my head up and, as though in answer, he bent his head down and kissed me. It was a long, slow, deliberate kiss. A voice in my brain shrieked, this may not be right – what about Gabi? But, no matter how strident that voice was, my mouth went right on kissing Anders back.
‘It is good,’ he said, eventually pulling away, ‘that we both had the garlic sauce.’
It wasn’t a very romantic thing to say but I didn’t feel I could point that out to him. I laughed nervously instead.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘smile!’
He aimed his phone at us, his mouth against my cheek. ‘I’ll send it to you?’
The whole thing was surreal. ‘I didn’t think you were the selfie sort?’
‘I don’t like Fakebook,’ he answered, fiddling with his phone, ‘but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish to remember good times. And also, I know that all you girls love photographs. Proof that you have won our hearts.’
‘That’s not true.’ I twisted away from him. ‘I hate selfies. Well, that’s not true, either. It’s okay when everyone’s posing for fun.’
‘Shall we take another and you can do that hair shake thing?’
‘I’m wearing a messy bun,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to shake it out. What would be the point of putting it up in the first place?’ Everything felt wrong.
‘What’s the point of anything?’ Anders asked in a tone that was at least half condescending. ‘Ah, but I know. Come back with me to my studio.’
Back to his studio! That could only mean one thing. Was that what I wanted? Should I mention Gabi?
I found myself saying, ‘Okay,’ as though I was under a spell.
‘Beautiful Lise,’ Anders murmured, stroking the side of my face, ‘so beautiful!’
He lifted me to my feet as he kissed my neck and shoulders. They were fluttery kisses that matched the butterflies bursting to life in my stomach. I could feel the muscles in his back and chest as we stood up and I was forced to hold on to him for balance. We kissed again and it was the perfect moment, pressed up against Anders, the mural above us and, surprisingly, for Paris, no one else in the square.
Then his phone rang. He broke away. ‘Sorry, Lise. I need to take this call.’
I couldn’t believe it. I would have let my phone ring out, but no, Anders was not only answering his, but walking away from me and talking in German, leaving me with the pigeons until he came back.
‘That is dealt with,’ he said. ‘It was just my sister.’
‘Your sister?’ The butterflies in the pit of my stomach solidified into a thick mass I felt I’d vomit up any second. I tried to keep my voice light when I said her name. ‘Gabi?’
‘That’s right.’ Anders smiled, but a small muscle beside his mouth jumped. ‘Gabi. She is coming to Paris.’
I took a deep breath. It all made sense. The selfie had been part of the game. He’d sent it to Gabi.
‘That’s fabulous,’ I said, my voice unnaturally bright. ‘I’ll meet her?’
‘Gabi is a whirlwind,’ Anders said. ‘She will have plans for every minute. Shall we go?’ He took my hand but I stood my ground.
‘But you’ve told her about me?’
‘I have,’ he said confidently. ‘I’ve told her how beautiful you are, Lise.’
‘Did you send her our photo just then?’ Was I sounding as innocent as I hoped?
Anders gave me a slightly puzzled look. ‘Yes, I did,’ he admitted.
‘So she rang when she received the photo? She must want to meet me.’
‘Of course, but she also wants to see my exhibition. It finishes next weekend. Gabi is very . . . supportive of my work.’
‘Well, what sister wouldn’t be?’
‘Lise, why are we standing here discussing Gabi when we could be walking back to my studio contemplating far more pleasurable pursuits?’
‘Because she’s not your sister,’ I said and my voice shook.
Anders released me straight away. ‘What?’
‘Gabi is your girlfriend, Anders.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Anders said, but he’d already moved a step away from me. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘That’s a Facebook cliché,’ I said.
‘Who told you? Who interfered?’
‘That’s really not relevant. Why did you lie to me? I thought you were my friend.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Anders repeated, ‘and I don’t conduct my relationships like some teenager. I don’t think in those boxes – girlfriend, boyfriend.’
‘How convenient,’ I said, ‘and how progressive. Well, I like those boxes.’
‘You are so young, Lise.’
Tears stung my eyes. ‘I don’t think it’s a question of being young,’ I said. ‘I think it’s more about trust. I trusted you and you betrayed me.’
‘But if I had told you from the start that Gabi and I were open to other . . . complications . . . you wouldn’t have been part of it,’ Anders said.
‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t and you knew that.’ The tears made my voice thick and even shakier. ‘You’re just a user, Anders. Just a jerk.’ I couldn’t say anything else. It was stupid to cry for a relationship that had never even happened but I wasn’t just sad, I was also really, really angry. I turned away. I thought I might throw up.
It can take ten hours to make a few centimetres of lace the traditional way. Mum knew someone who made her daughter a lace bridal v
eil. It took over two thousand hours. Mum and I worked out that was about two hundred and fifty full working days. She began the veil when her daughter was born. Imagine being so certain your daughter would get married – and wear a veil. What if she’d been a punk? Or didn’t want a traditional wedding? Or just didn’t want to get married at all? I guess people don’t ask those questions when they begin something so enormous. Something so big with love.
I wanted to rant. I needed to tell someone. Mum was my first thought. But did I really want her to know that I’d been taken in by a smooth German player? Also the time difference was no longer on my side, which cut out Ami as well. Instead, I went for a long walk along the river.
I pretended I was a heroine from a classic book or one of Mum’s favourite old movies, walking along the Seine. Except if I’d been a nineteenth-century girl, nearly ruined, I may well have considered throwing myself in. I thought of this as I leant on the parapet, looking at the beginnings of the Paris-Plages. It was incredible to think that each summer a fake beach was built in the centre of Paris. I couldn’t even guess at how much sand was being dumped. Dumped. I hadn’t even had a chance, this time, to be dumped.
‘He’s not worth it,’ a faintly familiar English voice behind me said, ‘and it’s not like in the books. You wouldn’t drown – all Australians can swim – but you’d end up in hospital with some dreadful bacterial bugs in your system and die a lingering, expensive death.’
‘Thanks for that,’ I said. ‘I was actually watching them make the beach. Did you find someone to talk English with?’
‘I have now. It must be my lucky day.’ He stuck out his bony, nail-bitten hand for me to shake again. ‘Hello again, Lise.’
‘Hi, Hugo.’
‘So, meeting you here means one of two things – your date didn’t work out or you were lying to get rid of me the first time.’
Lisette's Paris Notebook Page 10
