‘I was. There’s only so much waiting I can do. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I like you, but we’re not right for each other.’
‘We’re not.’
‘You agree? How long have you thought that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you said it, because I never could have.’
‘All right, then. Is there anything else you want to talk about?’
‘Not unless you want to. I should go out and make the most of Paris while I’m still here.’
‘You should. I’m sorry, Lawrence. This isn’t how I wanted it to end. Call me if you need to talk more.’
We said a polite and hurried goodbye. She was keen to get off the phone. I had gone weak, and I collapsed onto the sofa after I had put the receiver down. It was both an outrage and a relief. I had considered the possibility that she might have found somebody else, but I had dismissed it. At least I no longer had to tell her about Élodie. I had gone through every way that I could break the news to her, and I had written several drafts of a letter to her in which I confessed everything. But I had been unable to find the right words. This was not how it was supposed to be. I should have admitted it all to her—not the other way around.
It was the first warm day in March, and I had opened the windows to let the sunshine in. The apartment was as clean as it had ever been. The carpets were vacuumed, and the remaining dust was floating around, caught in the afternoon light. I could have gone to sleep on the sofa, and I buried my face in the cushions, but I remained awake, listening to the car horns and the sound of high heels on the pavement.
I was jolted back to life when a key turned in the door. Ethan came in. He had a shopping bag, producing from it a packet of cigarillos and a bottle of Scotch whisky.
‘As you were, professor,’ he said as I got up from the sofa. Readings and notes were strewn across the floor around me. ‘Drinks are on me this evening. What have you been doing? You look terrible. Not working too hard, I hope.’
‘I’m not doing too great. Sophie just called. She’s seeing someone else.’
‘Oh man, that’s rough. So I got here at just the right time?’
He poured two large glasses of the whisky and pulled up a rattan chair so that we were facing each other.
‘What happened? Is it anyone I know?’
‘Apparently it’s someone I know. From school.’
‘Ouch.’
‘But I don’t care. As long as she’s happy.’
‘So what if she isn’t? I wouldn’t worry about it. There are other girls in the world, and most of them are on this side of it. Trust me, I know.’
‘Sure, Casanova, if you say so.’
‘Come out for a drink tonight. Who knows? You might meet a French bombshell who blows your brains out. What’s so funny?’
I was unable to restrain myself. I had to tell Ethan about Élodie.
‘I’ve already had a bombshell moment,’ I said. ‘A few months ago.’
‘What?’
‘In Biarritz, and then here.’
‘Whoa. Are you joking? You went to Biarritz with a girl? What, did she pop your cherry?’
‘She did. It’s the truth.’
‘I don’t believe it. Wow, professor, you kept that well hidden. Who is she?’
‘See, that’s the trouble. I don’t know. But it feels as though I’ve known her forever.’
I went on to explain it all, from the meeting in Hendaye to the hotel in Biarritz to the day in December. My confession lasted long enough for the sky to go dark outside. I left nothing out. It was difficult to tell Ethan about our final morning together. I was still there on the bridge, in that impressionist canvas with the falling snow.
‘That’s incredible,’ he said once I had finished. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘Are you kidding? It’s a hell of a story. How old did you say she was?’
‘Around forty. She’s not the type to let that kind of thing slip.’
‘A married woman. And a porn star. This is great. If it wasn’t you telling me I’d be certain this is just some fantasy. Do you love her?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I do. But I’m never going to see her again. And even if I did, we could never be lovers. Now I don’t know what to do without her or Sophie.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Lawrence. You need to stop putting people in boxes. Think about it. You’re free to meet anyone you want now. Marguerite was telling me how hot she thinks you are. Come on, finish that whisky, and then we’re having bottles of wine at the place around the corner. I’ll get the others to come along. Tell them you need cheering up.’
The next morning, I woke to see an empty whisky glass on my bedside table. The residue sat in a ring around the bottom, and I could smell its sickly perfume. It had been a long night with much drinking and talking and jesting. Ethan had insisted that I was in need of a good time, and his friends had asked me about Sophie and expressed their sympathy, and we had raised a toast to her. Ethan was asleep in the next room. Rather than wasting another day, I decided to go for a walk through the Marais, to see the other side of the city.
I felt the sun on my skin between intervals of cloud, and the faint breeze in my hair. The cherry blossoms were starting to emerge on the Île de la Cité, and the flower market was busy. I stopped to buy a bouquet of white tulips. They would sit well on my writing desk.
I crossed the Pont de l’Arcole to the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville. The tourists were out with their cameras, some of them poring over maps on the café terrace, and the street performers were making the most of the good weather. A living sculpture stood in the middle of the square, and children laughed as they dropped a coin in his box and he danced for them. I could breathe the fresh air, and I could stand up straight and take it all in. This was freedom. This was the Paris of my imagination.
Élodie was there on the corner. It was no illusion this time—I could have recognised her from any distance. Her hair was done more modestly than I remembered. She wore a black woollen coat, which did not become her at all. Gone was the glinting jewellery, although the ring that had so intrigued me was still there in the form of a white mark around her finger. Her skin was cracked, which made the blemishes more conspicuous. She turned in my direction, and I saw that she was not wearing the same film of make-up, either. She was not a porn actress. She was not the trophy wife of a businessman, nor the lover of a seedy American. She was herself. Her natural, unembellished self. Her eyes contained the spark, clearer than it had been. She pretended not to have seen me. But she had.
Without thinking, I started to walk towards her. She must have noticed because within a second she had disappeared around the corner. I ran up to the end of the street, but she could have gone anywhere. I wanted to see her again. But she wasn’t walking down the stairs to the métro, nor was she climbing into the taxi on the curb. I stood on the corner of the Rue du Temple, watching for my Élodie.
But she was not my Élodie. Now I could let her go. The clouds had burnt off, and those old buildings were cast into shadows by the raw sunshine. They could have been painted by Renoir or Daumier in this light, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
I wanted to linger while I still could. There was a gypsy woman carrying her baby, waiting for somebody to stop and talk to her. A little boy tried to follow his father’s impatient stride. A young man with glasses and a scarf was playing a stilted piece on the violin.
And a woman with golden hair and painted nails walked past, pretending to have purpose and that life to her meant nothing more.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without my agent Michael Gifkins, who has been tireless in his support, and whose efforts have helped immeasurably in bringing it to publication.
I am deeply grateful to everyone at Text Publishing, who have all been enthusiastic about the book from the start. In particular I would like to thank Michael Heyward, both for
believing in the novel and for his guidance. Thanks also to my editor Rebecca Starford, and to Jane Novak and Anne Beilby for all their help.
Finally, I wish to thank my family for their constant support and encouragement.
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