‘Me? Ha. I wish it could be that simple.’
She drew out a cigarette. How much of her life had she spent smoking? She had none of the little creases on her upper lip that so many regular smokers had. Nor was there a single hair on her face. Her skin was sleek and pure. It showed none of the work that surely must have gone into it.
Élodie led me into the park, meandering through the pathways until we ended up on a dark stretch of avenue. The naked trees extended to create a spindly tunnel. My breath clouded up before me, and I felt an accompanying shiver.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Élodie said.
‘I don’t like that word.’
‘What? Nice? It describes anything and everything.’
‘It’s saying something else.’
‘Good boy, Lawrence. At this rate you will be a true cynic by the time you’re thirty.’
‘If I’m lucky. Were you always as sarcastic and spiteful as you are now?’
Choosing to ignore this, she made for a park bench. This filled me with hope that she might confess something, anything. We sat together in silence, while I tried to think of a way to prod a single honest word out of her. I wanted to know why she was who she was, why she handled herself so precisely and never showed her true feelings—whatever they were. She and Marcel must have been married for a long time, and it must have hurt her to have it come to an end. I remembered seeing her in the clothes shop last week, and how desperate she sounded when she shouted at the assistant. She may have been in control now, but it was a tenuous grasp.
A lone pigeon perched amongst the blanket of fallen leaves on the verge. He moved his head in nervous spasms, like a lonely old neurotic confronted with something new and unfamiliar. It took him a while to catch sight of us on the bench. When he did, he flew off into the barren canopy of trees. Élodie continued smoking her cigarette. The smoke made her head drift in and out of focus beneath the street lamp.
‘That’s better,’ she said, once she had finished the cigarette and tossed it to the ground. ‘Come, we must get indoors.’
‘Perhaps we could get a drink somewhere first,’ I said. I wanted to delay our return to the apartment for as long as I could. ‘I know a place on the other side of the Pont de Solférino.’
‘Yes, why not? I could do with a drink.’
An underground passage on the park’s edge took us to the bridge, where the arches stretched out gracefully to admit us. It could have been a bridge to heaven, if not for the graffiti scrawled on every railing. Light hung distant in the sky, spilling over the top of the steps. A clochard had set up camp in the tunnel’s recess, clinging to a bottle in a paper bag. He shouted something at us as we walked past. Élodie paid him no attention, and her stride did not slow.
‘Do you ever give them money?’ I said.
‘There is no point. I once shared a clafoutis with a clochard. He waited outside our pâtisserie every day, and he would ask for something to eat. I was a little girl. I did not understand.’
‘So what happened?’
The Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, on opposite banks of the river, were swamped by inky shadows. Élodie lit another cigarette and the flickering lighter removed some of the gloom in her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the hollow in her chin.
‘Nothing happened,’ she said. ‘And I never saw him again.’
There was something oddly tragic about the way that she told this story.
I chose a café by the Assemblée Nationale, which was quieter than most. Élodie ordered a cognac, while I decided to try a Scotch whisky. She was almost impressed.
‘What?’ I said. ‘I need to keep warm somehow.’
‘Perfect. Let’s see what you make of it.’
We stood at the bar. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror behind the shelves of glassware and was taken aback by the young man in the tailored shirt casually glancing at me, as if asking what business of mine it was to be staring at him.
When the whisky arrived I drank too much of it, and it burnt its way down.
‘You didn’t run into Ed by chance today, did you?’ I said. ‘You arranged to meet him, with me.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I talked to that girl, whoever she is.’
‘Ah.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Well, yes, if you must know. I thought it would be nice to catch up, and I knew you would never agree to meet me if Ed was going to be involved. It turned out to be for the best, did it not?’
‘Maybe. But I’m confused—you keep contradicting yourself. How well do you really know him?’
‘As well as I know any of my acquaintances. You might get the wrong impression, because I happen to get on well with just about anybody. I have to.’
‘Why do you have to?’
‘It gives me purpose. We all need purpose.’
She took a mouthful of the cognac, closing her eyes as she swallowed. Huddled over the bar and clinging onto her glass, she was as stiff as an old daguerreotype. I wanted nothing more than to see her react naturally to something, as she had to the music in Biarritz. My interrogation had produced the opposite result from what I wanted. Once again she crawled out of the space I had forced her into, and she pretended that she had never been there.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s have no more of this silliness. Tell me something about art. The most fascinating thing you can think of.’
This temptation was difficult to resist. I launched into an explanation of Manet’s revolutionary use of brushstrokes to accentuate the surface of the painting. She pretended to be interested, asking all the appropriate questions.
‘Keep going, darling,’ she said. ‘Please. I am intrigued.’
‘No, you’re not. You want me to distract you.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? When you are a little older, you will understand what it feels like to be so beautifully distracted.’
When you are a little older. I did not want to be a little older, if this was the hollowed shell that awaited me.
‘I do understand,’ I said. ‘On one level, I do understand. But I don’t understand why.’
Élodie put her glass down, and she wrapped an arm around me. She ran it down my back as she had earlier, and she breathed into my ear. Her breath was warm. I could feel her.
‘Nobody understands why, darling. And nor should we. Hell, I can’t think of anything worse than understanding. I would rather be blind. Hey.’ She shook me by the shoulder. ‘Remind me never to let you have whisky again. It is not your drink.’ She moved my glass to the other side of the bar top. ‘Now, what were you saying about Manet?’
We had moved into a different space. She could still abandon me, I reminded myself. I wanted to ask her again why she had left me in Biarritz—the real reason—but she would present me with the same response. I went on about Manet, but my voice had become weak. We should have been talking about something else.
‘You make it sound terribly dull,’ she said. ‘It can’t be that dire, can it?’
‘I thought you were interested?’
‘No, more fascinated. Fascinated that anybody would consider taking that subject. Why did you? Was it because that girlfriend of yours was taking it, too? I can imagine the two of you meeting in a tutorial, you not understanding your own charm, going on about Monet and Renoir like you knew what you were talking about. I’m sure nobody else ever talked to her in the same way. I’ve hit on something, haven’t I? You’re upset.’
That was an underestimation. My chest rose and fell in a series of gasps.
‘Don’t go there, Élodie,’ I said, trying to keep hold of my composure. ‘Please. If your husband is off limits, then so is Sophie.’
‘Don’t compare the two. She is a distraction, darling. And, unlike Marcel, she is not a bad person. Consider what is really important here. You have to be honest with her.’
‘Like you know anything about honesty.’
‘Honesty is not as straightforward as tell
ing her the truth. Think about that. And, for God’s sake, stop worrying about her. I am sure she has already found another boyfriend. You want to call her now, don’t you? Tell her how much you love her so that you don’t feel guilty about spending the day with me? In that case, go off and do it. Or come to my party. Whatever you do, don’t linger in the middle.’
She checked her watch, which hung limp from her wafer wrist, and downed the last of her cognac.
‘We should get going,’ she said. ‘We must get the rest of the champagne chilled before company starts to arrive.’
The tumbler of whisky was on the bar top, and it was half-full. I took it in one gulp, to wipe the conversation clear from my memory, and to bolster myself for whatever was to come.
20
The apartment had heated up since our departure. Our unfinished glasses of champagne had gone warm, but I finished mine anyway. It did not dance around my mouth as it had earlier. Élodie began to lay the Italian hams on a swirled crystal platter.
‘Oh darling, I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘We need to cut your hair. Take that beautiful shirt off and have a wash in the bathroom.’
The bathroom was hollow, like a polished granite cave, if caves had steel lighting fixtures. There was an egg-shaped marble bath with a metal tap rising from the floor. I knelt by the bath and with the detachable shower head washed my hair. It was so brittle that a lot of it fell out. I used the nearest bottle of shampoo. Soon the whole room was perfumed with the same scent of lavender I remembered from Élodie’s hair when we had made love in Biarritz.
I felt Élodie’s hand on my back. I started and dropped the shower head. She had removed her coat and her dress. Her breasts were as smooth and round as they were in my memory, and I could have reached out and touched them to remind myself that this was no dream, that they were as perfect as the rest of her figure.
‘What are you doing?’ I said, not ashamed enough to hide my disbelief. She put a finger to her lips and came up closer to me. Her breast touched mine. It was cold, but I could feel the blood surging through her veins. ‘What if the guests come?’
‘We have an hour. Now relax. Let me do the work. And get on the floor.’
It was an order, and I obeyed. In her hands she held a pair of silver scissors. I leant over the edge of the bath, and I felt her legs pressed up against my back. They too were cold. I willed myself to trust her, even though I could imagine her taking the sharpened end of the scissor to my throat and letting me bleed into her husband’s spotless bathtub.
She was, in fact, gentle, if meticulous. She ran her hands through my hair, then used the shower head to rinse out the residue. When she dropped a towel to my head she grew rough with it. I heard the clink of bangles on her arms, and I felt her skin against my back. She did not speak during this ritual.
‘Thank you,’ I said once she had finished.
‘Not at all. You will like it. Now have a shave and get dressed. And put on that perfume. You smell terrible.’
I had been hoping that she would impose herself a little more, and that I would have to fight her off. I almost asked her to stay. But she picked herself up and left the bathroom. Why had she done that? She knew that I wanted to touch her again.
I admired my new head of hair in the mirror. Élodie had crafted it well. It was short at the sides and thick on top, with a gentle gradation between the two. The perfume lay waiting in its gold packaging. I sprayed it twice around my neck, and then wondered if this was enough. In the end I applied it all over my body. I shaved, and plucked the few remaining hairs between my eyebrows with a set of tweezers. Clothed again in my new shirt and my white trousers, my reflection continued to surprise me.
When I emerged, I saw that Élodie had changed into a brilliant white cocktail dress, adorned with black sequins. The white of her flame stockings melded with the dress. Her hair was held together by an ivory comb. And she had applied a glistening red lipstick. She was clicking around in her high heels, lining up silver trays of canapés.
‘You do clean up rather nicely,’ she said. ‘I work miracles, do I not?’
‘You could say that.’ I was dazed from our encounter. It felt as though I had taken a tranquiliser. ‘Do you need any help there?’
‘No thank you, darling. But good on you for asking. You just drink some more.’ She had refilled my glass. Our eyes met, and I could see that there was mischief in hers. I wondered if she had slipped a drug into the drink.
‘So what can you tell me about these people?’ I asked. ‘You know I need all the help I can get.’
‘All you need to do is remember everything I have taught you so far. And do make sure that you stay true to yourself.’
‘There’s a contradiction in that, isn’t there?’
‘But you know how much of what I do is based on contradiction. And I am doing fine.’ Her voice faltered, although I could tell that she was trying to be flippant. ‘Anyway, two of them have come over from London. They have a son about your age, but that won’t matter because you are nothing like him. The Fanshawes. Arthur used to work in finance, and now he claims to be a consultant, but we all know that he is unemployed. Some of them work with Marcel, some in advertising. The rest are in fashion.’
‘Right. And where do you fit in?’
She busied herself by taking the trays through to the reception area. The back of her dress was as low as the one that she had worn in Biarritz, and it tapered off in a silky white knot.
‘Select some music, darling,’ she said from the other room. ‘Nothing too showy. Something that will disappear into the background.’
‘I’m no good with music.’
‘There’s no trick to it. Be discerning.’
I found myself standing before five long shelves of vinyl records. None of them were familiar to me. This was where I needed Ethan, who would at least decide on something and not worry about it being the wrong choice. I ran a finger along the edge of the plastic wrappings, and selected one at random. The sleeve showed a sepia photograph of a well-dressed man with a saxophone at his lips. Did the records belong to Marcel or Élodie? I flicked the vinyl from the sleeve and put it on the turntable. It was a relic from some lost point in history. I was glad that Élodie listened to vinyl. It suited her.
A low-key bass and piano line faded in, and Élodie came through with her glass of champagne.
‘Excellent choice,’ she said. ‘See? It’s not so hard when you put your mind to it.’
‘Are these your records?’ I asked.
‘Some of them are. The classical ones belong to Marcel.’
‘What if he came back right now, and found the two of us? What would he do?’
‘Who? Marcel? He won’t. But I like the thought that he might. Don’t you? It makes things more exciting.’
‘I thought that when you first mentioned him. Now I’m not so sure.’
She put her glass down and placed both hands on my shoulders. ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Let me worry about Marcel. I can do enough of that for both of us.’
She was so close that I could taste a hint of her breath. It smelled of cigarette ash and alcohol. I wanted to share it. It would have been easy. I could move in one step closer.
The intercom rang and Élodie took her hands off my shoulders.
‘Brace yourself, darling,’ she said. ‘I might have to get drunk.’
She took up her glass again and drank it dry before she went to unlock the door. She held both arms out to balance herself. They were so white that they could have been an extension of the dress. I ran a hand through my hair.
Élodie waited by the door until the knock came. Then she waited several more seconds before opening it, as though she was practising her restraint. I stood out of the way, thinking of how to present myself to the couple who had arrived. He wore a tight tuxedo. There was a prominent vein on his temple, and his expression was pompous. He would not stand still. His shoulders were hunched, and I thought that he must have been nervous. His wife st
ood removed from him. She had a full face with kind eyes that reminded me of Sophie, except that the lines around her mouth were wrinkled.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ Élodie said with too much enthusiasm, kissing them both. ‘I’m sorry that Marcel couldn’t be here tonight. Business took him to New York. But I have found a more than adequate replacement.’
This had to be my cue. I did my best to sidle through to the reception area as though my timing was purely coincidental.
‘Lawrence Williams,’ I said, presenting a hand to each of them. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
Élodie’s face rose in delight at these words. Had I finally adopted the right tone?
‘Arthur Fanshawe,’ the man said, keeping his hand clasped around mine. He turned to Élodie. ‘Good Lord, my dear; where have you been hiding this one?’
‘Very good, Arthur,’ she said. ‘I told you about Lawrence. Don’t you remember? I found him, all lost and forlorn, in the train station. I took him to Biarritz, and we had such a fine time.’
‘Ah, yes. Now I remember. What a terrific story. What has brought him to this party?’
‘He is the party. He tells me that he never celebrated his birthday in November, so this is a belated bit of carousal on his behalf.’
‘I say, very sensible. How old are you, my man?’
He might have already misplaced my name. Élodie shot me a look.
‘Twenty-seven,’ I said.
Élodie raised her eyebrows. Less than a minute in, and I had already let her down.
‘Oh yes, good,’ Fanshawe said, as though the matter of my age was commendable in itself. ‘And what do you do with yourself?’
‘Really, Arthur,’ Élodie said. ‘That is the rudest thing you could ever ask in this country. Your first faux pas.’
‘If only that were true,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for not being more familiar with the intricacies of French etiquette. But nobody here is really French, are they?’
‘My other guests are. Make sure not to upset them.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
They all returned their attention to me, and waited for me to answer the question.
The Train to Paris Page 15
