Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  8

  Twenty minutes later, hair still damp, cheeks pink from running, hugging a bag of Zabi’s clothes under one arm while wrestling with a street map that refused to refold, Molly pushed open a heavy swing-door and was instantly engulfed in the beguiling smells and roaring chatter of a café at full weekend throttle. Glasses slammed on zinc. Trays clanged. There was the sizzle of cooking, the clink of spoons stirring sugar lumps into coffee, above all a fervor of conversation conducted with such decisive gestures, so many cigarettes swooping and soaring in passionate emphasis, by such a well-dressed, multiracial, cool-looking crowd—and all in French, too—that Molly was momentarily daunted. She paused by the bar to survey the high-ceilinged room, thronged with tables and brown leather booths. Its crude wooden panelling, pewter chandeliers and mottled mirrors suggested that it must once have been a working-man’s haunt, though the stylish clientele and waitresses in jeans swaying sexily past blackboards offering cocktails and “Le Brunch” screamed boho chic.

  “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle.” A barman, nimble as a dancer, snaked round her, hoisting a tray of bottles and glasses, miraculously balanced. Molly scuttled out of his way, and scanned the tables once again, hoping that Alicia hadn’t got fed up with waiting and left. This place looked fun. Besides, the sight of plates whisking past, piled with frites, parsley-flecked mussels, and hamburgers oozing pink juice reminded her that she was starving.

  “Oy, Molly! Over here.”

  From a seat near the window a figure was sweeping both arms through the air in huge arcs, as if guiding in an aircraft to land. Molly recognized Alicia, reincarnated this morning as a slightly more butch Audrey Hepburn, complete with black polo-neck and flicked-up eyeliner. There was a momentary blip in the decibel level as heads swivelled first to Alicia, then to Molly, who sketched a wave, ducked her head self-consciously and hurried over.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she panted, sliding at last into the chair opposite Alicia and cramming her bag under the table.

  “Yay, you made it!” Alicia beamed her searchlight grin. “Thought you might still be, you know, in bed.” Her eyebrows flickered suggestively.

  “No, of course not,” Molly said, a little stiffly. “I overslept, that’s all.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Alicia’s throaty giggle implied that sleeping was the last thing she’d imagined Molly doing.

  Molly sucked in her nostrils. Honestly! Just because one accepted an invitation to see Paris by night, it didn’t mean one was the sort of girl to, well, not on the very first date . . . although the idea was not wholly—not that she’d even thought about it. (Hardly.) So there.

  “You have chosen?” A willowy brunette had wafted to Molly’s side, order pad poised.

  Flustered, Molly picked up the menu that lay on the table in front of her and gazed at a blur of foreign words and euro symbols. “Er, je ne—je n’ai pas—”

  “If you’re hungry, go for the brunch,” Alicia interrupted. “It’s totally yummy.” She guided Molly through the various choices—coffee, tea or champagne; bagel, salad or eggs Benedict; fruit juices in mouthwatering flavors—and ordered for them both, concluding with a breezy “mur-see.”

  As soon as the waitress had gathered up the menus and left, Alicia leaned forward, elbows on the table, round blue eyes alight with curiosity. “So?” she prompted.

  “So what?” Molly stalled.

  “So how did it go? Last night, remember? We took you to a club and you buggered off with some gorgeous hunk.”

  Molly frowned at this crude description. Had Heathcliff “buggered off” with Cathy across the moors? Was Mr. Darcy a “hunk”? Australians obviously had no concept of romance.

  “At least, I assume he was gorgeous,” Alicia persisted.

  Molly picked at her red-and-white-checked table-mat, trying to quell the treacherous smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “He was—very nice. Very intelligent. An art student. We went round Paris on his scooter. It was extremely . . .” she fumbled for the right word “. . . interesting,” she concluded lamely.

  “I bet it was!” Alicia gave a loud, dirty laugh. “All that throbbing under your bum. Whooh! Enough to make anyone wet their panties. Not that you were wearing any.”

  “Shush!” Molly flushed and furtively checked the adjacent tables, hoping no one understood English.

  “Well, you weren’t. You can’t pretend to me. I’ve got them right here, in this bag. Want me to get them out and show everyone?”

  “Alicia!” Molly whispered, in agonized protest.

  “Then get off your high horse and tell me what happened last night. Come on, girl, give. It must have been special. Or do you always dump your friends and disappear with strange men?”

  “No! And there’s nothing ‘strange’ about Fabrice.”

  “Ooh, Fabrice.”

  “Et voilà.” To Molly’s relief, the waitress was back, bringing coffee and hot milk in silvery jugs, a plate of miniature muffins, and two tall glasses of fresh, frothy juice. Molly had chosen raspberry. She took a deep, cooling gulp.

  “So, did you shag him?”

  Molly spluttered, choked as her juice went down the wrong way, gasped for breath, then coughed half the juice back into her napkin. She could feel her face turn to boiled beetroot. Tears squeezed from her eyes. Everyone was looking.

  Alicia had come round the table to pat her on the back, and hand her a glass of water.

  “I hate you, Alicia,” Molly croaked, between sips.

  Alicia merely returned to her seat with a smug smile. “No, you don’t. You want to tell me all about him.”

  She was right. Molly allowed the wild happiness she had felt all morning to burst her defenses and flood into her face. “Oh, Alicia,” she sighed, “it was the best night of my whole life. We watched the dawn come up over Sacré Coeur. He showed me the Eiffel Tower. He even massaged my feet.”

  “So you did sh—?”

  “No, I didn’t!” Molly slapped the table furiously. “Not yet.”

  Hearing what she’d just said, she clapped a hand to her mouth and stared at Alicia, appalled.

  Alicia snorted, then giggled, then burst into loud gleeful guffaws, pointing her finger wordlessly at Molly until she, too, was overtaken by hysterical giggles and the pair of them were practically bent double, clasping their stomachs, rocking helplessly on their chairs, pounding their feet on the floor. Molly had almost regained control when Alicia pointed her finger again and cooed, “Fabree-eece.” Once again they were off. “Mais quand même!” someone muttered in haughty disgust from a neighboring table.

  Finally the girls wiped their eyes and looked at each other in perfect friendship.

  “Right, then,” said Alicia. “Do we gather you at least got a snog?”

  Molly nodded, and allowed herself to let loose another long, dreamy sigh.

  “Tongues?”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “And you’re seeing him again?”

  “This afternoon. Half past three.” Molly felt a twinge of doubt. That was the time they’d agreed, wasn’t it?

  “Ooh, this is so exciting! I knew something was up when I saw you come in looking all dewy.”

  This afternoon. The breath caught in her chest. What if Fabrice hadn’t liked her after all? What if she couldn’t think of anything to say? What if he didn’t turn up? Molly watched the waitress’s hand remove the muffins and set down a plate bearing an artful arrangement of eggs Benedict flanked by saucisses and frills of crisp bacon. What if he just grabbed her, tore off all her clothes and—

  “Guess you’re going to miss out on the old Louvre, then.”

  “Hmm?” Molly bit absently into a sausage.

  “You know, the place where the paintings are?” Alicia pinched her features into a hoity-toity expression. “ ‘First thing tomorrow I’m jolly well off to the Louvre for some culture.’ ”

  “Oh, shut up.” Molly giggled. “Actually, I think I’m meeting him, er, Fabrice—” she blushed to say
his name aloud “—at some kind of museum.” She fished in her handbag for the precious strip of cigarette packet he had given her last night and handed it across. “Maybe you can tell me where that is.”

  “Bloody hell!” In an instant Alicia’s face had changed to fury. She jumped to her feet, sending the table rocking and cutlery slithering to the floor. Ignoring Molly completely, she charged through the café and out of the door.

  9

  Molly stared after Alicia, aghast. What had she done? What had she said? Was Alicia ill? She half rose from her chair, wondering whether to go after her. But they hadn’t paid the bill. The waitress would think—She sat down again. Not knowing what else to do, she picked up the fallen cutlery and arranged it neatly on the table, pondering Alicia’s extraordinary behavior, feeling anxious and unhappy.

  A terrible realization made her go cold. Alicia still had the bit of cigarette packet. Molly couldn’t remember what was written on it. If Alicia didn’t come back, she wouldn’t know where to go. She pictured Fabrice waiting for her, checking his watch as hope and happiness drained from his face. He’d think she wasn’t coming, that she didn’t care. There was no way to contact him. This was unbearable! And she’d never, ever see him again. Molly almost sobbed aloud at the thought, and hid her agitation by taking a large swig of coffee.

  Then a much grimmer possibility made her drop the cup back into its saucer with a rattle. Alicia had rushed off at exactly the moment Molly had handed her that address: why? Because she had recognized Fabrice’s writing! In a blinding flash Molly could see it all. Alicia and Fabrice had been lovers—no, were lovers—no, no, Fabrice would never be so perfidious as to pick up another girl, namely herself, if he was already involved. So. They’d been lovers. (Perfectly possible: they both lived in Paris, both liked going to clubs. Alicia was perhaps a little on the old side, but hey.) Anyway, it was all over for him, but Alicia still cared. She hadn’t realized that Molly’s Fabrice was her Fabrice, too, until she’d seen the telltale writing and felt her whole world crumble. Poor Alicia! Molly sank back in her chair, winded by the tragic irony of this scenario. How often momentous events turned on a single tiny detail. It was just like that brilliant bit in The Golden Bowl where the wife realizes that her husband and best friend have been—

  “Sorry about that,” chirped a familiar voice, at her shoulder. “Bloody Janine. The nerve of it! Sailing right past the window on my Rollerblades. She was too fast for me this time, but I’ll get her in the end.” Alicia seated herself calmly, looking slightly puffed but otherwise normal. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, that address.” She pulled the scrap of cardboard from her trouser pocket and scanned it casually. “Funny writing these French have. All loops and whirly bits.” She handed it back with a reassuring smile. “You’ll be right. I can tell you how to get there.”

  Molly gazed back at Alicia’s strong, friendly face, her bright, guileless eyes, her kooky voodoo earrings, and felt a wave of remorse and embarrassment wash over her. How foolish she was! How stupid and selfish and ungrateful! “I’ve been thinking,” she began hesitantly, “you know, about last night.”

  “Again? By the way, the French for condom is préservatif.”

  “No, seriously. I had the most fantastic time, not just Fabrice but everything else—Zabi’s flat, the clothes, the club. It was all wonderful. And none of it would have happened if you hadn’t been nice enough to take me with you.”

  Alicia pulled a silly face.

  “So I just wondered if I could, er, make a contribution to a new pair of Rollerblades so that you won’t have to—I mean, if money’s a problem—well, basically so you won’t keep abandoning me in restaurants.”

  Alicia reached out and squeezed her arm. “You’re a doll. But I couldn’t take money off you. Tell you what, you can book in for my Sunday morning roller tour. Balade, they call it here.”

  “But I don’t know how.” Molly pictured herself waving her legs like a flipped beetle on some posh Parisian trottoir. And she might be busy with Fabrice (in a not dissimilar position). How testing life was.

  “Beginners welcome. Plus I get a percentage of every customer I introduce.” Alicia grinned at her hopefully.

  For a moment Molly teetered on the knife-edge between what she wanted to do—hoard every minute for Fabrice—and what loyalty and friendship told her she must do. Her conscience spoke loud and clear. “That’s it, then,” she said lightly, feeling a painful inner wrench. “I’ll be there.”

  “Yay! You can bring me up to speed on the great hunkerama—” Alicia broke off suddenly and cocked her head. “What’s that noise? Is it your mobile?”

  “Can’t be. I put my calls on ‘divert,’ so I wouldn’t have to pay to receive them.” But instinctively Molly was reaching for her bag. “Oh, look, can I give you Zabi’s things? And give me my stuff, before you go around showing my knickers to everyone.” They swapped plastic bags, then Molly scrabbled around for her phone. She could have sworn she’d turned it off on the train, but now she, too, could hear its insect bleeps. “Got it!” she cried triumphantly. “Oh, it’s stopped. But I’ve got a text message. How weird.”

  “No, it’s not. They don’t get diverted because they cost the same to send anywhere in the world. I’m always texting my mates in Australia.” She leaned across nosily. “So, who’s it from?”

  “It seems to be from Sal, my flatmate.” Molly was hunched over the phone, staring dopily at the letters jostling on its tiny screen. Whatever Alicia said, it felt weird to be sitting here in a café in Paris, with the sunshine outside and Fabrice filling her thoughts, then suddenly be jolted back to her old London life. “Something about the police!” she exclaimed. “And all these Roman numerals.”

  “Here, show me.” Alicia grabbed Molly’s wrist to pull the phone into view.

  Together they scrolled through the message, which read: “MLCLM [angry face symbol] SEZ GIT ASAP OR POLICE! ROUK? werubin? XOX SAL.” After the words came a long string of digits.

  “Let’s see . . .” Molly frowned. “M is a thousand, and L is fifty, I think—”

  “They’re not Roman numbers, you drongo. Look, do you know anyone called Malcolm?”

  Molly made a face. “Only my old boss.” Then she jerked upright as her brain finally crunched into gear. “Christ! Malcolm!” She read the message a third time. According to Sal, Malcolm was very angry and wanted her to get in touch as soon as possible—or he was calling the police! Why?

  “So, Moll, what did you do?” demanded Alicia. “Run off with the petty cash?”

  “No! All I did was resign.” Molly pictured her drab, sunless workstation, all those piles of dreary reports and press releases, Malcolm’s cocky little walk. Suddenly it seemed incredible that she could ever have taken that job in the first place, or lasted as long as she had.

  “Not your problem then, is it?” Alicia said breezily. “Oh, beauty, here come the waffles.”

  They had finally reached the last course of their magnificent brunch: two crisp waffles overlapped in a pleasing geometric pattern, with a strawberry placed at the exact center on a blob of whipped cream.

  Automatically Molly picked up a fork, then stared blankly at her plate, unsettled by Sal’s message. Surely it wasn’t a crime to resign. Should she have informed Human Resources first? Perhaps Malcolm was upset by her letter. It wasn’t libelous—was it?—to tell someone they couldn’t spell. “I don’t get it,” she said, stabbing the strawberry. “Why the police?”

  “I dunno.” Alicia poured lavishly from a small jug of maple syrup. “Call him up and find out.”

  “I couldn’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s so horrible. You have no idea, Alicia. He shouts.”

  “All men shout. I’ve got five brothers and I know. Just shout back.”

  Molly shook her head vehemently. The very thought of speaking to Malcolm made her stomach churn with fear. She remembered uncomfortably that there were at least two pens in her possession bearing
the company logo, and possibly an eraser. She pictured herself getting off the train at Waterloo tomorrow night . . . a posse of uniformed officers tramping toward her . . . a beefy hand laid on her shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss, may we take a look in your bag?”

  “What could I have done wrong?” she burst out.

  Alicia looked at her, laid down her fork with a clatter and gave a resigned sigh. “Want me to call him for you?”

  Molly gaped at this dazzlingly bold suggestion.

  “Come on, hand over the phone. I’ll pretend to be your secretary or something.”

  “But I haven’t got a secretary!”

  “Your lawyer, then—PR person. Does it matter?”

  Molly laid a hand reverently on her heart. “God, Alicia, you are so-o-o brave. But not on my phone,” she added quickly. “He’s got this number. If my name flashes up on his screen he’ll know it’s really me.”

  “A pay phone, then. They’ve got one here, I think, out the back. Eat up your waffles and fill me in on this Malcolm dude. Then we’ll go and phone. You can listen in.”

  Five minutes later, heartbeat quickening in anticipation, Molly followed Alicia as she sauntered down the aisle between the tables. The wafty waitress, suddenly about as wafty as steel, stepped into their path and raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  Alicia gave her a cheery wave. “Nous retournez dans un minute. Téléphone.”

  “Ah, bon.” The eyebrow returned to normal.

  The pay phone turned out to be one of those cool super-designed things, all brushed steel and digital screen, with a see-through acoustic hood. The two girls squeezed underneath it together. Alicia produced a telephone card and slid it into the slot. “Patientez SVP,” flashed the screen. Molly chewed her thumbnail. What if Malcolm was so beastly that Alicia broke down and told him where Molly was? He might come after her. She might miss her meeting with Fabrice!