We walk over the bridge towards the Ile Saint-Louis, and I tell Jonathan about my Erasmus year in Paris, when I stayed in a firetrap of a sixth-floor studio on the rue Soufflot, living off crêpes and Nutella and two-euro bottles of wine, and having the time of my life.
‘I shouldn’t really have been here – I was studying English in Manchester and a year in Paris wasn’t totally relevant – but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It was such a great place to be a student. It didn’t matter that we had no money. In summer we used to have picnics on the Pont des Arts, and in winter we used to spend hours in cafés nursing one drink …’
‘Wonderful,’ says Jonathan. ‘Yes, Paris is almost better with no money. Especially for writers. It’s like Hemingway says: “Hunger is a good discipline.” Sometimes I envy him that … I worry that I’m not hungry enough.’ He looks despondent.
‘Oh no! Don’t think that. You know, we haven’t talked enough about your book yet. I loved it.’
‘That’s great. What did you … I mean, did you have any notes, for the book?’
I’m thrilled that he’s brought this up. As we stroll through the quaint old streets of the Ile Saint-Louis, dodging groups of tourists queuing outside Berthillon for ice cream, I tell him everything I loved about his book, and make a few editorial suggestions, which he takes very well. When we arrive at the Place des Vosges, Jonathan stops walking, pulls off his glasses and turns to me.
‘I am pathetically grateful to you for telling me all that,’ he says. ‘Those are outstanding suggestions, and I feel like you really got the book. Thank you for saying those nice things. You know how needy authors are, so I know you won’t judge me for it.’
‘No judging,’ I say, smiling. If Charlie could see him now, he would know that he’s not pretentious; he’s lovely.
‘Let me get you a Perrier Menthe,’ says Jonathan. ‘Or something stronger? The French don’t have any Anglo-Saxon hang-ups about drinking at lunchtime, you know.’
We take a seat at a café in the arcade that runs around the square. It must be one of the most elegant in Paris, with its red and cream buildings and the garden with its topiary chestnut trees, white gravelled paths and black railings. The shade of the arches is delicious after the heat of the streets. I’m getting pretty hungry, but I don’t know whether to suggest lunch; he might not have time.
‘Can you believe it’s nearly two p.m.?’ says Jonathan, looking at his watch. ‘Time flies. Do you want food?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ I love it when a man knows you’re hungry.
I’m slightly disappointed to notice that most of the people sitting around us are tourists – a group of English women and an American couple, and a handful of Germans. It’s not exactly my Parisian café fantasy. But at last the waitress addresses us in French. Jonathan orders a beer, and I order a Kir.
‘Would you like your Kir with Sauvignon or Chablis?’ the waitress asks me in English.
‘Avec Chablis, s’il vous plaît,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Why did she do that?’ I ask, when she’s gone. ‘I know my French is a little rusty, but I’m capable of ordering a drink.’
Jonathan smiles. ‘They do it to me too. I think they’re just not used to foreigners who speak such good French.’
I make a face. ‘It’s nice of you to turn it into a compliment.’
The waitress appears back in record time with our drinks.
‘To your Paris trip,’ Jonathan says, clinking my glass.
‘To your book.’ I clink Jonathan’s glass.
‘Thank you. And to getting to know each other.’ He clinks mine again.
I’m so happy we got rid of Charlie; I can only imagine how much he would take the piss if he could see us toasting Paris and ourselves.
As if reading my mind, Jonathan says, ‘You and your colleague are quite different, aren’t you?’
‘Well,’ I say diplomatically, ‘we do different things.’
Jonathan looks even more serious. ‘For me, there’s no contest. I’m sure he’s very, ah, competent but I feel as if you understand me much better. If that doesn’t sound trop égoiste.’
‘Not égoiste at all,’ I say, smiling.
Remembering my greedy breakfast of croissants at the hotel, I decide to order a salad, which isn’t a penance at all; it’s utterly delicious. It’s just goat’s cheese and tomatoes and salad leaves; it’s simple but so fresh and tasty, and the tomatoes are mouth-watering.
‘Oh my God, this salad is to die for,’ I say, closing my eyes briefly. ‘They just do not serve salads like this in London. It’s incredible.’
Jonathan has ordered a croque-monsieur, which seems a bit boring, but I suppose he can eat here whenever he wants. ‘So when’s the last time you were in Paris?’ he asks.
I was prepared for Jonathan to be somewhat self-obsessed, but he’s the complete opposite. He listens intently as I end up telling him all about myself; how long I’ve been doing my job, and the studio flat in Hackney I managed to buy by the skin of my teeth. I even end up telling him about my mum and what a kick she gets out of seeing my name in the acknowledgements of my books.
‘Of course she’d have preferred me to be prime minister. Well, she’d have settled for me being an MP. Or a human rights lawyer or some sort of social activist. I went on a lot of marches when I was a kid.’
‘What does she do now?’
‘She’s a social worker. Very dedicated. Lives in Brighton, still marching. She has boundless energy, all thanks to coconut oil, apparently. She’s always forwarding me petitions and articles from the Guardian about nuclear power and women being oppressed. She’s kind of exhausting, but she’s great. We get on really well now.’
My glass seems to be empty. Jonathan lifts a finger and within minutes, two more Kirs have materialised. He obviously doesn’t have any Anglo-Saxon hang-ups about drinking at lunchtime, either.
‘So you didn’t always get on so well?’ he says.
Wow. It’s honestly been years since I’ve met a man who was so great at asking questions. ‘Well, when I was a teenager, we used to clash over all the usual things – boys, drinking, staying out late. Oh, and my hair.’
‘Your hair?’
‘Yeah. I went through a phase of experimenting with weaves, or relaxing my hair – you know, straightening it. She wanted me to wear it au naturel, the way I do now.’ I indicate my mop. ‘So I did the opposite just to wind her up. But now I love my hair.’ I smile, and take a sip of my drink.
‘I think she was right,’ Jonathan says, smiling. ‘Your hair is gorgeous.’
Now I’m blushing. And this second Kir is definitely going to my head.
‘And what about your dad?’
‘Well, I don’t see him very often. He lives in Saudi now, working for a big corporate law firm. He’s sold out, in my mum’s view. They split up when I was seven.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s fine. It’s actually a miracle they lasted that long. They met at a CND demonstration when they were students and moved in together a week later. Mum’s parents were very strict church-going Jamaicans and they were furious with her – running off with a long-haired white boy, even if he was training to be a lawyer.’
‘I see.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on. Bad habit of mine.’
Jonathan leans back in his chair, and takes an assessing look at me. ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s very interesting. You are …’ he smiles slowly, ‘very interesting.’
Whoa, Nelly. I don’t even need to get out my Flirt-o-Meter: that was easily a nine. Jonathan Wilder is flirting with me. Outrageously. And I really want to flirt back.
‘What about a coffee?’ I say weakly.
‘Sure.’ He pauses, then continues, ‘Actually, my place is pretty close to here. Do you want to have coffee there?’
Hm. He’s suggesting coffee at his place – when we’re actually in a café. Now what? If I blush and say, ‘That doesn’t seem like such a good idea,’ the
n it’s all out in the open that we’re flirting, and then he’ll have to say something and I’ll have to say something and then where will we be? But if I say yes and go back to his place for coffee … I’m old enough to know that coffee doesn’t always mean coffee.
‘What kind of coffee are we talking about exactly?’ I say, playing for time.
‘I have one of those Italian machines that cost as much as a small car,’ says Jonathan. ‘I love showing it off. So you’d be doing me a favour.’
OK, fine. This sounds like genuine, actual coffee. As opposed to the kind of coffee that never gets made. It might be my imagination, but looking at the French couples walking by us, it seems like they’re drifting off back to their tiny wooden-beamed attic rooms for some afternoon delight.
‘Poppy?’
‘Sorry. Yes, sure. Coffee sounds great,’ I say. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I add as he makes to pay the bill. ‘I can expense it.’
That was the perfect thing to say, I decide, as we leave the elegant arcades of the square. It puts us right back on a work footing. I am not going to mess up this book deal just because he’s gorgeous and I’m a few Kirs to the wind. Anyway, it’s the middle of the day; nothing untoward is going to happen.
‘Watch out, Poppy,’ Jonathan says, and pulls me back by my arm. He’s just saved me from nearly getting knocked down by a couple of people wobbling by on Vélib bikes. Shaking his fist at them, he yells after them in French, sounding very Gallic and indignant.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur. Was it my imagination or did his hand leave my arm a bit reluctantly? Oh God, this is unfair. Why does the most attractive man I’ve met in ages have to be off-limits because of work?
Weirdly, Jonathan seems on edge as well. He’s suddenly become very chatty, pointing out landmarks as we walk.
‘So,’ he says. ‘This is the rue des Francs Bourgeois – it was almshouses originally, but now it’s the home of the real bourgeoisie; they’ve got every shop here from L’Occitane to Ted Baker. Oh, that’s the Musée Carnavalet … it was the home of the Marquise de Sévigné. You must read her letters … this is a great ice-cream place – want one? No? Me neither … and this is me, to the right.’
We turn on to a quiet side street. Jonathan punches the code of number five and the huge, heavy door swings open. I step over the lintel and we enter a peaceful cobbled courtyard, with actual white doves pecking around the middle. The contrast between this and the bustle of the street we just left couldn’t be greater.
‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘These courtyards are so magical – I love that sense that you just enter the code and step into a hidden, private world—’
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Villder,’ says a loud voice. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ A tiny figure in flowery overalls pokes her head out of a cubby to the right.
‘Bonjour, Madame Gibert,’ Jonathan says.
‘Bonjour, madame,’ I add.
She takes a good look at me before ducking back into her cubby, where the TV is blaring. Jonathan says, ‘Not so private really … but I love the fact that this is one of the few buildings still in Paris with a real concierge.’ He leads me to a broad flight of steps to the left: dark polished oak, worn smooth by countless feet over the centuries. Jonathan gestures me to go ahead – what a gentleman – and I walk up the stairs ahead of him, hoping I look OK from behind.
‘How old is this building?’ I ask.
‘Seventeenth century. Hence we’re sans ascenseur.’
No lift. Well, that puts it in perspective. People must have climbed these stairs hundreds, thousands of times, during the Revolution, during the war, probably lots of them in order to do stupid things. Including sleep with the wrong people. Maybe the reason people go so crazy in love in Paris is because you’re surrounded by the evidence of hundreds of years of bad behaviour. With every step I feel as if I’m coming closer to doing something very foolish, and not caring one bit.
‘Here we are.’ He holds the door open for me and ushers me in.
It’s my dream apartment. Whitewashed walls, low leather sofas, and two huge windows that overlook the street. Dark wooden beams on the ceiling. Two sides of the room are lined with bookshelves filled with paperbacks, hefty-looking hardbacks and art books. There’s a cinema poster for Les Liaisons Dangereuses – the 1950s version. His desk overlooks the street. To the right, there’s a cosy galley kitchen with a table and two chairs.
‘I love your place.’
‘Just a simple deux-pièces,’ says Jonathan, handing me a glass of water. ‘I’ve had it about a year. It’s not big, but it suits me.’
‘Good lord, is that a Matisse?’ I ask, looking at the wall behind him.
‘Just a lithograph,’ he says. With a smile, he adds, ‘I’m not that successful.’
I can’t exactly remember what a lithograph is, and I don’t want to ask Jonathan. I perch on the edge of a sofa and sip my water. He’s even added ice and lemon; colour me impressed.
‘Now. Chopin, or Duke Ellington?’ he asks, lifting up two records.
‘Either,’ I say, even though to be honest I’m not a huge jazz fan; soul music is more my thing.
‘The Duke, I think. It’s too hot for Chopin.’ He puts the record on, then looks at me and adds, ‘I think … I think I’ll open a window.’
There’s something in the air here. I haven’t felt it in a very long time, but I’m feeling it now and I know I’m not imagining it. I walk slowly, following him to the window, and watch as he wrestles with the latch. There’s a drop of sweat on his forehead. I have a mad urge to lick it off.
‘Finally,’ he says, getting it open at last. ‘Just a second …’ He turns aside to write something down in a notebook.
‘Nice breeze,’ I say, fanning my hair with my hand.
He stares at me and seems to swallow. ‘That’s a pretty bracelet,’ he says. He reaches out and brushes it with his fingertips. ‘Or is it a bangle?’ His fingers close gently around it.
Now it’s my turn to swallow. ‘Actually, it’s more of a … cuff.’
‘Such a rich vocabulary,’ he murmurs. His hand is still on my arm. And then he’s pulling me forward … and Jonathan Wilder is kissing me.
Instantly, we both go wild. All the pent-up frustration seems to explode and I’m kissing him back, running my hands through his hair, grabbing his body and pressing it against me. I don’t care any more about his book or how dangerous this is: I just want him, now.
‘Let’s go next door,’ he murmurs. He leads me into the bedroom, where we fall back on to his pristine white sheets. He slides the straps of my jumpsuit down, and I slip out of it, revealing the black and pink bra, which he takes off skilfully before kissing me all over and reducing me to jelly. Now we’re kissing again, and he’s driving me mad by sliding his hands up my thighs and slowly, delicately, stroking me between my legs, through the thin material of the jumpsuit, until I feel as if I’m going to explode. Sitting upright, I wriggle out of it completely, wishing I hadn’t worn something so awkward to take off. He pulls off his own clothes and I see that yes, you can spend all day writing the important literature of our time and still have a great body.
There’s a brief interruption while Jonathan produces a condom from beside the bed. Then he kisses me again, lowers himself slowly on to me … and then we’re moving together and it is incredible. He’s muttering all the most flattering things – about how sexy and gorgeous I am – in French. I feel as if I’m in a film or a music video, complete with four-poster bed and billowing white sheets. Or maybe this is a dream; I can’t quite believe it’s happening.
Afterwards we lie together, breathless and flushed, and wait for our heartbeats to subside.
‘That wasn’t exactly how I expected the afternoon to go,’ I murmur.
‘I know.’ I can feel him grinning; his cheek is beside my forehead. ‘We never did have that coffee. Would you like some?’
‘I would. But not yet – you don’t have to get it yet.’ I know it sounds sad, but this is
something I’ve missed just as much: not just the sex (though yes, I missed that), but being close to someone, lying together afterwards. With Jonathan’s arm around me, and his leg thrown over mine, I’m in a state of utter bliss.
‘Poppy Desmond,’ he murmurs, stroking my back, ‘you were not what I expected either.’
I have to admit, I love the sound of him saying my name. I also love it when, later on, he fetches me a blue silk kimono to wear and we lie curled up on his sofa, drinking his coffee.
‘This is really good,’ I say, sipping it. ‘That machine’s worth whatever you paid. The coffee’s good, too.’
‘Thanks. I get it from a little Italian shop near the Bourse. I’ve run into Carla there, so I suppose that’s a good sign.’
‘Carla?’
‘Oh, sorry – Bruni.’ He knows Carla Bruni. Of course he does; he’s Jonathan Wilder. Oh God. I can’t believe what we’ve just done.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell is striking. Five o’clock. Any minute now, reality is going to come flooding back.
‘What is that expression – cinq à sept?’ I ask quickly, to prevent any awkward realisations. ‘Isn’t it something to do with affairs?’
‘It’s the time when French men traditionally saw their mistresses, in between leaving the office and going home.’
‘How sexist,’ I sniff. ‘What about the women having affairs? Also, have you noticed how obsessed French cinema is with adultery? Every single French film I’ve seen is about an affair, it’s unbelievable.’ I could easily continue ranting but I stop myself just in time.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ says Jonathan. ‘I think it’s because they’re more tolerant of shades of grey – they’re not moralistic like American films.’
As we chat, I think: maybe this could actually work. I could publish him and have a relationship with him. There’s no law against it, is there? Plenty of couples work together … And then I thank God that he’s presumably not psychic, and has no idea what I’m thinking.
‘So,’ he says, after a while. ‘What are you doing this evening?’
‘This evening?’ I wish I knew what he had in mind before answering. If I tell him I’m free and he doesn’t ask me out, I’ll feel bad. Ditto if I make up some story and then he says he has tickets to the opera.
Girls on Tour Page 4
