by Carrie Duffy
Alyson had never even seen this part of England before, let alone been out of the country. She wasn’t one of those privileged kids, the ones who saw foreign holidays and an annual ski trip as a God-given right. Her life had been tough; she’d experienced more hardship in eighteen years than most people did in a lifetime.
But now she was leaving.
She felt a surge of excitement shoot through her body, nerves and anticipation churning in her stomach at the prospect of what lay ahead. She was moving to Paris, leaving behind the rugged moorland of Oldham, and the industrial cityscape of Manchester, where she’d grown up, for the city of love and life and lights.
The possibilities were endless and tantalising. She could reinvent herself – do what she wanted to do, be the person she wanted to be. She was no longer the shy, gangly schoolgirl, the one that the popular girls ignored and the popular boys taunted mercilessly. Like a snake shedding her skin, it was as though she’d left her old self behind when she’d checked in at St Pancras. In Paris, she could be anyone she chose to be.
She just wished she was leaving under happier circumstances. For years, she and her mother, Lynn, had faced the world alone, the two of them trying to get by as Lynn struggled with mental health issues and Alyson worked all the spare hours she could to try and keep a roof over their heads. And then her mother had been admitted to hospital after taking an overdose and her father, Terry – the man she hadn’t seen for almost a decade – had come back into their lives, offering Alyson the chance of escape.
You need to do something for yourself, he’d told her. You need to stand on your own two feet – and you need to give your mother the chance to do the same.
Alyson knew he was right, but that didn’t stop her hating him. She’d taken the money and run, wracked with guilt but eager to flee before the chance was snatched away. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life, but she was full of hope for the future and willing to work like a dog to make something of herself. She wanted to make her mother proud, to prove to her that it had been the right decision to leave. She didn’t give a damn what her father thought. As far as Alyson was concerned, he could go to hell.
The rural scene outside her window disappeared in an instant, replaced by nothing but stark blackness. Alyson jumped, jolted out of her daydreams. They were heading into the tunnel now, she realised, shooting under the sea on their way to another country, another life. Alyson couldn’t wait to get started.
“First time to Paris?”
“I’m sorry?” Alyson looked up in confusion. It was the man in the seat opposite who had spoken to her. She stared back at him, her pale blue eyes wide and uncertain.
“I said, is this your first time to Paris?” His face was gentle, his accent hard to place – not English, but not French either. He looked to be in his late twenties, with mocha-coloured skin and dark, curly hair. Even sitting down, it was obvious that he was at least six foot, and his dark eyes were trained on her intently. Alyson was oblivious to his interest. Men weren’t on her radar – her father had seen to that. No way was she ever going to give anyone the opportunity to treat her the way her father had treated her mother.
“I … yes …” she replied shortly, wishing this guy would just leave her alone. She didn’t want to strike up conversation with a random stranger, no matter how attractive he was.
“Are you travelling for a vacation?” he asked easily, seemingly unaware of her discomfort.
“It’s … I mean … Excuse me,” Alyson replied, flustered, as she grabbed her bag and quickly stood up. She could feel the colour flaming in her cheeks as she rushed down the aisle and out of the carriage. She only stopped when she found herself in the buffet car, her breathing coming hard, tears beginning to gather at the corner of her eyes.
What the hell’s wrong with me? she wondered in frustration. Some guy had spoken to her and she’d bolted like a hare from a trap.
She was supposed to be different now, she thought, furious at her own weakness. She wanted to be witty and sophisticated, poised and intelligent and able to hold her own in any conversation – not someone who took fright and ran every time a stranger tried to talk to her. Alyson let out a long, shaky sigh. Maybe this new life would be harder than she’d thought.
She stood miserably beside the window, her own reflection staring back at her. Who was she trying to fool? She wasn’t elegant or beautiful, she thought critically, examining her features in the makeshift mirror. Her face was too thin, too angular, all thrusting cheekbones and pouting lips, surrounded by fine blonde hair. And her eyes were far too large – wide and round, fringed by long, pale lashes. It didn’t help that at five feet eleven, she was about six inches taller than most other women and permanently hunched her shoulders to try and make herself look smaller. Her limbs were ridiculous – long and skinny – while her skin was pale and she refused to use fake tan. She’d spent all of her teenage years being labelled a freak, and it was going to take more than boarding the train to a new city to erase all that.
Alyson exhaled slowly, wiping her eyes. She never wore make-up, so at least she didn’t have to worry about mascara streaking down her face. She would just buy something from the buffet car and go back to her seat, she told herself, as she joined the queue behind an overweight man in a business suit. She tried to stand a little straighter, relaxing her shoulders, as though she could fool people into thinking she really was confident and successful – not shy, terrified Alyson Wakefield from a run-down terrace in Oldham.
She didn’t realise that men looked at her not with disdain, but with naked desire; that the distant look in their eyes was nothing to do with disinterest and everything to do with imagining what she would look like in a wisp of black lace from La Perla. If she’d known what they were really thinking, Alyson would have been horrified.
“Madam? Madam, can I help you?”
Alyson started; she hadn’t realised she’d reached the front of the line. She heard someone tut behind her and leapt forward self-consciously, ordering a tea which she grabbed before scuttling straight back to her seat.
The guy who’d spoken to her had his head down, scribbling in a Moleskine notebook. He looked up as she slid in opposite him.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised, as he closed the notebook and put down his pen. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Alyson smiled, wishing they could start again. He must think she was a complete idiot. “It’s fine,” she assured him. “Really.” She tried to speak confidently, meeting his eyes for the first time. They were a deep brown, and sparkled when he looked at her.
“I’m Javier,” he told her. His voice was deep, his accent rich – Spanish or Portuguese, Alyson guessed.
She hesitated for a moment before replying, then told herself not to be so stupid. “Alyson,” she replied. “And yes, it’s my first time to Paris. Have you … have you been before?”
“Yes, many times,” Javier nodded. “I love to travel, and Paris is a beautiful city – although it’s some time I was last there. I’m a writer,” he explained, “And to write about life, you have to experience life – that is what I believe. So yes, I like to travel, to visit many different cities and people …” He broke off, his dark eyes dancing. “I’m sorry. I think I talk too much.”
“No, not at all,” Alyson insisted. “It’s fascinating. I’ve never really travelled at all, but I’d like to.”
“Well, Paris is a very good place to start.” He smiled at her, and Alyson could feel the heat rise in her face. She was so unused to all of this – chatting with a man, having a normal conversation. He was so much more mature than the boys at school, the ones who yelled crude things as she passed them in the corridor, teasing her ruthlessly to bring out all her insecurities.
“Have you been staying in London?” Alyson asked. She spoke quickly to hide her embarrassment, trying to ignore the feeling of warmth growing in her stomach and spreading through her body.
“Yes,” he nodde
d eagerly. “It’s a wonderful city – very modern, and majestic. But the weather is so cold!” He looked so outraged by this last statement that Alyson couldn’t help laughing. “I’m like a bird,” he continued, by way of explanation. “I must fly south to find somewhere warmer.”
“Do they have good weather in Paris?” Alyson asked innocently, taking a sip of her tea.
Javier shrugged. “A little better than London, maybe. But I won’t stay for long – a few days, perhaps a week or two. Then I’ll make my way down to Spain – my home country,” he explained with a grin. “My family are in Madrid, but I have friends in Barcelona so I’ll stop there. And I hope to be in Morocco by the end of the month. After that … what’s the expression?”
He broke off, and Alyson watched him as his brow furrowed in thought. She felt strangely disappointed that he wasn’t going to be staying in Paris. It was completely irrational, she knew that – half an hour ago, she’d never even spoken to him before. But there was something about him she found intriguing: to have the confidence to travel the world, moving from country to country like a free spirit, making casual acquaintances on trains and writing about what you found … He was so interesting, so adventurous.
Well now she was making her own adventure, she thought determinedly.
“Ah yes,” Javier began, suddenly remembering. “I will go where the wind takes me.”
The train shot out of the tunnel, and Alyson whipped round, eager to see what was outside the window. Her face fell as she looked at the view. She could feel Javier watching her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked
Alyson opened her mouth to speak, wondering how to explain herself. “I didn’t think … I mean, I just expected something else. The landscape, I mean …” she broke off, shrugging helplessly. The scene outside was depressingly similar to the one she’d left behind in England – the same flat, muddy fields and overcast skies. She knew it was crazy, but she’d somehow expected France to look visibly different; a glamorous, exotic Technicolor world, like Dorothy leaving Kansas and arriving in Oz.
Javier smiled sympathetically, the look of disappointment on her face all too obvious. “It will be different in Paris,” he reassured her. “It’s a magical, beautiful city – nothing like this,” he finished, waving his hand dismissively at the window.
“I hope so,” Alyson whispered. She’d come here looking for a new life, and so far nothing had gone to plan. She just hoped she hadn’t made a huge mistake.
***
The Gare du Nord was enormous. Alyson stared round in awe, gazing at the huge, arched windows and the vast green columns stretching up to the vaulted roof. All around her people hurried past, dragging suitcases behind them as they dashed to make their train. Nearby, a couple exclaimed in a language she didn’t understand, clearly delighted as they rushed towards each other and embraced, like a scene from an old-fashioned movie. Everything felt so … French! The announcements over the tannoy in a rapid Parisian accent; the signs outside the cafés for Orangina and croque-monsieur; the massive billboards advertising shows at the Opera Bastille and portables and TGV trains to Provence. Alyson loved it instantly.
It was incredibly inspiring, and more than a little intimidating. Every sense was on high alert as her body was bombarded by new sights and sounds and smells. Could she really do this, she wondered, a horrible wave of doubt creeping over her. There were so many people here that she felt completely insignificant, just one person in a city of millions. Was it really possible that she could carve out a future for herself here, with friends, an apartment, a career?
Instinctively, she moved closer to Javier. He’d accompanied her from the train, carrying her suitcase through to the arrivals hall.
“Can I help you find a taxi?” he offered.
“It’s okay,” Alyson shook her head. “I’ll take the metro.” A taxi seemed far too extravagant, especially as she had no idea when – if at all – she would find a job. She had to make her father’s money last as long as possible.
“Where are you staying?” Javier asked.
“I’m booked into a hotel in the Fifth for a few nights.” It was a tiny, two-star place she’d found on the internet. The reviews were horrendous, but the rates were dirt-cheap. “You?”
“The Eighteenth – the other side of the city.” Javier’s tone was apologetic. “It’s not the best area but …” he shrugged. “It’s very lively. There’s a real mix of people, many different nationalities … You’re sure I can’t help you?”
“I’ll be fine,” Alyson assured him, with more confidence than she felt. Their hands brushed as she went to take the suitcase from him, and she felt her stomach contract sharply.
“Well, it was great to meet you,” he told her softly, his eyes lingering on her face. Then he leaned towards her and Alyson felt a sudden stab of panic. He was going to kiss her! He was about to—
Javier bent down, their skin barely touching as he kissed lightly her on both cheeks, and Alyson felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. What the hell was she thinking? Her imagination had been working overtime, and she’d totally forgotten the way they did things over here – the double kiss being a perfectly normal way of saying hello and goodbye.
“Take care, Alyson,” Javier smiled. He picked up his bag and turned around, walking away into the crush of people. Alyson stared after him, watching the broad muscles of his shoulders until he was swallowed up by the crowds that bustled through the station. Then reality hit: she was in a strange city, a foreign country, and she was completely alone.
She could feel the warmth of his cheek against hers long after he’d walked away.
2
Urgh. Whoever said champagne doesn’t give you a hangover was lying, Dionne reflected, as she rolled over and gratefully clasped the bottle of Evian she’d remembered to leave beside her bed last night. She downed half in one go, hoping that the insistent banging in her head would stop soon.
Last night. What exactly had happened … ?
Dionne sank back into the comfort of her pillows, a wicked smile playing on her lips as hazy memories began to come back to her. There’d been a night at VIP Room, one of Paris’s most exclusive clubs. There’d been endless glasses of champagne: Veuve Cliquot all the way; a magnum of the stuff, which explained her pounding head this morning. She hadn’t paid for any of it, of course – that was just one of the many benefits of being young and beautiful, partying with the rich and powerful in the City of Lights.
And there’d been a man, she remembered suddenly, her smile getting even wider. She scrunched her face up, trying to recall his name. Jean-Paul? Jean-Pierre? It didn’t matter. He’d been blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a light tan and a bulging wallet. A white guy. Dionne shrugged. Hell, she was all in favour of equal opportunities when it came to sexual partners. As long as they were hot, loaded and could show her a good time, she didn’t care what colour they were.
Of course, white men were … lacking in certain areas, but Dionne was willing to overlook that as long as they used a little imagination. And he’d certainly done that, she grinned to herself, an X-rated flashback racing through her mind.
She rolled over, grabbing her cell phone to check for messages.
“Shit,” Dionne swore, as her eyes blearily focused on the time. Her alarm hadn’t gone off this morning – or, more likely, she just hadn’t set it. When she’d stumbled in at four a.m., getting up for work the next morning hadn’t exactly been her priority.
“CeCe,” she croaked, her voice dry and husky. There was no reply. “Double shit,” Dionne swore again, as she swung her long, dark legs out of bed, her bare feet landing on the dress she’d hastily shed and discarded last night. Pausing for a moment to check her balance like a newly-born calf, she grabbed her robe from where it was slung over a chair and tottered along the corridor to her flatmate’s room.
“CeCe,” she repeated, knocking insistently on the door. She heard a noise that sounded like a groan and pushed the door
open.
CeCe was sprawled across her bed, half-in and half-out of her duvet with one leg hooked around it like a lover. She was wearing shorts and a vest, and her body was tiny – boyish almost – with a flat bottom and bee-stung breasts. She sat up groggily as Dionne burst in, pushing her hair out of her hazel eyes. One side of her hair was long and flowing and currently dyed a vibrant blue. The other side was shaved in an undercut, the whole look edgy and eccentric.
“It’s nearly eleven,” Dionne explained hastily. “We’re late.” She thrust the water bottle at CeCe, who duly drained the other half and blinked blearily up at Dionne.
“Get in the shower,” Dionne told her firmly. “I’ll call a cab to be here in twenty minutes.”
“Make it thirty?” CeCe pleaded.
Dionne grinned. “Thirty, then. Now get your ass in motion.”
***
Thirty minutes later, showered, dressed and feeling vaguely human, the two of them rolled into a taxi.
“Do you have any money for this?” CeCe asked. She was French – born in Auvergne, in central France – and although she spoke English with Dionne, her accent was still strong.
“Umm …” Dionne scrabbled in her purse. “Twenty euros. That should cover it, right?”
“I knew we should have taken the metro,” CeCe grumbled, as Dionne shuddered.
“Ew. Seriously, public transport? I have an image to maintain, you know,” she grinned, only half-joking. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover this. I’m not planning on eating today anyway – I need to think skinny. I’ll just get a shot of espresso or something for lunch.”
“Mmm, coffee …” CeCe smiled dreamily.
“Don’t worry, we’ll pick some up on the way in,” Dionne promised her. “Cute outfit, by the way. You did well in thirty minutes.”
CeCe was wearing a Gaultier-style sailor dress, the same shade of blue as her hair, with an oversized white collar and enormous white buttons down the front. She’d paired it with over-the-knee socks and clumpy, hi-top trainers.
