Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘It is time,’ she nodded.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  Madame Christophe took a deep breath, almost a sigh, as though I had disappointed her in some way. ‘You are not still worried about the German jogger?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘Just life,’ I said.

  ‘Ah well, yes, life.’ Madame Christophe gave her elegant little shrug. ‘At least there is Paris,’ she said as though that solved everything.

  I met Mackenzie and Goldie. We were early to class and we took the three seats that directly faced the whiteboard. Goldie began an elaborate description of her latest glass constructions that required her to draw diagrams on her French notes. She was planning to make Paris scenes in which she’d place her naked women.

  ‘It could be entertaining,’ she said, ‘or dreadful. You know – kitsch? I can’t tell yet and so I keep drawing. I don’t want to be kitsch, but I do love the idea of perching my little woman at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower. What do you think?’

  ‘Kitsch,’ a male voice said. It was Anders, of course. He’d walked in without us noticing. Goldie flushed.

  ‘I think it depends on how it’s done,’ I said, turning to Goldie. I was surprised my voice wasn’t shaking. It sounded certain and measured. ‘I mean, if you’re planning this whole Paris in summer theme, I think you’ll get away with it.’

  ‘So do I.’ Mackenzie nodded. ‘There’s something celebratory about it, Goldie. I think an exhibition of them would be great – and they might sell.’

  ‘Commercial,’ Anders said, straight away. ‘Selling out?’

  I turned away from Goldie and looked at Anders. Yes, he was hot. There was no getting away from that. But his mouth was drawn into a mean sneer that made his lips thin and he’d narrowed his eyes so they were unkind. His shirt sleeves were too carefully folded up, as though he meant you to see his biceps. He saw me watching him and he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. My stomach jolted. I don’t like you, I thought. I actually don’t like you. My head spun a little and everything was floaty. I should have had more breakfast, I thought, and then, no – I’d been released. I’d seen through Anders.

  At that moment Fabienne waltzed in, wearing tight jeans, her trademark stilettos and a sheer white shirt that revealed a lacy camisole. ‘Ah, Lisette!’ she said, and I was gratified to hear the warmth in her voice. ‘We have heard your news!’ she said theatrically. ‘It is Paris, the city of romance.’

  ‘Romance?’ Anders asked me directly. His top lip curled.

  I channelled Madame Christophe and shrugged one shoulder at him. ‘I will have to consult my clairvoyant,’ I said. ‘I cannot see into the future myself.’

  Fabienne clapped her hands, just once. I couldn’t tell whether she was applauding or merely bringing the class to attention, but I suspected from her smile that it was the former. Anders pulled out his notebook and opened it noisily.

  ‘So,’ Fabienne said smoothly, ‘what has everyone been doing? Goldie, you were talking about your art?’

  Goldie sighed. ‘It’s hard to talk about art in another language,’ she said, but she tried anyway. The class proceeded as though nothing had changed, but everything had changed and even when Anders began to describe his week, pointedly mentioning Gabi as often as he could, I didn’t care. He’d been stripped of his glamour and what was left wasn’t attractive.

  When it was my turn I didn’t mention Hugo. It was not anyone’s business except my own. I did mention Falbalas, however, and the flea markets and was gratified by Fabienne’s response.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you are becoming a Parisienne, Lisette!’

  I watched with some satisfaction as a couple of new students copied words from the whiteboard and asked halting questions about metro directions. I was careful to avoid all mention of being cursed. I didn’t want to put anyone off.

  ‘You were great,’ Mackenzie said after the class. ‘I’ll buy you a beer for that effort.’

  ‘I could do with a beer,’ Goldie said. ‘Did you hear how she made me describe the glasswork? Oof, I’m never going to learn French!’

  ‘But you did it.’ Mackenzie linked arms with us. ‘You did it, Goldie.’

  ‘I think I may have said I was going to have a woman in the Eiffel Tower,’ Goldie said, ‘or perhaps impale her on it?’

  ‘It was a brief misunderstanding,’ Mackenzie said. She caught my eye and started to laugh, which set me off. We were still laughing when we sat down in a Mexican cafe – chosen by Mackenzie, because who wouldn’t want Mexican in Paris?

  ‘To friendship!’ I said, raising a toast with my beer. ‘Thank you for being my Paris friends.’

  ‘We’ll stay friends,’ Goldie said seriously.

  ‘On Facebook,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Although, really, the world is a global village. You must both come to Canada.’

  ‘I think it’s too cold,’ Goldie said. ‘Aren’t there bears?’

  ‘You should both come to Australia,’ I said, but my heart flopped when I said it. It wasn’t an excited flip-flop but more of a belly whack. I didn’t want to go home, but I had a return flight. I would go to university and study art history, whether I wanted to or not. I’d never be an artist but I would be educated. I tried to imagine myself saying to someone, a little sadly, ‘Oh yes, I fell in love in Paris, but I had to come home. We still Skype.’ I couldn’t imagine who I’d say it to, I could only see Hugo’s face in my mind’s eye, the loose threads at his collar points.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’ Mackenzie pounced on me. ‘And you’ve hardly touched the corn chips. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘I’m just. You know. It’s all happening so fast. Time passing.’

  We all ordered more beer even though that wasn’t going to solve anything. Goldie launched into a long, complicated speech about a boy she had once gone out with and when they broke up he’d said that there was no such thing as a relationship that didn’t work. It worked, he’d argued, for as long as it had worked. All relationships work. Then they might stop. It didn’t make any sense, no matter how much beer I drank.

  ‘Does that make sense to you?’ I asked Mackenzie when Goldie went to the toilet.

  ‘I think we need to order some more food,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I think food is seriously needed.’

  ‘I just don’t understand. Or am I overthinking it?’

  Mackenzie studied the menu. ‘Actually, I don’t need food. I need to have drunk less beer.’

  Goldie came back. ‘I can’t work this afternoon,’ she said, ‘not after this beer. What shall we do?’

  ‘I know!’ I said, waving a corn chip for emphasis. ‘You guys can come with me and find Chanel. I promised my mother I would.’

  ‘Chanel? You mean the shop?’

  ‘Yes. The one where her old apartment is – I think the apartment’s upstairs.’

  ‘Do we have to go inside?’ Mackenzie rubbed anxiously at a spot of salsa on her jeans.

  ‘Oh come on, Mackenzie – you’re Canadian. You can go anywhere.’

  ‘Not covered in lunch,’ Mackenzie argued.

  ‘We don’t have to go inside, necessarily. I just want a photo. That’s all.’

  My mother idolises Chanel. I don’t, particularly, although I appreciate her role in haute couture. Nonetheless my heart skipped a beat as we stood outside 31 rue Cambon in front of the famous linked Cs.

  ‘There’s a shoe in the window,’ Mackenzie said, ‘and nothing else. I like the pastry shop windows better.’

  ‘It’s an expensive shoe,’ Goldie said. ‘There’s no price tag on it.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t. That would be vulgar.’

  ‘What’s vulgar about knowing the price of something?’ Mackenzie asked.

  ‘Knowing is one thing, displaying is another.’

  ‘Come on,’ Goldie said, ‘this making me nervous. I bought a pair of knock-off Chanel sunglasses in Ma
nila. I could be arrested. Let’s just take the photo.’

  ‘Can you tell the difference?’ Mackenzie asked curiously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Goldie said, ‘I’ve never seen original Chanel sunglasses and I’m not going inside to find out.’

  ‘I can’t believe she must have stood here,’ I said, ‘and thought about her windows and wondered about the angle of a hat or the drape of a skirt. That’s pretty extraordinary. I’m standing where Chanel stood. Mum should really be here.’

  We took photos as discreetly as we could – not that it mattered too much. A whole bunch of tourists came up and madly photographed each other, a couple holding their white Chanel bags aloft.

  ‘I think it’s a little too perfect.’ Mackenzie waved at the shopfront. ‘I don’t think I’m comfortable with perfect.’

  I wondered, was that why Mum loved Chanel so much? The Vase often featured white camellias, one of Chanel’s signature motifs. I preferred overblown peonies, Schiaparelli’s wit and Westwood’s audacity. I told Goldie and Mackenzie about the camellia.

  ‘She had a signature flower?’ Mackenzie was outraged. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t she buy a bit of forest and save some trees instead?’

  Goldie and I looked around at the buildings and cobblestones. ‘I don’t think trees were such an issue back then,’ Goldie said gently, and then to me, ‘It’s a fair point, though. Is haute couture still relevant?’

  ‘It’s as relevant as art is,’ I said hotly, ‘and as beautiful.’

  ‘And as inaccessible to most people,’ Mackenzie said. ‘At least art gets into public galleries.’

  ‘So do clothes,’ I said, ‘and anyway, what are you going to do with your art, then? Plaster Paris with it – or try to sell it?’ ‘I know, I know.’ Mackenzie threw up her hands in defeat. ‘But when I get home, I’m planning some environmental art pieces that will become part of the landscape. I won’t be able to sell them, they’ll be public art.’

  ‘I just think there’s room in the world for beauty,’ I said, ‘and for people who spend their lives making it.’ I thought of Hugo’s stories of his uncle lovingly polishing silver spoons. ‘Or caring for it or collecting it,’ I added.

  ‘If you had a signature flower, Lise,’ Goldie said, linking arms with both Mackenzie and me, ‘it would be a strong flower that didn’t give up easily.’

  ‘I’d be a weed,’ I laughed.

  ‘You’d be a bougainvillea,’ Goldie said, ‘vibrant, beautiful and tough – a survivor.’

  ‘We don’t see them in Canada,’ Mackenzie said, ‘but that sounds like Lise.’

  I thought, I’ll remember this forever, the day I was told I was vibrant, beautiful and tough – three new words I could use to describe myself.

  Before Fashion Week, every big house operates 24/7 getting ready. They are on a countdown. Hugo and I were on countdown, too. But we weren’t going to march it proudly down any catwalk. We were going to end up destroying what we’d been so carefully making.

  ‘Come on,’ Hugo said, ‘ten best movies of all time. And one has to be a Star Wars.’

  ‘You won’t know the ones I like,’ I said, a little self-consciously, ‘a lot of them are kind of weird and old.’

  ‘Try me.’

  This was the type of game we played. Ten books you couldn’t live without. Three favourite birthdays you’d had. Most vivid childhood memory.

  ‘Mary Poppins, My Fair Lady – for the costumes – Breakfast at Tiffany’s—’

  ‘My mum has the DVD.’

  ‘We have it, too. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Amélie, another French one, The Embroiderer – it’s really long and slow but she embroiders. It’s . . . the colours? I don’t know, there’s something about it and she is pregnant and alone. Maybe it reminds me of Mum? But it has a happy ending.’ That was the thing with Hugo. I told him more than I’d ever told anyone except Ami.

  ‘That’s five,’ Hugo said, ‘and you haven’t picked the Star Wars movie yet. Mine, in no particular order, are Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, two by the Coen brothers: O Brother Where Art Thou? and Fargo – the former for the music, the latter for the black humour – and because I love the pregnant cop, but not in a kinky way. Okay, that was awkward but you know what I mean, right? The Lord of the Rings – that has to count as one, yeah? Also, and I know this isn’t cool and sophisticated, but the first Harry Potter movie. It was like seeing one of my favourite books come to life.’

  ‘What about The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?’

  ‘Doesn’t make top ten.’

  ‘Atonement,’ I said, ‘talking of films adapted from books. We studied it at school but I still love it.’

  ‘Yeah, that could be on my list,’ Hugo said. ‘Mum, Unc and I went to see it. They cried.’

  ‘I was furious at the ending. But that green dress! Factory Girl, about Edie Sedgwick.’

  ‘Haven’t heard of it,’ Hugo admitted cheerfully.

  ‘Andy Warhol’s muse,’ I said, ‘she was one of the sixties icons. I think The Lord of the Rings would make my list, too.’

  ‘See, we have films in common,’ Hugo said cheerfully.

  ‘Only two,’ I said.

  ‘And our Star Wars film? Go on, tell me it isn’t A New Hope?’

  ‘It is – but only just. The one with the Ewoks nearly beats it.’

  ‘You’re such a girl,’ Hugo said and leant over to kiss me.

  ‘Come on, Hugo! I bet you had a teddy bear. You’d have been just the kind of boy who refused to go to sleep without his teddy!’

  ‘He had a sailor suit,’ Hugo admitted. ‘Actually, he’s still wearing it. He lives in my old wardrobe at Mum’s.’

  When I stopped kissing him I could see the little blue pulse at his throat jumping.

  ‘What will we do?’ I asked.

  Hugo shook his head and half turned away before he said, ‘I haven’t taken you to my favourite museum.’

  ‘I’ve probably been to it already,’ I told him.

  ‘I bet you haven’t been to this one.’

  ‘Bet me what?’

  ‘If you haven’t, you come home with me.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I bet your uncle would be thrilled. You know I can’t do that, Hugo.’

  ‘Okay, just to London. Just for the weekend. And, for the record, both Unc and Mum would be cool. People go from Paris to London all the time.’

  ‘I know that, Hugo,’ I said crankily. ‘But what happens after the weekend? I come back to Paris, by myself. We can’t keep crossing and re-crossing the Channel until I go back to Australia.’

  ‘Couldn’t we play it by ear? You don’t have to come back to Paris by yourself.’

  ‘My plane home leaves from here. So, are you saying you’ll come back to wave goodbye to me from the Charles de Gaulle?’

  ‘I’m saying why should you have such fixed plans at all?’

  ‘It’s called a ticket, Hugo. You can’t change this kind of ticket just like that. It’s not like a train ticket. It’s a plane ticket.’

  ‘You’re sounding middle-aged,’ Hugo said, ‘as though your entire life is dependent on catching this and catching that. People forfeit tickets. People move halfway across the world. Your dad did.’

  ‘I’m a responsible person,’ I snapped. ‘I made a commitment. Le Voltaire’s busy season starts again in spring. They’ll be needing me.’

  ‘It’s a hospitality job, Lise.’

  I wanted to slap him. ‘It’s a French restaurant and I’m my mother’s daughter,’ I said and turned away.

  ‘Oh wow. So it’s not Maccas. What about us? Don’t you think we’re worth taking a chance on?’

  ‘I think about us all the time,’ I said. We stopped arguing then but the hurt simmered between us.

  The museum was filled with weird things like shop signs that normally I would have loved but Hugo and I marched through it in silence. We didn’t even hold hands.

  After half an hour, Hugo c
hecked his phone. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that before.’

  ‘No. Well, I don’t have to tell you everything, do I? Anyway, you’ll be able to find your way back, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I just thought we’d be able to spend more time together.’

  ‘So did I,’ Hugo said. He didn’t even wave properly, just loped off without looking back.

  I walked back into the museum. It was better to cry in a museum than on the streets of Paris. I went into the garden and sat on a seat and tried to breathe calmly. He had a cheek being angry with me, I thought eventually. I didn’t care if I never saw him again.

  But I did care. That was the whole problem. Why was I so intent on staying in Paris?

  When I’d stopped snivelling I went home. I avoided Madame Christophe and even Napoléon. As soon as I was in my room I got on Skype. I sent Ami an urgent message telling her I needed to talk and then I waited.

  ‘He says just for the weekend,’ I told her. ‘But what happens then?’

  Ami rolled her eyes. ‘What happens whenever?’ she said.

  ‘Ami! I’m serious. After the weekend I’d just come back and Paris would be awful without him.’

  ‘So stay with him.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. How can I? I’ve got a ticket home.’

  ‘I know all about the stupid ticket, Lise. You’ve told me about the ticket a hundred times. So, you’ve got a ticket. Have you asked your mum about the letter yet? Have you checked your bank account?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘So, if it’s about the money, that’s what you need to do first.’

  ‘It’s not about the money.’

  ‘Then what is it about?’ Ami peered at me. My laptop had pixelated her face but I could still see her forehead crinkling in exasperation.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Failure? Like, you know, I go with him and it turns out there’s a girl. A Camden girl. A Yorkshire girl. Or something else – his mum doesn’t like me? Anyway, I can’t just stay there forever.’

  ‘As I see it,’ Ami said patiently, ‘you’re jumping the gun a little, aren’t you? The guy’s just suggested a weekend in London and you’re already talking about forever?’