When she went to buy the next shout, Hugo turned to me. ‘Will we risk it, Lise?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, but I felt a little giddy, as though I’d just drunk too much champagne rather than just one beer.
‘I’m going to put your number into my phone. Then I don’t have to track you through Paris. I’m going to drink this beer, walk you home and then I’m going back to Unc’s friend because I promised to be in before midnight. Tomorrow I’m seeing my friends. They run a vintage store.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘I would like that,’ Hugo said seriously.
It didn’t matter that in a couple of weeks the sand would be dumped back where it came from or that the bars would be taken down and the dancing stop for another year. I was here now, I thought. That’s what mattered.
Vintage – something from the past of high quality, especially something representing the best of its kind. That is seriously the definition of vintage and vintage shop owners should learn it by heart before they try to pass off old crap as vintage. Old crap is just that. Vintage is different.
‘I’m meeting Hugo’s friends today,’ I told Madame Christophe. ‘They are the Falbalas and they run a vintage clothing store somewhere.’
‘They cannot be the Falbalas,’ Madame Christophe said calmly, feeding Napoléon.
‘I’m sure that’s what he said.’
‘Falbalas is a film,’ Madame Christophe said firmly. ‘It is not a couple. Although they may have chosen that name for their store, of course. It is a film about haute couture and very tragic. I hope they are not tragic people.’
I couldn’t imagine Hugo being friends with tragic people and I told Madame Christophe this. ‘But I am pleased you told me about the movie,’ I said, ‘it would have been embarrassing to think that was their real name!’
‘I do not think you could embarrass that young man,’ Madame Christophe said. ‘He is very – how will I say it? He is safe in his skin.’
I thought about Hugo dancing. Madame Christophe was right, although her English was obscure. ‘Comfortable in his skin,’ I said, ‘that’s what we say.’
‘Comfortable, safe,’ Madame Christophe shrugged. ‘It is the same. You will take Napoléon? I have a client coming who he does not like. I would choose not to see this client but his problems are small and his pocket is rich.’
‘Oh là là,’ Hugo said when he met me outside, ‘so French! We have the dog. Max and Edouard will be impressed.’ He kissed me, first on one cheek and then the other and a third time, confusing me.
‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry.’ Hugo ruefully rubbed his nose. ‘I got carried away. It’s Napoléon. Off we go to the biggest flea market in France, maybe the world.’
I had no idea where we were going but Hugo negotiated the metro, only interrupting his chatter to distribute money to various beggars and buskers.
‘I can’t give much,’ he said to me, ‘but I feel . . . well, what do I feel, really? Guilty, I suppose. So I have this policy. Anyone old, anyone with children and anyone with the right kind of dog.’
‘So the wrong kind of dog disqualifies you?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ Hugo was worried. ‘Disqualifies you? That’s harsh. I guess I couldn’t give money to someone with a dog who’d been beaten.’
I took his arm. I hadn’t meant to question his system. ‘It’s great that you’ve given it so much thought,’ I said. ‘Most people simply ignore them.’
When we got out at Saint-Ouen, Hugo said, ‘I need to get some flowers. I always take flowers. I also need to tell you something, so let’s find a cafe and have a coffee.’
He bought a big bunch of dark pink and creamy white flowers, some in bud, some open. It was lavish. Opulent. I regarded it with suspicion. My chest was tight. What was Hugo going to tell me?
He didn’t talk until the coffee arrived and then he took my hand and held it across the table.
‘I want to tell you this before you meet them, so there’s no confusion. Maxine and I – well, when I was younger, we had a thing. It was before Edouard. Maxine was the first woman . . . well, that I’d loved and everything.’ He seemed to run out of breath.
I knew he was going to say that he still loved her. I tried not to glare at the flowers. His hand was sweating slightly and I pulled mine away from it. I didn’t want to make this easier for him.
‘First Anders,’ I said, ‘and now you.’
‘What? No, no, not at all. Not even a little bit.’ Hugo grabbed my hand again, upsetting the sugar bowl and spilling coffee into our saucers. ‘Damn!’ He scooped the sugar back into the bowl. ‘Don’t look,’ he said, but I kept staring at him as he swept the rest off the table with his napkin, then took my hand again.
‘You’re sticky,’ I said.
‘Sorry, you’ll just have to put up with it while I tell you. You’ve got it wrong, Lise. Of course I love Max, but not like that. Not now. This all happened five years ago.’
‘Five years! You’re not that old.’
He grinned and ducked his head shyly. ‘I was seventeen. Max is older by a couple of years. It was my first buying trip. I had strict instructions from Unc. He’d wanted to come but at the last minute he freaked out, so I arrived here with my schoolboy French, a list of things to look for and a budget. I was really flung in the deep end. Anyway, Max already had a stall at the Porte de Vanves. She felt sorry for me. I, of course, fell head over heels and mooned over her. For her it was a springtime fling with a boy. For me it was profound.’
The bands around my chest tightened. Profound. Along the street was some kind of African market – all I could see was a blur of bright yellow, green and red from the T-shirts hung up high like flags around the stalls.
‘I wanted to tell you,’ Hugo said, ‘because I want you to know about me and why I buy Maxine flowers and why we’re close – the three of us, Max and Edouard, her partner, and me. I’ll always love Max – I’m so grateful to her. Not just for, you know – but also because later she put up with my emails and my drunk phone calls and she was nearly always kind when she needn’t have been. I don’t want you thinking I’m anything like that cheating guy.’
‘What happened after Max?’ I extracted my hand again. I was cold even though we were sitting in the morning sun.
‘Nothing for ages.’ Hugo laughed. ‘I wrote emails in bad French and sent over things I’d picked up at the markets at home. Unc moved up North. I went on visiting flea markets. Then I met a Camden girl – very different from Max. She was my age. It didn’t work. Not everyone understands vintage things, yeah? And they’re kind of the point of my life. So now I’ve told you my sad story. Are we okay?’
‘I guess.’ Privately I thought that would depend on what this Maxine was like, but I also knew I didn’t really have any claim to Hugo. I was a tourist – and not just in Paris.
‘Just checking.’ Hugo grinned at me. ‘Come on. Let me wash your hand. I’ve got a water bottle.’
The Falbalas vintage clothing and bric-a-brac stall was in the middle of the huge antique market at Saint-Ouen. Hugo led me through a maze of different shops that sold everything from high-end Art Deco antiques to flea market goods until we reached a two-storey building. Max and Edouard were upstairs.
A woman, wearing a pantsuit straight from the late sixties that even had a matching waistcoat, looked up from her desk and leapt to her feet, shrieking over her shoulder, ‘Edouard – it’s Hugo!’ She rushed at Hugo and triple-kissed him, leaving lipstick on his cheeks. Edouard emerged from behind a curtain. Like the woman, he was dressed in vintage wear but his clothing dated from an earlier period and he sported a waxed moustache. I tried not to stare.
‘Hugo!’ Edouard embraced him, ruffling his hair fondly as he did.
‘Maxine, Edouard, allow me to present Lisette,’ Hugo said solemnly, letting go of my hand as he gently pushed me forward.
‘Enchanted.’ Edouard took my hand and air kissed it close enough tha
t his moustache tickled.
Maxine held her face against mine briefly. ‘Delighted,’ she murmured and we both checked each other out. She wasn’t beautiful or even pretty, but she was chic. Her hair was cut very short and, despite the sixties outfit, the only make-up that stood out was the dark lipstick that contrasted with her pale skin. She was – I searched for a word and reluctantly found it. She was compelling. No wonder Hugo had fallen for her.
‘I love this skirt,’ she said, reaching forward to finger my skull skirt, ‘it is very striking. An Australian designer? Hugo told us you are from Australia. So original.’
Was she talking about my skirt or Australia? I wasn’t sure. What had Hugo said about me?
‘Can we have lunch together?’ Hugo asked, waving the flowers around.
‘The flowers, Hugo!’ Maxine reached for them. ‘You will ruin them dancing like that! Look, Edouard – peonies. They are beautiful, Hugo. Thank you.’
‘We will certainly have lunch.’ Edouard produced a vase seemingly by magic. ‘We’ll close. Business is slow anyway.’
‘But it’s far too early. We could have coffee, unless you want wine? Edouard, find some chairs and water for the dog. Adorable. Trust you, Hugo – you find a girl with the perfect French accessory.’
Hugo put an arm around me. ‘She’s Australian – they learn to fit in.’
Edouard touched my elbow. ‘Don’t listen to Hugo – he is already taking you for granted.’
It was clear that I had passed some kind of test. Hugo’s smile was as wide as the sky as he helped Edouard move chairs around the desk.
We were soon all drinking coffee from a fifties coffee set.
‘This is interesting,’ I said, checking it out. I’d wanted Mum to make the studio more fifties but she was all floral teacups. She said the fifties were ugly.
‘Oh look, Edouard. She is examining our coffee set.’
‘Sorry.’ I put the cup down. ‘It’s just gorgeous.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Edouard said. ‘We all do it all the time, do we not, Hugo? It was on display but of course whenever anyone asked the price we’d put up it so far it couldn’t possibly sell. Then I said to Max, obviously we don’t wish to sell it. No wonder we make no money!’
Maxine shrugged. ‘There is more in life,’ she offered. ‘And business with you and your uncle, Hugo?’
‘Better after this trip,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ve been procuring something special for a distinguished client.’
‘Ah, how we need distinguished clients!’ Edouard laughed. ‘Of course, I must be careful with this. Max does not like me to have too many distinguished clients.’ He winked at Hugo. ‘Lisette, you are interested in the trade?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ I said, ‘except about clothes.’ I wondered what Edouard had meant by his comment. Was Hugo’s client, who he’d been in such a rush to see, a woman? Was she interested more in him than his antiques? But then why would he tell me about Max – as a smokescreen?
Max clapped her hands. ‘So perfect!’ she said. ‘Fashion, history of clothing. It creates an eye, does it not? That is clear from the skulls. You made this?’
‘With my mother’s help,’ I said.
‘You sew well!’
‘Not like Mum. She’s a seamstress.’
‘And will that be your career?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. ‘I was going to go to uni and study art history. Now, I’m not sure. I’m worried that I just latched on to it for the sake of doing something.’ I wasn’t explaining myself very well but Maxine nodded.
‘You need to feel it in your bones,’ she said. ‘Your skirt, you feel there? Clothes are art too. Ah, Hugo, this brings me to a moment of importance. We have clothes. We have been saving them.’
‘I don’t buy new clothes.’ Hugo turned to me and then to Max and Edouard. ‘Lise noticed my fraying cuffs.’
I stared at the pile Edouard produced. ‘Some of these are beautiful,’ I said. ‘Hugo – this grey-green would suit you.’
‘And this’ – Maxine produced a shirt with pinwheels of colour all over it – ‘would suit you, Lise. You must have it. Ooh, and also – where is that Audrey shift, Edouard? That would be perfect, too.’
Before lunch Hugo changed into his new old clothes. The shirt I had picked brought out the colour of his eyes. He lounged comfortably at the Moroccan cafe, his long legs stretched out in front of him. This was his world, obviously. Even his clothes, which looked slightly odd on the Paris streets, were just right at the flea market. I’d changed into the Audrey shift and Maxine had applied cat-eye eyeliner on me. I wondered if I looked at home like Hugo did.
‘So,’ Edouard said, helping himself to couscous, ‘we have time to all go somewhere amusing? Perhaps to hear some music?’
‘I have ten days left,’ Hugo said, ‘and then it’s back to the UK.’
‘And you, Lise?’
‘I’m in Paris for another five and a half weeks and then back to Australia,’ I said slowly. I hadn’t spoken those words aloud before and the sentence stuck in my throat. Did I want to go home? I felt as though I was on the brink of some discovery. But what if I didn’t find it in time? What if I went home before I’d worked it out? I wanted to reach out and hold Hugo’s thin wrist or snuggle my head into his shoulder but how could I – we weren’t really together and I was already on my way home.
RULES
There are fashion rules. When Mum was growing up, her mother always told her she should never wear blue and green together – blue and green, mustn’t be seen. My grandmother’s shoes matched her handbag, her lipstick matched her nail polish. A woman was always well-groomed. It’s all changed. What about Life Rules? You do what you said you’d do. You marry the girl. You catch the flight. You keep your promises. You don’t mess up.
I Skyped with Mum. ‘I really, really like him,’ I told her.
‘So, he’s become a boyfriend?’ she asked. The connection was bad and I couldn’t see the details of her face. It was as though someone had painted her with the colour laid on a little too thickly. Was she angry or resigned?
‘I suppose so,’ I said, ‘but we don’t, we haven’t . . . you know.’
There was that weird Skype time-delay and Mum leant forward towards the monitor. ‘You don’t have to have sex with someone to be in love with them,’ she said. As if I was twelve.
‘I do know that,’ I said. ‘He goes back to England very soon.’
‘You can stay in touch. I would advise putting the brakes on, though. You don’t want to become too involved.’
‘It’s not even a romance yet,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ Mum said. ‘Now, let’s talk about other things. You’ll never guess who came around the other day!’
‘Who?’
‘Ami’s Uncle Vinh. With pork dumplings, beer and green tea. We had a meal together in front of the fire.’
‘How’s Ami?’
‘She’s doing fine,’ Mum said, ‘enjoying her course, apparently. Misses you.’
‘She was there, right? Eating dumplings? Or was it just Vinh?’
‘Oh, Ami wasn’t there,’ Mum said, ‘she’s started back at uni. It was just Vinh.’
‘Why wasn’t Ami there?’
‘She was doing her own thing,’ Mum said mysteriously.
After I’d finished talking to Mum, I wondered if Ami was seeing someone. Ami had said she’d never get a boyfriend without my approval. It wasn’t fair to hold her to that, I knew, but I did wonder what excitement I’d missed out on. I Skyped her straight away.
‘Are you going out with someone?’ I said and then added quickly, ‘I think I’m falling in love.’
‘Uncle Vinh is seeing your mum,’ Ami said, at the same time.
Then we both did that Skype you first, no you, three times each exactly.
‘She’s seeing him or going out with him?’
‘She’s going out with him. And staying in with him.’
‘Wow! T
hat’s crazy. What about you?’ I said finally.
‘I’m staying in with my economics textbook. Not to mention my exam timetable. It’s not crazy when you think about it.’
‘It’s just not fair. I leave the country for half a minute and she’s taken up with some man.’
‘It’s not some man. It’s Uncle Vinh. We all love Vinh.’
‘That’s why it’s unfair. Mum’s got a better chance of having a lasting relationship than I have.’ Tears thickened my voice and I hoped the Skype connection didn’t let on.
‘He picked me up from your place ages ago. She made him a cup of tea – you know that blossom tea. You should have seen him, Lise. He took the teacups out to the kitchen for her. And then they made a cake together.’
‘They what?’ It was difficult enough to imagine a man in my mother’s kitchen without having to also imagine him rolling up his sleeves to whisk eggs and measure flour. ‘What kind of cake?’ I asked. As if that mattered.
‘Well,’ Ami said, ‘this is why I know it’s serious. Sally was making a sponge and Uncle Vinh persuaded her to make a green tea sponge.’
‘A green tea sponge?’ Mum had always said there was nothing quite like a plain sponge. It was the little black dress of cakes. It was how you accessorised the sponge that was the key. Her sponges were whispered about by the customers. They put in shy requests for their favourites as they discussed fabric and drape. ‘Oh, and if you could, darling,’ they’d say, ‘I heard the lemon curd sponge is a wonder. I’ve never tried it,’ and they’d try not to drool on the watermarked bridal satin. But green tea? That was not Mum’s style, no matter what size shipment Vinh had bought.
‘With a coconut cream filling. It was delicious.’
I had a sharp pang of instant homesickness. I imagined my mother’s kitchen and could almost hear the radio playing from the top of the cookbook shelf. I could smell ground coffee and the lemon verbena scent she wore through the summer. Of course, it wouldn’t be summer. It was winter and she’d be wearing something spicier. ‘Are they serious?’
‘I think Vinh is. He consults me about what movies she likes. He’s always talking about her. Sally doesn’t talk much about him. But she doesn’t hide the evidence, either.’
Lisette's Paris Notebook Page 15
