by Robyn Sisman
“Don’t!” Molly shrieked, fighting for breath. Even Fabrice was chortling and snorting at his own jokes.
There was the screech of an opening window, and a torrent of furious French poured into the street. A woman in a nightie was leaning out from an upper story, screaming at them like a demented witch. Molly didn’t understand all the words but she got the gist. Couldn’t a decent woman be allowed to rest quietly in her own bed at night? What was wrong with young people these days?
Fabrice replied in a sulky mumble. They were only taking a little promenade; it was not a crime, after all. Crazy lovers! the woman yelled back. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Unless they went away at once she would call the police. The window banged shut.
Molly and Fabrice looked at each other and exchanged guilty giggles. He took her hand and led her back up the street in an exaggerated stealthy tiptoe, finger to his lips, relaxing into normality as soon as they were out of sight. At the top there was a tiny raised square, wedged into the angle of two streets. Though hardly bigger than an average living room it contained a precise and perfect arrangement of three trees, one ironwork bench and a statue of a couple embracing.
“Could we sit down a minute?” said Molly. “My shoes hurt.”
“Of course.” He shepherded her up the stone steps and sat her down on the bench. As soon as she had eased her feet out of the (too small) sandals he gestured impatiently. “Poor feet. Here. Give them to me.” He pulled them on to his lap and began to massage them gently.
At first Molly was rather embarrassed. She hoped there wasn’t too much of an odeur. But then the most delicious lassitude oozed through her body. No one had ever stroked her feet like this before. She hadn’t known they were an erogenous zone. Or was she kinky? Leather skirt . . . no underwear . . . French foot massages: was there a rogue gene she didn’t know about? She lay back against the bench in a sensuous stupor, watching Fabrice’s beautiful hands squeeze and press her flesh. If she wasn’t careful, at any minute she was going to sob aloud with pleasure.
“Who are they?” she asked, pointing at the statue.
Fabrice shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked up and gave her a sly smile. “Crazy lovers, maybe?”
Molly’s eyes flickered to his and away. But as soon as his attention returned to her feet, she looked back again. She couldn’t help it. She was mesmerized by the little kink at the corner of his mouth and the way his hair slithered down across his forehead.
“Is that better?” he asked.
“What? Oh, yes. Thank you.” Molly put her feet back onto the ground in a daze and fumbled with the straps of her sandals.
“Good. I have one more thing to show you.”
The streets wound upward. There were more shops here, shut, of course, but full of trinkets and the usual tourist junk. How very superior it was not to be a tourist but to have her very own Frenchman—Parisian—to show her the city. Not that Fabrice was exactly hers. But he did like her, didn’t he? She remembered the look he’d given her when he had said “crazy lovers” and felt a quiver of anticipation. Already she was imagining what would happen tomorrow, and the day after—and weekends to come—and even wondering what Fabrice would make of Fat Sal when he came to London.
She was so busy with her thoughts that she didn’t take any notice of where she was going until he stopped and pointed his chin at the view ahead. “You see?” he said.
They were standing at the edge of a high stone platform from which the ground plunged steeply. Below them and all around for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see, stretched the lights of Paris, with the river looping through them like a fat black snake. There were domes and steeples, turrets and belfries, apartment blocks and skyscrapers—and the Eiffel Tower! It was fantastic.
“But don’t look behind you,” Fabrice warned.
Of course Molly turned round at once. A couple of hundred yards away, Sacré Coeur glistened brilliant white like a gigantic wedding cake.
“It’s an excrescence,” said Fabrice, pushing out his lower lip. “A bastard of architecture. Any fool can see that.”
Molly nodded solemnly. She thought it was lovely, rather like the Taj Mahal.
They turned back to look at the view. Far to the left there was a smoky red glow on the horizon—a factory, perhaps, or something burning. “What’s that over there?” she asked, pointing. “It’s not a fire, is it?”
“That’s the sun, you silly baby.”
“What?”
Her gaze swept across the Paris sky, east to west, from pinky gray to starry black and back again. He was right. It was tomorrow.
“It’s going to be another beautiful day,” he told her. “You are lucky.”
Molly gave a secret smile. Of course she was lucky. Of course the weather would be perfect. Hadn’t she met Fabrice? “My first real day in Paris,” she murmured dreamily. “What shall we do?”
He looked at her blankly.
“I mean, if you want to. If you’re not busy.”
He looked down into her face in that careless, casual, moody-broody way he had.
“We can do anything you like,” she told him. “Anything,” she blushed.
“Molly.” He sighed. She loved the way he said her name—Mer-lee. “Okay. I have an idea. Here, I’ll write it for you.” He had a pen but no paper, so he tore a strip off his blue-and-white cigarette packet, wrote something on the blank side and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “And now,” he said, “I will take you home. You are staying at a hotel? A hostel?”
After her earlier scare, when she thought she’d lost Zabi and Alicia in the club, Molly had memorized both the name and the address. He said it was on his way. Soon they were back to where he had parked the scooter. Molly climbed onto it and smiled to herself as Fabrice revved the engine importantly.
“You want to go back fast or slow?” he shouted.
“Fast!” She knew it was the only answer.
They jolted down the cobbles, gathering speed, heading back toward Sacré Coeur. The scooter’s headlamp glowed feebly; the sky was already lightening to gray. He swerved and steadied the bike. Molly saw it was pointing straight down toward a succession of steep stone stairways.
“No!” she shrieked.
“Yes!”
The bike tilted sickeningly to a forty-five-degree angle, then they were bumping down the steps at terrifying speed. Molly squeezed her eyes shut and held tight. The bike straightened out, then swooped again—and again. She heard someone call out, and looked up in time to catch a snapshot impression of a man holding a basket of oysters as they shot past. His astonished expression made her laugh. She thought of Didier setting out mushrooms on his stall.
Finally they reached a broad, straight boulevard and joined a trickle of early-morning traffic. The sky was no brighter than pearly gray but it was definitely morning. The day was beginning to hum. Molly laid her cheek against Fabrice’s back and closed her eyes. Her world shrank to the warmth of his body circled in her arms, the feel of his ribs under her fingers, the thrum of the engine, the muted honk and hubbub of cars.
When she next looked up, color was seeping into the scene around her, and they were stopped at a traffic light in the place de la République, where she’d emerged from the Métro probably no more than eight hours ago. It no longer seemed big and gaunt and frightening. There was a small carousel—how had she missed that? A waiter in a white apron and black waistcoat was setting out wicker chairs in front of a café, dusting them down with a flick of his cloth, meticulously adjusting their position. As Molly watched, he caught sight of an acquaintance. “Salut, Bernard!” he called.
“Eh, Martin, salut! ” The two men shook hands.
The bike moved into quieter streets. The news kiosks were opening. She saw an old man in slippers buying his paper. Small gray vans were parked along the pavement, bottoms tilted into the air, doors open at the back to display crates of grapes, curly lettuce and ribbed tomatoes, galvanized tubs of lilies and carnation
s, boxes of black lobsters slithering in slow motion across crushed ice. Another kind of van, green and much bigger, lumbered down the street scouring the gutters and spraying the pavements clean. A cartoonish picture on its side-panel showed a human figure triumphantly holding up a small bag. The slogan underneath read: “I love my neighborhood. I pick up my dog’s turds!”
Molly recognized her own street, narrow and quiet. The cat was sitting on the doorstep of her hotel, washing itself in the pale dawn. “It’s here,” she said, close to Fabrice’s ear. But when he stopped outside she couldn’t bring herself to get off. She wanted to stay like this for ever. “I’m too tired,” she moaned, clasping her fingers tighter and snuggling her face into his jacket.
“Arrête, toi,” he said, with a little laugh she could feel under her hands. He smiled at her over his shoulder, then reached round to grasp one elbow and help her off the bike. She stood beside him, swaying gently. “Poor Molly,” he said.
He propped the bike steady and climbed off himself. Molly felt his fingers flutter against her cheek as he undid her helmet and removed it. He smoothed back her hair carefully, a palm on either side of her head. “You know, Molly, you are very beautiful.”
“No, I’m not,” she whispered.
“I like your hair. And your little English nose.” He ran a finger down it.
“That tickles.”
“And your smile.” A knuckle brushed her mouth.
Her eyelids drooped. She was melting, turning to butter. Then his lips were on hers, warm and searching. He pulled her tight and pressed harder, sliding his tongue into her mouth, tugging and twining until her head sank back in surrender and her body arched into his. She felt his thighs hard against hers, his chest beneath the thin shirt pressing against her breasts. She could smell his skin and feel its masculine rasp against her own. They were breathing each other’s breath, tasting each other’s taste, matching each other’s heartbeat.
Finally he set her upright. “Until tomorrow,” he said.
She nodded dopily. “Today,” she reminded him.
“Go on,” he smiled, “go to sleep. Au dodo.”
Molly stood on the edge of the pavement, watching him loop the scooter back the way they had come. His jacket billowed out behind him. She loved the angles of his knees and elbows, the serious way he held the handlebars. Just as he reached the corner, the first beam of sunlight glanced across the freshly hosed street, turning drops of water to diamonds. High in a tree a bird was singing its heart out. From somewhere came the sweet smell of freshly baked bread. It was like the beginning of the world.
6
Malcolm Figg sat at the poncy gilt table that served as a desk in his hotel room, and tapped his pencil impatiently on its glossy surface, waiting for his call to be answered. Although there was a perfectly good phone in the room, he was using his mobile: quick, cheap, no mucking about with foreign instructions and, above all, confidential. There were no flies on Malcolm Figg.
Which reminded him. After that time he’d given an entire presentation with the tag of his Spurs boxer shorts caught in his trouser zipper, it was always best to check. No, everything in order and under wraps. Practice makes perfect. Detail, you see. That’s how he’d got to where he was today. He didn’t intend to let some snotty graduate with a diploma up her arse throw him off course.
Was she ever going to answer the phone?
It wasn’t until late last night, while sorting through the conference material Molly had prepared before staging her ridiculous walk out, that he’d discovered the graphics disk was missing. Malcolm had lain awake in a sweat of panic. On Sunday at noon he was due to stand up in front of four hundred assorted medics to kick off the presentation of Phipps Lauzer Bergman’s new wonder drug for ulcers, then introduce a panel of distinguished scientific experts. It was the first time he’d been chosen for such a key role, which hinted at a definite leg up career-wise. Following a “Tips for Success” article in Men’s Health, he’d bought a new suit specially, had his hair styled and his hands manicured. He’d rehearsed every audio-visual cue, from the fanfare accompanying the PLB logo to the lab shots, and coordinated with the white-coats to ensure that their spiel would be accompanied by the correct images of viruses, tissue sections, organ scans and whatnot. It would be the slickest presentation anyone had ever been privileged to witness—with the disk. Without it, he might as well resign now before he was fired.
The bloody cow! He’d tried her mobile dozens of times, but she’d either turned it off or switched it to voicemail. He’d already left three messages. Had she gone out, or was she still in bed at nearly midday? Okay, ten thirty, English time. In the early hours of this morning, tossing and turning, he’d had a brainwave. As early as he dared, he’d rung up a junior colleague in London and virtually twisted his balls off to go into the office and find her home number, stuffed somewhere with her job application into one of Malcolm’s filing cabinets. What with London being an hour behind Paris, the process took forever. It was already eleven before Malcolm got the number. Each passing minute tied another knot in his gut.
At last! He heard the scrabble of a receiver being wrestled from its cradle and a sleepy groan. He’d woken her up. Good.
“Yeah?” croaked a voice.
“Molly, you bitch! Is that you?”
“Sal here. I’m asleep. ’Byee.”
The line went dead. Bloody hell! He punched the call button again. If the only way to get hold of Molly was to wake up the flatmate, or whatever she called herself, so be it. Perhaps Molly was a lesbian. That would explain a lot.
“Yeah?”
“Can I speak to Molly? It’s urgent.”
“Not here. Sorry. ’Byee.”
Unbelievable! She’d hung up again. Malcolm banged his phone on the table—not too hard. He didn’t want to damage the new fascia he’d bought by mail order. (The “executive” model, burred walnut effect, pricy but worth it. Respect yourself and others will follow.) He jabbed the green icon again, reconsidering his strategy. There was a mirror above the table. He smoothed his tie, limbered up his facial muscles as recommended in the “Customer Relations: Advanced Techniques” course he’d recently attended (Smiles Mean Sales), and prepared to ooze charm.
“Yeah?”
“Sa-a-al. Malcolm here. Good to talk to you again.”
“Look, who is this? You’re not one of those perverts, are you?”
“Ha ha ha. This is Molly’s boss speaking. Malcolm Figg. Two gs. I trust I’m not inconveniencing you, but I need to contact Molly as a matter of urgency.”
“I told you, she’s not here.” There was the squeak of bed-springs and a heavy sigh. “You’ve woken me up now.”
“I do apologize. Might I inquire when you expect her to return?”
“Dunno, really. Er, what day is it today?”
Malcolm placed a hand over his eyes. “Saturday.”
“But Molly doesn’t work Saturdays, does she?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean, she would if—” Malcolm clamped his jaw tight. Girls always did this to him. Brains like spaghetti wriggling in all directions, tripping him up, tying him in knots. He tried the deep-breathing exercise (Calm Means Confidence).
“Hey,” she said, suddenly perky, “you’re not the Malcolm I met in Scheherazade a couple of months ago?”
“No.”
“Or it might have been Viva Tango.”
“No!”
“Only you sound just like him.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Thing is, he went off to get me another Vodka Red Ball and I lost him. I quite fancied him, actually. Bit of a brute, gorgeous brown—”
“Look, I’m going to give you a number.” (Seize the Initiative.) “It’s very important that Molly rings me ASAP.”
“Wait! I’ve just remembered. She’s gone to Paris for the weekend.”
“No, she effing well hasn’t!”
“Oi, mind my hangover.”
“That’s the whole point. I’m
in Paris and she isn’t, and I need something she’s got. What’s more, if I don’t get it back by the end of today, I’ll be pressing charges for misappropriation of company property.”
“Come again?”
“To say nothing of dishonoring her contractual obligations.”
“D’you know, darling, I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re on about.”
Malcolm ground his teeth. Unfortunately he’d skipped the anger-management session in favor of crazy golf. “Let’s just say it could be a police matter.”
“Police? ” For one glorious moment he had her full attention. Then she spoiled it by adding, “Come off it. Not Molly.”
“I said ‘could.’ You get her to contact me, and we’ll see.”
“Oh, all right. What’s your name again?”
“Malcolm Figg. Two gs. PLB Pharmaceuticals.”
“Farming what?”
“Jesus! Look, forget the company. Just say Malcolm. She’ll know who it is. She’s to ring me on this number. Have you got a pen?”
“I’m in bed, darling. If you say it nice and slowly I’m sure I’ll remember it.”
Malcolm did his Hannibal Lecter face in the mirror.
“Ooh, look, here’s a lipstick. Orange Carnival. I’ll write it on my Vogue.”
By the time he cut the call Malcolm’s hair stood up in spikes and sweat prickled his back. He tried to calm himself by playing Snake on his phone, but his nerves were so shot he couldn’t even get to three hundred. He scrolled down the menu to check his top score. Six hundred and fifty-seven, wasn’t it? It was. Bloody good.
He was a smart boy, no question. One day his potential would be recognized. One day he’d have his own parking space and a sleek car to put in it, with leather seats and that Japanese stereo system he’d seen featured in FHM. He’d own a loft overlooking the river, with one of those showers that sprayed water at you from all directions, and an enormous bed, where he’d watch twenty-four-hour sports on his home-cinema system. Or, even better, a house in the sun with its own pool, somewhere relaxed where he could go drinking with his mates, drive around in a convertible (or an off-roader? Tricky one) and pick up a willing, suntanned blonde whenever he chose. He’d run his own business and call the shots. Never again would he kow-tow to corporate fat cats, or be patronized by posh idiots with a lot of letters after their names, or let some butter-wouldn’t-melt secretary whip the carpet from under his feet.
