by Hazel Hayes
The result was that I craved him – his time, his attention, his touch – I was physically craving connection with him, and I thought coming here would fix that. But sitting in front of him in that bar, I felt further from him than ever before. I wanted to tell him all this, but I know from experience that Theo is like a dog on a lead: the tighter I pull on it, the harder he pulls in the opposite direction. So I stayed quiet and sipped my drink.
‘How long are you here for?’ he asked.
‘Five nights,’ I said, ‘I fly back Monday.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s just – I’m really busy this week,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t need a chaperone,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to explore Paris by myself. And in the evenings we can go out or stay in or whatever you fancy, really.’
I was trying to sound casual and in doing so I came off even needier.
‘That’s the thing,’ he said, ‘I’m kind of busy in the evenings too.’
‘Right,’ I said, trying not to visibly deflate. It was getting harder to act normal. I felt like my like my head was on fire and everyone was pretending not to notice, me included. Theo took out his phone to check his schedule.
‘I’m free Saturday,’ he offered. ‘We can do whatever you want.’
‘Zoo?’
I hadn’t planned to say that, it just came out. Theo’s eyes widened and he let out a little laugh.
‘Really?’
We had visited a zoo in almost every country we’d been to together, and bought the most hideous toy animal we could find in every gift shop. It had become a sort of unspoken tradition, and the ‘Gang of Freaks’, as we lovingly called them, currently resided on a shelf in our living room. I knew I was trying to recreate nice memories, but I didn’t see any harm in that.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘that’s what I want to do.’
‘Zoo it is,’ said Theo, smiling.
His hotel room was not at all what I expected; every time we’d spoken on the phone, I’d imagined him cooped up in a dark, cramped room with little more than a bed and a bathroom, but looking at it now, I couldn’t believe I’d conjured up such an inaccurate mental image. The room was pristine – presumably someone had cleaned it while he was at work – and everything about the place, from the bedding to the curtains to the bowl of perfectly ripened fruit (which I had to touch to confirm it wasn’t fake), exuded a sort of business-class opulence. There was even a little chocolate, wrapped in gold foil and placed exactly in the centre of one pillow.
‘I’ll have them bring up two tomorrow,’ said Theo, breaking it in half so that we could share it.
Theo’s clothes were all hung neatly in the wardrobe, his toiletries lined up by the sink – I noticed he’d bought a new brand of moisturiser – and the large oak desk was covered in paperwork and Post-its, all arranged at perfect right angles, just like they were on his desk at home. While he took a shower I unpacked my things, careful not to take up too much space, and afterwards, we lay on the bed and watched a movie. Theo fell asleep ten minutes in, so I turned it off and read my book instead.
When my eyes grew heavy, I got undressed and slipped under the covers. I had worn Theo’s favourite lingerie that day – I remember smiling to myself on the plane at the thought of him discovering the lace bodice underneath my dress – and I felt a little pang of foolishness as I slid the black lace down my legs, folded it, and put it back in my suitcase.
‘Ouch,’ says Maya, wincing as she tops up my wine.
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ve all been there, though,’ she offers.
‘I know. And he wasn’t exactly expecting a wild night of sex. I just thought after a month apart …’ I trail off, sulking into my chardonnay, ‘I don’t know what I thought.’
‘Well, I’d have fucked you,’ she says, and I laugh.
‘Thanks, babe.’
‘Did you do it the next night?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, but it was weird.’
‘Weird how?’
‘He kept leaning to the left,’ I say.
Maya squints at me in confusion and tries to stifle a smile.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘I wish I hadn’t brought this up now.’
‘No, no,’ she giggles. ‘Explain please.’
‘Well, when he was on top,’ I say, ‘he kept … leaning, so that all his weight was on my right leg. And I had to keep, sort of, hooshing him back to centre.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I got on top, obviously.’
‘Wow,’ says Maya, as she goes to the fridge to get another bottle of wine. ‘If you can’t muster the energy to at least stay upright during sex, don’t bloody bother.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, holding out my glass for a refill. ‘I mean, I was tired too. I’d walked the length and breadth of bloody Paris all day!’
Theo had woken me up around 7 a.m. that morning to say goodbye, and after he left for work I decided I might as well get up and make the most of the day. I grabbed a fold-up map from reception – I could have used the map on my phone, but I liked the massive, cartoonish depictions of each landmark – and took it to breakfast with me. I scoffed down a plate of scrambled eggs and some orange juice while I studied the map, tracing my finger along the route I planned to take, and then I stuffed my pockets full of fruit and headed out.
It was a cool, clear day – perfect walking weather – and I managed to get to every spot on my list, including the Eiffel Tower, where I was approached every twenty seconds by loud men, hawking touristy trinkets and tat.
I was here on a school trip over a decade ago, but I couldn’t remember it at all. I’d been too preoccupied with Christopher, a boy from another school, who I would later go on to have a brief fling with, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend and – as it turned out – was gay. Last I heard he was married to a hairy Welshman and they’d adopted two cats.
I do remember enjoying the trip to the top of the tower, but in hindsight that was probably because we were crammed together like clowns in a car and Christopher was pressed rather firmly up against me the entire time. Imagine being so exhilarated by someone that a view of Paris seems pale in comparison.
Suddenly I felt lightheaded. Not in an unpleasant way; it was like I had downed a glass or two of champagne and my senses were just slightly dulled. I leaned against the base of the tower and stayed a while, mesmerised by the sheer size of the four metal feet planted firmly around me. They reminded me of those old gnarled trees whose hefty roots rise up in massive mounds before plunging down into the earth. Lately I had felt untethered, like the slightest breeze might knock me over, and imagining those trees reaching fearlessly skyward, unwavering in their stalwart foundations, always brought me a little comfort.
Soon enough I grew tired of declining to buy shoddy metal replicas of the tower I was standing under, so even though my head still hadn’t quite cleared, I set off through the Champ de Mars gardens towards the École Militaire. The buildings weren’t open to the public, but I rambled around the outside, marvelling at the fact that inside this exquisite facade was a military training facility; it looked like the kind of place where people should learn to paint or do ballet. Then I moved on to Les Invalides, where rows of enormous cannons stood guard like bright-green beasts. The plaque on one of the cannons read, ‘The Scourge’, and my stomach turned slightly at the grisly sounding name. It was the first strong emotion I had felt all day and, driven by some morbid desire to feel more, I continued on into the Musée de l’Ordre de la Libération. At least, I thought, I knew how I was supposed to feel in a World War II museum, and I didn’t have to analyse those feelings or feel guilty for feeling them.
I had been inside for over two hours when I came across a series of drawings made in concentration camps. I pressed my hand against the cool glass and stared into the brightly lit display, transfixed by the sheer scale of tragedy. Sympathy and sadness swelled inside me until my vision folded
inwards and the room grew dark. I peeled my clammy hand from the glass case and rushed towards the exit, disgusted with myself and my motives for being there.
Lying on the grass outside, numbness enveloped me like a shroud, and I lay listening to the muted sounds of traffic and chatter while I gulped down fresh afternoon air and stared vacantly up at the sky.
My phone rang and for a few seconds I couldn’t comprehend the sound. Eventually, I picked it up and saw an unfamiliar Irish number on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘My darling girl,’ boomed a woman’s voice from the other end and I recognised it immediately as that of my ex-boss, Ciara. She was the editor-in-chief of Taisteal, an Irish travel magazine I used to work for back in Dublin.
‘How in God’s name are you?’ she demanded, not letting me answer. ‘It’s been too long. Don’t tell me how long! How are you? What are you up to?’
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I said. ‘Just having an existential meltdown. You know yourself.’
‘Oh dear. What are you doing that for?’
‘Well, I’m in Paris,’ I said, ‘and I’ve just been walking around a World War II museum.’
‘Christ no, absolutely not,’ said Ciara. ‘Writers are far too sensitive altogether for that sort of thing. You’re to leave that place immediately and go get a big, buttery pastry and some hot chocolate.’
‘It’s actually quite warm here …’
‘Just do as you’re told, will you?’
‘All right,’ I said, genuinely glad to have my problems boiled down so casually by an oblivious third party. They seemed instantly silly and unimportant.
‘Now, I’ve got another call at half past so I’ll cut to the chase,’ said Ciara, as though this wasn’t the first time we had spoken in years. I’d forgotten how mad she was; she had the energy of a guinea pig and the attitude of a Bond villain, if Bond villains were female and Irish and actually quite nice underneath it all.
‘I want you to write for me again,’ she said. ‘We’re launching a new fashion and lifestyle magazine and I think you’d be a great fit.’
‘But I’m not fashionable,’ I said.
‘No, I know that, darling. But you’ve got all that mental … stuff … going on.’
‘My anxiety?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and the depression. And that’s all very in right now.’
‘I see.’
‘So I need a high-functioning headcase like yourself to write a monthly column on mental health.’
‘And you want me?’
I was too confused to be insulted.
‘Well, I won’t lie, you weren’t my first choice, darling, but my first choice is too busy writing a bloody book.’
‘So I was your second choice,’ I said.
‘No. She has apparently fucked off to a monastery in South East Asia to “find herself”. Which probably means she’s in rehab.’
‘Right.’
‘Look, I’m offering you a job here, just be grateful for the opportunity.’
‘I am grateful!’ I insisted. ‘I’m just trying to figure out how I got on the list at all.’
‘Because most people are inept. Or cunts. Or both,’ said Ciara. ‘And you’re neither.’
That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
‘Also,’ she continued, ‘I ran into Omar in the Shelbourne last month and he was singing your praises.’
Omar is my writing teacher. He has never given me any indication that he likes either me or my work.
‘How do you even know each other?’ I asked.
‘The literary world is deeply incestuous, darling, you really must be vigilant. Anyway, he sent me some of your latest stories. Hope you don’t mind. But I liked them a lot. You’ve really found your voice.’
Coming from anyone else I would find this pretentious and patronising but in that moment I was deeply flattered; Ciara’s opinion always meant a lot to me, even when she had me writing fictitious travel reviews.
‘So what do you need me to do?’ I asked.
As it happened, she needed me to do quite a lot, and fast, and it wouldn’t pay particularly well. As much as I wanted to say yes, I was worried about juggling this and my existing full-time job.
‘You’ll manage,’ said Ciara, ‘and if you can’t manage, you can quit your job. And become a struggling artist, for Christ’s sake. Create a bit of fucking impetus, darling!’
‘You’re right,’ I said, suddenly riled up. ‘I hate my job anyway. I swear to God with every press release I write, another piece of my soul withers and dies. If I have to announce the launch of one more miracle cellulite cream or anti-ageing, snail-slime face mask, my brain will liquefy and dribble out my fucking ears.’
‘That’s the spirit! Now go get that hot chocolate and look at some beautiful things.’
‘I will, thanks. Bye for now, Ciara.’
But conversations with Irish people never end the first time you say goodbye.
‘Speaking of beautiful things,’ she said, ‘Tim’s living in Paris now.’
‘Tim who?’
‘Tim!’ she wailed. ‘Lovely Tim! Used to work here. Nice lad. Built like a fucking tank. I’m sending you his number now. Give him a shout.’
Bloody hell. I hadn’t thought about Tim in years. He was a graphic designer at Taisteal and the entire editorial team called him Lovely Tim, simply because he was so lovely.
‘I have a boyfriend, Ciara.’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of cabbage?’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll call him.’
I had no intention of calling him.
‘Great! Gotta go.’
And with that Ciara was gone and I was left sitting on a lawn outside a war museum in Paris, with the phone number of a very attractive ex-colleague and a new job I definitely didn’t have time to do.
‘Oh my God,’ says Maya, aghast, ‘Did you sleep with Lovely Tim?’
I stare back at her nonplussed.
‘That’s a yes,’ she says.
‘That is not a yes,’ I say. ‘I am trying to tell you the story.’
‘Well, you’re not telling it fast enough!’ she shouts in mock anger, and then her face lights up like she’s suddenly remembered something wonderful.
‘Cake?’ she asks.
‘Sure.’
Maya pulls a homemade Victoria sponge out of the fridge, plonks the whole thing down in the centre of the table, then grabs two forks, and hands one to me.
‘Did you tell Theo about your episode at the museum?’ she asks.
‘I tried. But he seemed a bit preoccupied that night. And explaining it only made me feel more crazy.’
Maya nods as we dig into the cake.
‘What about the job offer? Did you tell him about that?’
I shake my head.
‘So you went to bed and had shit sex and called Tim the next day,’ says Maya casually.
‘You should really consider a career in literature.’
‘I may not be a good storyteller,’ she says, ‘but I’m not wrong, am I?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘you’re not.’
I woke up to a mammoth email from Ciara and spent the morning hunched over my laptop in a smoke-filled café trying to get to grips with it all.
By two o’clock I had had enough, and I emerged from the café, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the bright afternoon. Theo and I had plans to meet for dinner, but that was hours away and I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself until then. I took out my giant map, but the prospect of exploring Paris alone had somewhat lost its charm and, faced with so many options, none of which particularly appealed to me, I began to shut down completely.
Once again I felt a dull numbness settle in, like I was cocooned inside a thin rubber membrane that kept me separate from the world around me. People appeared flimsy and incomplete, as though an important feature were missing from their faces. Buildings and cars and trees all seemed unfinished. Like cru
de pencil sketches of what they should be.
I’d had panic attacks before – usually they were sharp and severe, and everything felt too bright, too loud, too harsh – but this was different; things weren’t ‘too’ anything, they were shapeless and distant and dark. I started walking, trying to put some distance between me and this sensation, and without meaning to, I gravitated towards the Seine. I wandered a while along one bank, soothed by the sound of water gently lapping near my feet. It reminded me of Dollymount Strand – sitting by the sea on cloudy days eating sandy ham sandwiches – and the thought made me smile. Finally I reached a ticket booth for one of those open-top river cruises, and on a whim I bought one and got on.
It felt good to be moving, to be speeding forwards with purpose, and my mood instantly lightened. I even laughed to myself at the irony of being asked to write about mental illness just as I was beginning to grapple with a whole new set of symptoms.
The boat whizzed past huge metal monuments and under ornate bridges and all the while I stood at the front, savouring the breeze and the subtle spray of water on my face. I noticed the feel of the cold metal handrail in my hands, the way the wind plastered my blouse against my body, and the shift of weight from one foot to the other as the boat lurched in and out of every stop. When an automated voice announced, in both French and English, that we would soon be stopping at the Louvre, I remembered what Ciara had said about looking at beautiful things, and decided to do just that.
Hours later, having spent an interminable amount of time transfixed by the Mona Lisa, I stepped back outside to see dusk was descending. I checked the time and, realising I was late for dinner, I rushed back to the hotel to get ready as fast as I could. I had just squeezed into a short red dress and was stepping into a pair of heels when Theo called.
‘Hey, honey,’ I said excitedly before he had a chance to speak, ‘I think I might be ten minutes late. I spent way too long in the Louvre. But I can’t wait to see you, and tell you all about it, and eat très tasty French food! What’s the name of the place again?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it to dinner.’
