Paris for One and Other Stories
Page 3
"Really. No matter. It has been this kind of a day."
He gives her a vague smile, as if to say he understands, and disappears.
She feels her cheeks burning red and pulls her notebook from her bag, to give herself something to do. She flicks quickly past her list for sightseeing in Paris and stares at an empty page until she is sure nobody is looking.
"Live in the moment," she writes on the clean page, and underlines it twice. It is something she once saw in a magazine.
She looks up at the clock. It is nine forty-five. Only about 39,600 more ruddy moments, she thinks, and then she can get back on the train and pretend this trip never happened.
The Frenchwoman is still behind the reception desk when Nell returns to the hotel. Of course she is. She slides the key across the counter toward Nell. "The other lady is not back yet," the woman says. She pronounces it ze uzzer. "If she returns before I finish, I will let her know you are in the room."
Nell mutters a thank-you and heads upstairs.
She runs a shower and steps under it, trying to wash away the disappointment of the day. Finally, at half past ten, she climbs into bed and reads one of the French magazines from the bedside table. She doesn't understand most of the words, but she hasn't brought a book. She hadn't expected to spend any time reading.
Finally, at eleven, she turns off the light and lies in the dark, listening to the sound of mopeds whizzing down the narrow streets and to the chatter and bursts of laughter of French people making their way home. She feels as if she has been locked out of a giant party.
Her eyes fill with tears, and she wonders whether to call the girls and tell them what has happened. But she is not ready for their sympathy. She does not let herself think about Pete, and about the fact that she has effectively been dumped. She tries not to imagine her mother's face when she has to tell her the truth about this romantic weekend away.
And then the door opens. The light flicks on.
"I don't believe it." The American woman stands there, her face flushed with drink, a large purple scarf draped around her shoulders. "I thought you would be gone."
"So did I," said Nell, pulling the covers over her head. "Would you mind turning down the light, please?"
"They never said you were still here."
"Well, I am."
She hears the clunk of a handbag on the table, the rattle of hangers in the wardrobe. "I do not feel comfortable spending the night with somebody I don't know in the room."
"Believe me, you were not my first choice for tonight's sleeping companion either."
Nell stays under the covers while the woman fusses about and goes in and out of the bathroom. Nell hears her scrubbing her teeth, gargling, the flush of a loo through walls that are far too thin. She tries to imagine she is somewhere else. In Brighton, maybe, with one of the girls, drunkenly making her way to bed.
"I might as well tell you, I am not happy," the woman says.
"Well, sleep somewhere else," snaps Nell. "Because I have just as much right to this room as you. More, if you look at the dates on our bookings."
"There's no need to be snippy," said the woman.
"Well, there's no need to make me feel worse than I already bloody do."
"Honey, it's not my fault your boyfriend didn't turn up."
"And it's not my fault the hotel double-booked us."
There is a long silence. Nell considers that maybe she has been too harsh. It is daft, after all, two women fighting in such a small space. We're in the same boat, she thinks. She tries to come up with something friendly to say.
And then the woman's voice cuts across the dark. "Well, just so as you know, I'm putting my valuables in the safe. And I am trained in self-defense."
"And my name is Georges Pompidou," Nell mutters. She raises her eyes to heaven in the dark and waits for the click that tells her the light has gone out.
"Just for the record," comes a voice in the darkness. "That is a really weird name."
Even though Nell is exhausted and a bit sad, sleep remains annoyingly elusive, approaching and then skittering away like a bashful lover. She tries to relax, to calm her thoughts, but around midnight a voice in her mind says firmly, Nope. No sleep for you, lady.
Instead her brain spins and churns like a washing machine, throwing up black thoughts like so much dirty laundry. Had she been too keen with Pete? Was she not cool enough? Was it because of her handwritten list of French art galleries, with their pros and cons (length of journey time versus possible size of queue)?
Was she just too boring for any man to love?
The night drags and sags. She lies in the dark, trying to block her ears against the sound of the stranger snoring in the next bed. She tries stretching, yawning, changing her position. She tries deep breathing, relaxing bits of her body, and imagining her darker thoughts locked in a box and herself throwing away the key.
At around three in the morning, she accepts that she will probably be awake until dawn. She gets up and pads silently over to the window, pulling the curtain a few inches away from the glass.
The rooftops glow under the streetlamps. A light drizzle falls silently onto the pavement. A couple, their heads tilted close, make their way slowly home, murmuring to each other.
This should have been so wonderful, she thinks.
The American woman's snoring grows louder. She snorts, emits a guttural choking sound, and then, after a brief, tantalizing silence, snores again. Nell reaches into her suitcase for earplugs (she's brought two pairs, just in case) and climbs back into bed. I will be home in a little over eight hours, she thinks, and with that comforting thought she finally drifts off to sleep.
Chapter Five
At the cafe Fabien sits by the kitchen hatch, watching as Emile scrubs at the huge steel pans, with Rene, a sous-chef, working silently beside him. He is sipping a large coffee, and his shoulders slump. The clock says a quarter to one.
"You'll write another one. It will be better," says Emile.
"I put everything I had into that book. And now it's all gone."
"Come on. You say you are a writer. You must have more than one book in your head. If not, you will be a very hungry writer. And maybe next time, do the edits on a computer, yes? Then you can just print out another copy."
Fabien has found 183 pages of the 300-plus that had blown away. Some of them were blurred with dirt and rainwater, stamped with footprints. Others had disappeared into the Paris evening. As he walked the streets around his home, he spotted the odd page flying into the air or sodden in a gutter, ignored by passersby. Seeing his words out there, his innermost thoughts exposed to view, made him feel as if he were standing in the street stark naked.
"I'm such a fool, Emile. Sandrine told me so many times not to take my work out on the roof. . . ."
"Oh, no. Not a Sandrine story. Please!" Emile empties the sink of greasy water and refills it. "I need some brandy if we are going to have a Sandrine story."
"You drank all the brandy already," says Rene.
"What am I going to do?"
"What your great hero, the writer Samuel Beckett, tells you to do: 'Try again. Fail again. Fail better.'"
Emile looks up, his brown skin glistening with sweat and steam. "And I'm not just talking about the book. You need to get out there again. Meet some women. Drink a little, dance a little . . . Find some material for another book!"
"I would read that book," says Rene.
"There," says Emile. "Rene will read your book. And he only reads pornography!"
"I don't read the words," says Rene.
"We know that, Rene," says Emile.
"I don't know. I'm not really in the mood," Fabien says.
"Then put yourself in the mood!" Emile is like a radiator, always making you feel warmer. "At least you have a reason to get out of that apartment now, eh? Go and live. Think about something else."
He finishes the last pan. He stacks it with the others, then flicks the tea towel over his shoulder.
"I don't know. . . ."
"Well, what else are you going to do? Spend the night in your tiny apartment? Monsieur Hollande, our president, on the television will tell you there is no money. Your empty home will tell you there is no woman."
"You're not making things sound any better, Emile."
"I am! I am your friend! I am giving you a million reasons to go out with me. Come on, we'll have some laughs. Pick up some bad women. Get arrested."
Fabien finishes his coffee and hands the cup to Emile, who puts it in the sink.
"Come on. You have to live so that you have something to write about."
"Maybe," he says. "I'll think about it."
Emile shakes his head as Fabien salutes them and leaves.
Chapter Six
It is the knocking that wakes her. It comes to her at first from a distance, then grows louder, so that she pulls the pillow over her ears. Then she hears a voice. "Housekeeping."
Housekeeping.
Nell pushes herself upright, blinking, a faint ringing in her ears, and for a moment she has no idea where she is. She stares at the strange bed, then at the wallpaper. There is a muffled rapping sound. She reaches up to her ears and pulls out the plugs. Suddenly the sound is deafening.
She walks over to the door and opens it, rubbing her eyes. "Hello?"
The woman--in a maid's uniform--apologizes, steps back. "Ah. Je reviendrai."
But Nell has no idea what she has just said. So she nods and lets the door close. She feels like she has been run over. She glances across at the American woman, but there is only an empty bed, the cover ruffled and the wardrobe door hanging open to reveal a row of empty hangers. Panicky, she scans the room for her suitcase, but it is still there.
She hadn't realized that the woman was going to leave so early, but Nell is relieved not to have to face that cross red face again. Now she can shower in peace and--
She glances down at her phone. It is a quarter past eleven.
It can't be.
She flicks on the television, skipping through until she hits a news channel.
It really is a quarter past eleven.
Suddenly awake, she begins to gather up her things, dumping them into her suitcase, and pulls on her clothes. Then, grabbing the key and her tickets, she runs downstairs. The Frenchwoman is behind the desk, as immaculate as she had been last night. Nell wishes suddenly that she had paused to brush her hair.
"Good morning, mademoiselle."
"Good morning. I wondered if you could . . . if . . . Well, I need to change my Eurostar ticket."
"You would like me to call Eurostar?"
"Please. I need to get home today. A . . . family emergency."
The woman's face does not flicker. "Of course."
She takes the ticket and dials, then speaks in rapid French. Nell runs her fingers through her hair, rubs sleep from her eyes.
"They have nothing until five o'clock. Will this suit you?"
"Nothing at all?"
"There were some spaces on the early trains this morning, but nothing now until five."
Nell curses herself for sleeping late. "That's fine."
"And you will have to buy a new ticket."
Nell stares at her ticket, which the woman is holding toward her. And there it is in black and white: NONTRANSFERABLE. "A new ticket? How much will that be?"
The woman says something, then puts her hand over the receiver. "One hundred and seventy-eight euros. You want to book it?"
A hundred and seventy-eight euros. About a hundred and forty pounds. "Uh . . . um . . . You know what? I . . . I just have to work something out."
She dares not look at the woman's face as she takes the ticket back from her. She feels like a fool. Of course a cheap ticket would be nontransferable. "Thank you so much." She bolts for the safety of her room, ignoring the woman, who is calling after her.
Nell sits on the end of the bed and swears softly to herself. So she can either pay half a week's wages to get home or carry on alone with the World's Worst Romantic Weekend for one more night. She can hide in this attic room with its French television that she can't understand. She can sit by herself in cafes, trying not to look at all the happy couples.
She decides to make herself a coffee, but there is no kettle in the room.
"Oh, for God's sake," she says aloud. She decides she hates Paris.
And it is then that she sees a half-open envelope on the floor, partway under the bed, with something sticking out from it. She bends down and picks it up. It is two tickets to a show by an artist she has vaguely heard of. She turns them over. They must have belonged to the American woman. She puts them down. She'll decide what to do with them later. For now she needs to put on some makeup, brush her hair, and then she really needs to get a coffee.
Outside in the daylight, she feels better. She walks until she sees a cafe she likes the look of and orders a cafe au lait and a croissant. She sits out on the street, huddled against the cold, beside several other people who are doing the same thing. She pets the small dog of an elderly woman who sits nearby, her scarf knotted with the precision of Japanese origami. She takes a couple of pictures. A Frenchman tips his hat to her, and she can't help but smile.
The coffee is good and the croissant is delicious. She makes a note of the cafe's name in her book, in case she wants to come back. She leaves a tip and walks slowly back to the hotel, thinking, Well, I've had worse breakfasts. Across the road there is a handbag shop, and she gazes through the window at the elegant, precision-cut leatherwork, the gorgeous pastel colors. The shop looks like a film set. She stops at the sound of cello music, looking up until she locates the sound, coming through a partially open balcony window. She listens, then sits briefly on the step. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever heard. When the music stops, a girl emerges onto the balcony holding the cello and looks down. Nell stands, suddenly a little embarrassed, and she walks on, deep in thought.
She cannot work out what to do. She walks slowly, debating with herself, scribbling her reasons for and against taking the five-o'clock train into her little notebook. If she got that train, she could actually make the late train down to Brighton and surprise the girls. She could rescue this weekend. She could get blind drunk and confess all, and they would look after her. That was what girlfriends were for.
But the thought of spending another hundred and fifty pounds on an already disastrous weekend makes her heart sink. And she does not want her first trip to Paris to end with her running away, tail between her legs. She does not want to remember the first time she went to Paris as the time she got dumped and ran home without even seeing the Eiffel Tower.
She is still thinking when she arrives at the hotel, so she almost forgets until she reaches into her pocket for the key. And pulls out the American woman's tickets.
"Oh. Excuse me?" she says to the receptionist. "Do you know what happened to the woman who was sharing my room? Room Forty-two?"
The woman flicks through a sheaf of papers. "She checked out first thing this morning. A . . . family emergency, I believe." Her face reveals nothing. "There seem to be many such emergencies this weekend."
"She left some tickets in the room. For an artist's show. I was wondering what to do with them." She holds them out, and the receptionist studies them.
"She went straight to the airport. . . . Oh. This is a very popular show, I think. It was on the news last night. People are queuing for many hours to see it."
Nell looks at the tickets again.
"I would go to this exhibition, mademoiselle." The woman smiles at her. "If you can . . . if your family emergency can wait."
Nell gazes at the tickets. "Maybe I will."
"Mademoiselle?"
Nell turns back to her.
"We will not be charging you for the room if you choose to stay. To make up for the inconvenience." She smiles aga
in, in apology.
"Oh. Thank you," Nell says, surprised.
And she decides. It's not that much longer, after all.
Chapter Seven
Fabien sits on his rooftop in his T-shirt and pajama bottoms, thinking, his empty coffee cup beside him. He looks at the little photograph of Sandrine that he has been holding in his hand. And then, when the air grows too chill for him to stay out there any longer, he climbs back in--carefully this time--and gazes around him at the apartment. She was right. It is a mess. He grabs a bin bag and begins to tidy.
An hour later the little apartment is at least partially transformed: the dirty clothes confined to the laundry basket, the old newspapers by the door for recycling, the washing-up done and stacked neatly in the drainer. Everything is ordered, contained. He is washed, shaved, and dressed. There is nothing now stopping him from writing. He places the remaining pages, precisely sorted into numbered order, beside his laptop and straightens the top page. He gazes at it.
Time passes. He rereads some of his pages and then sets them down. He picks up one page and studies it for a while, then places his fingers on the keys. He checks his phone. He gazes out the window at the gray rooftops. He goes to the bathroom. He stares back at his keyboard. Finally he checks his watch, stands, and grabs his jacket.
There is nobody waiting outside the little kiosk that faces Notre-Dame. Fabien stops his moped, pulls off his helmet, and gazes at the Seine for a moment, watching the mammoth tourist boat glide past, with its hordes of sightseeing passengers, all exclaiming and taking photographs through the huge windows. The little Rose de Paris with its handful of wooden seats sits patiently against the dock, uninhabited. He removes a package from the back of the moped and walks down to the kiosk, where his father is sitting on his stool reading the newspaper.
"Salmon," he says, handing his father the package. "Emile said it wouldn't keep."
Clement kisses his son on both cheeks, then unwraps it and takes a bite, chewing appreciatively.
"Not bad. Tell him less dill next time. We are not Russians. The pastry is good, though."
"Nothing doing?"
"It's that new big boat. It takes all the tourist trade."
They gaze at the water for a while. A couple walk down to the riverside and hesitate a few feet from the kiosk before apparently changing their minds and walking away. Fabien scratches his ankle.