Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  He shrugged, releasing a waft of cologne so strong Molly almost flinched. “What are your plans for today?” he asked. “May I drive you somewhere?”

  Molly munched the crispy tail of her croissant. It was the most delicious one she’d ever tasted, sweet and buttery under its nut-brown glaze. “I don’t know,” she said vaguely, trying to gather her thoughts. “Oh! My phone. There was a message,” she explained. “Do you mind if I look?”

  She located her bag, pulled out her mobile and jabbed the button with her thumb. “Pik u up ur hotel 10.30. DON’T BE L8! Loads 2 tellya. xxx Alicia.” Molly gave a squeak of panic. God, Rollerblading! She’d forgotten about that. What time was it? To her relief it was only nine fifteen, but she needed to return to the hotel, have a shower, get changed. “I’ve got to go in a minute,” she told Armand, hastily stuffing more croissant into her mouth and swilling it down with milky coffee.

  “I will drive you.”

  “No, please. It’s not very far. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  But he was insistent. His car was parked just outside. He liked driving in Paris—when, that is, the roads weren’t shut off for cyclists and those foutu Rollerbladers. The mayor was an idiot. His latest crazy scheme was to turn the main riverside highway into a beach every summer—a beach, in the name of God, with thousands of tons of sand dumped on the pavements, full-grown palm trees in pots, sun-loungers, parasols, children making sandcastles, their parents drinking, even dancing in outdoor cafés, while the rest of Paris fumed in traffic jams. Imagine! Molly made tut-tutting noises. She thought it sounded wonderful.

  Armand’s car was small but luxurious, with deep leather seats and the sort of absurdly loud engine noise men seemed to like. He drove insanely fast, apparently oblivious to traffic lights, bollards and pedestrians, keeping one hand permanently poised on the horn. It was too hair-raising to watch the road; instead, Molly looked out of her side window, surprised to see how many people were out on the streets and how formally dressed they were. Sunday in England was a relaxed, unbuttoned day for car-washing, going to the pub, or constructing some infernal DIY kit in the back garden. Here, pairs of women in old-fashioned black dresses walked composedly arm in arm, presumably to church. Children were immaculate in white leather shoes, pressed shorts, beautiful dresses with smocking and full skirts. She saw both women and men, elegantly dressed, bowling down the street with gaiety in their step, dangling beribboned boxes. Having stopped to gaze at the displays in pâtisserie windows, she could guess what would be inside: a perfect fruit tart, the slices meticulously arranged in concentric circles and shiny with glaze, or perhaps a cake topped with a layer of chocolate as smooth and hard as ice, decorated with a spider’s web of spun sugar. All the small shops seemed open. There was a pleasing bustle in the air. Only the tourists shambled about in trainers and sloppy clothes, encumbered with bulging bags.

  With a squeal of tires Armand veered off a broad avenue, then turned up the street where her hotel was, racing between twin rows of parked cars as if they were walls of flame. When Molly pointed out her entrance, he came to a rocking halt, reversed onto the pavement opposite and yanked up the handbrake in front of a no-parking sign. She was still trying to find the door handle when he came round to usher her out of the car and across the street, deaf to her protestations. “Oui, oui. The roads are so dangerous here. Some people, you know, drive like maniacs.”

  One of the hotel cats sat on the reception desk, haughty and still. Behind it, Madame was shelling beans on her broad lap. Seeing Molly, she set them aside and rose to her feet. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” she said, in the high-pitched chirrup that seemed common to all French women.

  “Bonjour, Madame. The key, if you please.” Molly rather liked the formality of these exchanges. She had turned to Armand with a smile, already formulating the words to thank him, to apologize for yesterday’s hotheaded words, when she became aware that there was a problem.

  “It’s room fifty-eight, isn’t it?” Madame asked.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But the key is missing! Look for yourself.” With a grunt of effort she twisted her squat body to point at an empty hook above her head. “Perhaps you took it with you yesterday evening?”

  “No.” Molly shook her head, suppressing a sigh of impatience. She was in a hurry and she felt grubby.

  “Mais alors. Where could it have gone?” Madame raised her shoulders in a gesture of outraged amazement.

  Armand stepped up to the desk, puffing out his chest. How could the key be missing? he demanded. His friend was a young woman, alone. There were issues of security.

  Madame understood completely. Perhaps her husband knew something. Unfortunately he had just gone out to the market to buy a Bresse chicken.

  A Bresse chicken? Armand’s attention sharpened. Chickens from Bresse really were the best, weren’t they? The flavor, the succulence—especially with a little spoonful of vermouth added halfway through the cooking. He kissed his fingertips.

  Madame had never tried vermouth, though she had heard people speak of it. She preferred lemon.

  Really? Lemon was, of course, traditional, especially in the South, but—

  Molly shifted restlessly. “Er, the key . . .”

  Of course, the key. Yes, yes, the key! It was possible that the maid had taken it for some reason, though that was irregular since she had her own set. Still, that must be the explanation. Probably she was in the room now, doing a petit tidy.

  As Madame was reluctant to leave Reception unattended, it was agreed that Armand should accompany Molly upstairs to check that this was the case. They rode up together in the creaking lift. Lemon was all very well, he told her, but there was no question that vermouth was superior. He confessed to being very much surprised by what Madame had said.

  Molly had noticed that the maids usually left the doors open when they were cleaning, so it was with a sinking heart that she saw her own door was shut. How was she going to get in? Worse, what if someone had lifted the key and pinched all her belongings? A burglar might be in there right now! She stood irresolutely in front of the door. “You knock,” she said to Armand. He reached out and gave a peremptory rat-tat. Molly heard a thud, a scuffle of feet, a hand fumbling at the latch. Then the door was flung open by a woman with bare feet, stripy blonde-brown hair clipped awry on top of her head, and a long ethnic-print skirt that Molly recognized only too clearly. “Mum! ” she shrieked.

  The next minute she was smothered in hair and a familiar smell of organic lavender soap. “Oh, Molly darling, where have you been? I’ve been so worried. Thank goodness you’re still alive.”

  “Of course I’m still alive! What are you doing here?” Molly struggled to escape from her mother’s embrace.

  “But how was I to know? You didn’t ring. You didn’t answer your phone. No one would tell me where you were. I was frantic.” She cupped Molly’s face in her hands and stroked her cheek. “My little Molly. My darling. My baby. Where on earth did you get that dress?”

  “I am not a baby! For God’s sake, all I did was come to Paris for a bloody weekend.”

  “But not with your work. That Figg person told me he’d fired you.”

  “So? I came anyway.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “I’m your mother! I love you. I’ve been lying awake all night, imagining the most ghastly—” She broke off suddenly, catching sight of something over Molly’s shoulder. Her skin paled. Her features tightened into a grim mask. “Who,” she demanded, “is that man?”

  Belatedly Molly remembered Armand, who was hovering in the corridor with a polite half-smile on his face, apparently fascinated by the architrave detailing of her door. “I’m so sorry, Armand.” She took his arm and drew him forward. “This is my mother. Ma mère.” God, what language was she supposed to be speaking? “Mum, this is Armand. I spent the night at his place, okay?”

  “Oh did you?” Igno
ring Armand’s outstretched hand, Molly’s mother threw back her head and stepped up to him like a rooster confronting a peacock. “And why didn’t she sleep in her own bed last night, may I ask? Have you seduced my daughter?” A tuft of hair, poking out of the clip, trembled furiously. “You should be ashamed of yourself. A man of your age. Do you realize that my daughter is only twenty-one? Twenty-one! ”

  “Mum!” Molly yanked desperately at her mother’s arm.

  “How could you take advantage of a young girl, far from home, abroad for the first time in her life? No doubt it was easy to dazzle her with your sophisticated French ways. I admit my values seem old-fashioned to some, but I know what’s right and what’s wrong, and I am not afraid to speak my mind.”

  “For God’s sake, shut up!” Molly yelled, crimson with embarrassment. “We have not been to bed together,” she hissed into her mother’s ear. “He’s the father of someone I met. Father, got that? I fell asleep on his sofa. He’s been extremely kind to me.”

  “Oh.” Her mother looked disconcerted for a moment. Then she gave the daft laugh that other people thought was so charming but made Molly cringe in public, and held out her hand to Armand. “I’m so sorry. Very nice to meet you.”

  Armand was magnificent. He acted as if the previous minute had simply not existed. Gallantly grasping Molly’s mother’s hand and giving his most urbane smile, he said in dreadful English, “You are ze muzzer of Molly? Impossible.” Now he turned to Molly in wonderment, his eyebrows practically at his hairline, and stage-whispered, “But she is so young! Now I see where Molly gets her character,” he continued, piling it on thick. “She is a most charming girl, Madame Clearwater. I congratulate you.”

  “Oh, please, call me Fran.” Her mother was practically simpering. This was pitiful. Molly longed to get rid of them both.

  “Of course you are concerned about your daughter, Fran.” Without Molly quite understanding how, Armand had steered them all into the bedroom and drawn her mother across to the window. “I, too, worry about my son, Fabrice, with whom Molly has spent a little time this weekend. He is twenty-three. A very talented boy, but, euh, tûtu, you know?”

  “Stubborn?”

  “Exactement. But you speak French, Fran!”

  “Not really.”

  “The young are so difficult to advise, these days.”

  “Oh, I agree . . .”

  Blah, blah. Off they went on the usual parentspeak: the modern world, so many temptations . . . so much more dangerous . . . spoiled . . . materialism. When they were young . . .

  Molly scowled at them, feeling aggrieved. Armand now had her mother pinned against the window, mesmerizing her with his repertoire of shrugs, pouts and weaving hands. They made a hilarious pair: Armand, man of the world, ridiculously smart, not a hair out of place; and her mother in that dreadful old T-shirt that had shrunk to nothing, looking absurdly healthy and wild-haired as if she’d just run in from the garden. Molly felt a sudden wrench of fondness. She did love her mother. It was lovely to see her. But not now.

  She stomped over to grab her sponge bag and towel, avoiding an object dumped on the floor. Her mother had brought her backpack! How embarrassing. “Sorry, everyone,” she announced, “but I’m going to have to change now, or I’ll be late.”

  “Where are you going?” fluttered her mother. “Now that I’m here, can’t we go out and have coffee or something?”

  “No. I’m going Rollerblading—”

  “Rollerblading! But, darling, that’s so dangerous.”

  “Ah, yes, these appalling patineurs. They are ruining Paris. One takes one’s life in one’s hands, simply walking down the pavement.”

  “As I say, I’m going Rollerblading. Then I’m meeting Fabrice. After that I’ll—well, I’ll be busy.”

  “Doing what? Haven’t you any time to spend with me?”

  “My train goes at quarter to seven, Mum. I’ll be rushing as it is.”

  “I’ll see if I can change my ticket. Then we can travel home together and have a lovely chat.”

  For a moment Molly wondered if she had screamed aloud. Then she realized that a message had bleeped onto her phone. It was probably Alicia, already en route to pick her up. She must hurry! What was she going to wear? It wouldn’t be possible for her to change after Rollerblading, and she had to look nice for Fabrice. And she had to pack! And check out of the hotel! Her mind spinning with anxiety, Molly clicked up the message. “Molly—Must see you. Important. Will be waiting in the Luxembourg Gardens today 3- 4 p.m. by pond. Please come. A Friend.”

  Molly gave an exasperated sigh. Who was this weirdo? She didn’t even know where the Luxembourg Gardens were. There wouldn’t be time for anyone this afternoon except Fabrice. Too bad. Nevertheless, there was something heartfelt in the tone that touched her. It didn’t sound like Malcolm.

  “Who was that, Mollypops?” her mother asked nosily.

  “No one,” Molly snapped, clearing the screen. The clock on her phone read 10:19. “I must get a move on.”

  “Alors, Fran.” Armand laid a coaxing hand on her mother’s elbow. “Molly has much to think about. As for me, I have a very boring day ahead of me. It would give me much pleasure to show you Paris, to compensate for your terrible worry.”

  “Oh, well, that’s very . . . But I don’t . . .”

  “We can rendezvous with Molly later. My car is outside. I will wait there while you prepare yourself.”

  “But I haven’t anything . . .”

  “Brilliant idea,” Molly said firmly. “Go for it, Mum.”

  22

  “ So there he was, laid out on the bed like a possum on the barbie, when the phone goes again and the guy on the desk says there’s a Mrs. Clearwater downstairs, asking about her daughter, and would Mr. Figg know anything about it? Bloody hell!” Alicia suddenly broke off. “Look at the size of those pumpkins, Moll.”

  They were walking together toward the Rollerblading place, along the same boulevard they had taken to Zabi’s flat on Friday night, though today it had turned into a street market crammed with such sumptuous produce that Molly was stunned and enraptured. Back home, the “market” was a litter-strewn car-park tainted with burger smells and the whine of country-and-western music, where loud-mouthed hicks flogged off scabbed apples and dubious meat frozen into Family Packs, and you could buy loo rolls in bulk, polythene-wrapped bricks of gelatinous “Cheddar,” and T-shirts that disintegrated at the first wash, printed with witty messages like “I Just Did It” or “Barbie Is a Slut.” Its Paris equivalent was a sensuous wonderland of perfect greengages and figs, oysters and flowers, silvery fish still panting through crimson gills, chalky goat’s cheese with cobweb crusts. Plane trees with mottled bark cast their shade on fresh walnuts, damp and wrinkled as newborn babies, grapes like translucent marbles, vine-tomatoes cascading from display stands, the pink gash of a watermelon split in half to show off its juicy flesh. The stalls were run by formidable matrons in snowy aprons, and fishmongers spruced up in sailor suits, conjuring with knives, who called everyone Madame or Monsieur. Instead of the pram-pushing moving mountains shouting, “If you do that one more time, Ryan, I’ll kill you!” the shoppers here were keen as truffle-hounds, darting from stall to stall to sniff melons, taste cheese, savor an inky olive, or press a delicate thumb to the rumps of pears. Alicia was right about the pumpkins: some of them looked almost big enough for Cinderella to step right into and trot off to the ball.

  “Never mind the pumpkins. Go on about last night,” Molly urged.

  “Well, naturally, I pricked up my ears at the name Clearwater, and nipped down to see what was going on. There was this poor woman practically in tears, convinced that Malcolm was holding you prisoner in his bedroom.”

  They caught each other’s eye and spluttered into giggles. Molly was still reeling from Alicia’s story of the handcuff trick.

  “We shouldn’t laugh,” said Alicia. “Your mum was really upset.”

  “But she’s such a fusspot! I’d ba
rely been gone a day.”

  “Come on. She loves you. You’re all she’s got. And she looked so sweet and pretty standing in that huge lobby with her backpack and that funny old skirt.”

  Molly winced. “Her wardrobe hasn’t changed since about 1980.”

  “I think she’s cool. The hippie look’s fashionable at the moment. Look at me.” Alicia threw out her arms to show off her fringed jacket and tasselled cowboy boots, and accidentally bashed her hand into the arm of a man standing over a small brazier. “Oops. Pardon! ”

  “Look, he’s roasting chestnuts,” said Molly. “Let’s buy some.”

  They watched him shuffle the chestnuts on the glowing heat until they attained the correct mixture of pale gold and charred black, then scoop them up with a perforated spatula and pour them into a cone of paper. “Voilà,” he said tenderly, offering the cone to Molly with a flourish. She handed over a coin and received the hot, sweet-smelling parcel.

  “But why did you send her to my hotel?” Molly asked, through a mouthful of crumbly chestnut. “I could have been—you know—with Fabrice.”

  “She was worried about money, and she didn’t know where to go. I blagged Monsieur into giving me your room key. Anyway, you told me you were going back to Fabrice’s place to ‘you know.’ Honestly, Moll, why can’t you say ‘shag’ like everyone else? How was it, anyway? Got any love-bites?” She flicked aside Molly’s hair and peered at her neck.

  “Get off.” Molly smoothed her hair into place. “It was fine. In fact, it was wonderful.” A smile curled her mouth as she remembered yesterday afternoon. She hesitated over telling Alicia the truth about what had happened afterward. It was too complicated to explain. Alicia wouldn’t understand.

  A delicious smell was wafting from some electrical contraption set out on the street, where glossy golden chickens roasted on multiple spits. They reminded Molly of something. “What about Malcolm? Wasn’t he furious to be left tied up like that?”

  “Yeah, he was pretty mad. He called me this morning and shouted a bit, but to tell you the truth I think he enjoyed it. Probably wants to get in touch with his feminine side.” Alicia gave a whoop of laughter. “No, seriously, he’s already talking about our next session—only he gets to tie me up. And guess what?” She stopped dramatically. “I’m coming to England!”