The Train to Paris Page 11

  ‘That’s the one,’ I said.

  ‘Good. It is important to know which scent belongs to you.’

  I was going to pay for it, but she cut me off. It was not a platinum card this time, but a gold American Express. The name was different, too, but she handled it so swiftly that I was unable to read it. The odours in the shop were overpowering, and it was a relief to make it out to the street, where the air was thin and permeated by stale cigarette smoke and sewage.

  ‘How did you know that it would suit me?’ I asked.

  ‘It is one of my talents. I also know that salmon pink is not your colour. We need to find you a new shirt.’

  ‘Oh. The shop assistant said it suited me better than anybody else.’

  ‘He wanted to sell it,’ she said, as though I was the simplest being she had ever come across.

  I thought back to the assistant and his insistence that everything looked perfect on me. Perhaps business really had been slow. I didn’t dare tell Élodie that in the same shop I had been told that I should become a model.

  ‘Why did you blank me in the clothes shop?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she murmured. ‘I was in a hurry. But it was seeing you that prompted me to call you, darling. You know, I can’t stop and talk to every one of my acquaintances. There aren’t enough hours in the day.’

  ‘Is that all I am? An acquaintance?’

  ‘Rather.’

  I should have returned to the métro station. The insult was enough to make me falter. But sheer instinct got the better of me. She had selected that perfume for me. She knew me. And now I wanted to know what sort of a shirt she would choose for me.

  ‘So what is this party tonight?’ I asked, trying to sound like I didn’t care.

  ‘A collection of acquaintances, really. Much like you. They come from all over the place. A few work in fashion, some in film. Possibly a few vagrants will show up, too. You will fit in swimmingly.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘My pleasure. But first we need to get you a shirt.’

  We turned off the avenue in the direction of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I had never been to this part of the city before. It was all couturiers and shops with antique fur coats in the windows. The boutiques were inconspicuous and exclusive. It was also confined. I had been trapped in the city since August, and everything about this quartier reminded me how overbearing Paris could be. It was a hectic Pissarro street scene, all grey and brown with hurried brushstrokes.

  ‘So this is the part where you take me to a classy clothes shop that nobody else has heard of?’ I said.

  ‘You could say that. This is not an ordinary clothes shop.’

  We passed the Élysée Palace and continued towards the Madeleine. It was hard to stop myself from looking into every one of the shops, all of which were filled with elaborate displays. One gallery specialised in expensive art supplies. Milled paper was stacked on the shelves, and a display of gilded watercolour sets occupied the main window.

  ‘What are you doing, wasting your time with that?’ Élodie demanded. ‘Do you think that you are a painter because you study art history?’

  ‘I never said that. It is possible to have an appreciation for these things, even if I can’t do anything with them.’

  ‘But you can do something with anything. Even clothes, provided they are just the right sort. And this is where Monsieur Bertrand comes in.’

  She pointed across the street to another nondescript building. The legend, Bertrand, was engraved over the doorway. Ready-to-wear items occupied the main room of the store. Ties, jackets, waistcoats, and paisley silk scarves and cravats. I could see a more enchantingly mechanical world beyond an archway and up a set of steps. A pattern was laid out across the table, surrounded by tape measures and items of machinery that I had never come across before.

  The tailor himself—I presumed that this was Bertrand, because he was never introduced—recognised Élodie immediately, and he let out a cry of joy. They kissed on each cheek. Bertrand was a decrepit man with wispy white hair, stooped and wearing a surprisingly casual shirt and gilet. He had oversized spectacles and his skin was like loose leather upholstery. He gave off the scent of cigarettes and dry-cleaned fabric.

  ‘My dear demoiselle Lavelle,’ he said, his voice matching the cigarettes. ‘Is Monsieur Marcel in need of a new dinner jacket?’

  ‘Why no,’ Élodie said. She was flirtatious with Bertrand, even though he was a specimen of gnarled old age. ‘In fact, I was hoping that you could do something for this young man. He needs a more becoming shirt for an important social gathering.’

  Bertrand must have seen me as an impossible task. I was all too conscious of my bad haircut. There was a mirror by the wall, and I could see that one particular strand was sticking up at the back. I did my best to smooth it down without Bertrand noticing.

  ‘You want only a shirt?’ he said pointedly to Élodie.

  ‘It needs to be done for this evening.’

  Bertrand held up his arms. ‘Impossible. Two days, yes, I can do. But this evening I cannot. I have too many orders to go through today.’

  ‘Oh, Bertrand, really? You used to achieve the impossible for me. Why, I have seen you create masterworks in under an hour.’ She moved in closer to him. ‘I am certainly prepared to make it worth your while.’

  His arms were folded, but it was clear that Bertrand was going to give Élodie what she wanted.

  ‘How much are you offering?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘As much as it takes. Name your price, dear man.’

  ‘Very well, then. But I will not have it ready until at least four o’clock.’

  ‘Perfect. Lawrence—Monsieur Bertrand will take your measurements.’

  The measuring process took a long time, and it was difficult to stand still. I could tell that Élodie was watching from beyond the archway, and she could see my abdomen, slender and pale as it was. Was she admiring it? My chest hair had grown a little since the summer, and it made me appear older than I felt. When Bertrand had finished, he excused me with a smile that showed his decaying teeth.

  ‘Does the gentleman perhaps need a ready-to-wear jacket in the meantime?’ He directed this question at Élodie rather than me.

  ‘I will see your collection,’ I said, before she could answer for me. My French had never sounded so confident before. ‘And I will make my decision accordingly.’

  ‘Your boy, he does show some hubris,’ Bertrand said to Élodie. It took me a while to realise that Bertrand must have mistaken me for her son.

  We browsed through his jackets, which were conventional fare. I wondered if the shirt would be a little more bespoke. Bertrand left for his workshop, and I tried to express these thoughts to Élodie.

  ‘You have to understand the value of tailoring,’ she said. ‘I cannot believe the number of men who go through life without a tailored suit. It does make a terrible impression.’

  ‘Like Ed Selvin?’

  ‘What about Ed?’

  ‘He didn’t wear a tailored suit.’

  ‘Oh. No, he wouldn’t. Darling, why do you keep bringing Ed up? He has nothing to do with me. He’s a friend from a different world.’

  ‘So you have no feelings for him at all.’

  ‘Maybe. But how do you know I’m not lying?’

  ‘Tell me a lie, then.’

  ‘All right. I love him more than anybody in the world. How was that? Worthy of your approval?’

  Was she being serious? I made an effort to pay her no attention, because it upset me to hear her talk that way. One of the jackets was in my size. It had a strip of shiny velvet running around the lapel hem, and cream lining in the arms. Bertrand came out of his workshop to show us that he had already started to cut the pattern.

  ‘It does help to have friends in the right places,’ Élodie said, when we were alone on the street. ‘You know, I would never have guessed, the day I met that man, that one day he could be so useful to me.’

  �
��Is that how you see people?’ I asked. ‘Useful devices?’

  ‘Really, Lawrence. Your attempts at psychoanalysis are not as endearing as you might think.’

  ‘Ha. I must be right, then.’

  We walked down to the Place de la Madeleine, which was alive with traffic, cars and mopeds careering in every direction. Élodie stopped at the pedestrian crossing.

  ‘Lawrence, darling,’ she said. ‘I am doing this for your benefit, you know. I am in no mood for disagreement. I just want us to have some fun.’

  ‘You never change, do you?’

  Rather than replying, Élodie continued across the road. She stepped in front of the traffic without looking. I followed with more caution. Parisian traffic inspired me with terror. The drivers accelerated once a pedestrian had already stepped out, as though it were all some elaborate trap.

  ‘I need another coffee,’ she said. ‘And then we are going to buy wine and food for this evening.’

  ‘Oh. Are you hosting the party?’

  ‘I am. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ This was the truth. I could never have imagined Élodie going to someone else’s party. She assumed the role of a host so naturally and yet I thought of her more as a virus.

  We stopped at another café, which was as quiet and formal as the first. I suggested that the cafés weren’t as good on this side of the river.

  ‘It depends on what you want from a café,’ she said. ‘We must go to the Fumoir for lunch. That will dispel any such mythology, I hope. Where do you go in the Sixth?’

  I rolled off a few names, and she scoffed at each one.

  ‘Oh yes, you definitely are a student. Danton. I was dragged there once by some American girl who thought it was all the rage. It is one of those places that strives for authenticity, no?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Yes. What a café sells to the tourists will always be falsified. Even authenticity. And what you end up with is a bad coffee and too many earnest Americans.’

  ‘I thought that you liked Americans.’

  ‘I like them well enough on their own turf. Away from home, they become unbearable. Like children who cannot understand why everything is so different.’

  ‘What a gross generalisation.’

  ‘They are often the most accurate.’

  The waiter came by, and this time I ordered two espressos before Élodie could open her mouth.

  ‘My word,’ Élodie said. ‘You really have learnt something. I should give you a reward for asserting yourself.’

  This made me squirm. I sat up straight. We were on the terrace, despite the chilly weather, which made me grateful for my gloves. Élodie wore neither gloves nor a scarf.

  ‘I forgot to ask,’ she said. ‘Have you travelled at all since our little escapade in Biarritz?’

  These words made me remember, all over again, how we had made love in Biarritz. In this new setting, Élodie was attractive in a different way. Her body was not so flattered in this thick fur coat as it had been in the white leopard-print dress. I could see the hint of her breasts as she leant up against the table, and yet it was this teasing suggestion that made me want to remove her coat. She might have been wearing nothing beneath it.

  And then I thought of Sophie, and again I was confronted with the fact that we should have made love in Madrid. But we had not, and it was pointless to dwell on it. I could have told Sophie about Élodie, but I had not. And why had I not travelled since August? The whole point of coming to Europe was to travel, to see the capital cities with their rich histories and their famous artworks and architecture.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I should.’

  ‘I think that you should go to New York. You would like it there. I do not see Paris as a healthy place to spend a long time in, especially at your age. Everything is so cloistered and formal. You go to New York, and I swear to God that you will loosen up within two days.’

  ‘I’ll never loosen up. Didn’t you say that? I’m a hopeless cause.’

  ‘Perhaps that was a touch cruel. You are improving. Slowly.’

  ‘But can changing location change personality?’

  ‘Are you mad? Of course it can. The surrounding culture affects one’s state of mind. That is why I nearly lost my mind in Los Angeles.’

  ‘Nearly?’

  Élodie tossed her napkin across the table at me. ‘Don’t be so mean, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘It does not suit you.’

  ‘I thought that you wanted me to be mean.’

  ‘Maybe I do. Who could say what I want?’

  The coffees were delivered, and I drank mine fast to ward off the cold while Élodie lit up another cigarette. Across the road tourists were milling around the steps of the Madeleine. It was hard to see the attraction of such a grandiose temple, with its unimaginative Corinthian columns rising high, saying everything but meaning nothing. There was honesty in the cracked and soot-stained masonry of Saint-Sulpice, while the Madeleine was impeccable. It was the one church in Paris that managed to look both excessive and rigid.

  ‘It is going to snow,’ Élodie said. ‘You know, I think it gets earlier each year. It never used to snow until January.’

  As the words left her mouth, a fleck blew into my face, and then another. They came in from the west, and I felt them melting on my cheeks, which were turning red, and I could not help but smile. Élodie smiled too, but not in the usual, posing way. I wished she had taken the sunglasses off. Then I might have known if she was happy.

  15

  We walked down to the river. The snow was beginning to thicken as we approached the Place de la Concorde, and by the time we had reached the bridge it was falling in a shower. The flakes settled on the mansard roofs and obscured all the cracks and the fallen leaves. We were the only people on the footpath, except for a few who were hurrying for cover.

  ‘I’ve never seen snow before,’ I said. We had stopped in the middle of the bridge. To the east the skyline of monuments was being engulfed by a white cloud. A riverboat slid into sight from the fog downstream. Élodie’s breath was frosty, and I felt its warmth as the mist drifted between us. Snowflakes had dotted over her black coat to create a new pattern.

  ‘If this were one of my films,’ she said, ‘then we would kiss right now.’

  She was close to me, and I felt my mouth hang open in anticipation. She laughed at me.

  ‘You should see your face right now,’ she said. ‘You thought I was being serious, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, no I didn’t.’

  And yet I wanted nothing more than to kiss her. That would have been too perfect, though. It would not have been real.

  ‘This way,’ Élodie said. ‘We will catch our death out here. I need a drink.’

  We hurried across the bridge. My shoes were soaked through. Their smooth soles became skates on the icy pavement. I did my best to keep up without slipping over, wondering how Élodie managed in her high heels.

  The first bar that we came across was on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It was crowded and had the stale smell of wet clothing. Élodie pushed her way to the front of the bar and asked for two coffees with Calvados on the side.

  ‘Interesting idea,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. My father used to have it on cold days.’

  I stared at her, but Élodie realised her mistake.

  ‘Well, our plans have rather changed,’ she went on before I could pry. ‘We should drop in on your house of squalor while we are on this side of the river.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea. It really is a house of squalor right now.’

  ‘I always had you down as the fastidious type, Lawrence. For some reason.’

  ‘It’s not me. It’s my flatmate, Ethan.’

  ‘Ah, the flatmate. How is he?’

  ‘He doesn’t do anything except record his music and think about girls. Everything comes to him so easily. He sleeps all day and drinks all night.’

  I said this bitterly, though I hadn’t m
eant to. I wanted to support Ethan and his ambitions, but it was difficult when he had such prospects and I had none of his talent. Not that I envied him. Or perhaps I did. I told myself not to be envious, and to admire him for what he had.

  Élodie did not give her rare look of sympathy.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘I should learn from him, have more fun.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You describe him as something of a Neanderthal. You may be many things, but you are not uncouth.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s almost reassuring. But I didn’t mean to say that I don’t like him. We’re good friends. We get on.’

  ‘And how was I to know that? You have to be careful about how you describe people, Lawrence. It is easy to cast the wrong impression.’

  I drank the Calvados before I drank the espresso. It was a shade sweeter than brandy, and it had a clean, medicinal taste. It offset the bitterness of the coffee well.

  ‘In any case, I want to see the house,’ she said. ‘Even if I laugh at it. I could do with a laugh.’

  ‘You are unbelievable.’

  ‘Are you prepared to deny it? I can see the place already. Dirty dishes and hair in the sink, onion soup from five weeks ago sitting on the stovetop, and yet you both ask, where is that smell coming from? Your furniture is falling apart, and none of the lights work, but you cannot afford to buy new bulbs, so you sit in the dark.’

  This was a surprisingly accurate description, but I pretended that it was not.

  ‘This is based on your experience of student flats, is it?’

  ‘Not at all. I know what you are trying to do there, Lawrence. You will have to wait until I have had a glass of wine before you ask a silly question like that again.’

  The snow appeared as a sheet against the window. We had time for another drink. Before Élodie could finish her coffee, I called the barman over and asked for two glasses of the house red, and paid for them.

  ‘Now, is that sufficient leverage for you to tell me the truth?’ I asked, once the wine had been poured. ‘In all honesty, why did you wait until yesterday to contact me? And don’t tell me that you mislaid my number, or anything like that.’