The Train to Paris Page 12

  ‘Darling, please don’t do that. Is it so hard to believe that I just felt a compulsion to see you one day?’

  ‘It is when you put it like that.’

  ‘But I have already told you. It’s this party. I want to introduce you around.’

  ‘So you never thought about how I might have felt, after you ignored me for months?’

  ‘I haven’t ignored you. You are not central to my life. You are a distraction. Not in a bad way, but a distraction nonetheless.’

  A distraction? Was this how I saw Sophie? I did not want to be her Sophie. But nor did I believe Élodie. The explanation felt like a cover for something less savoury. The threads of Élodie strung through my memory were all thin and loose, intersecting at odd points and ultimately not making any sense.

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘why are you so generous to me? Are you having a midlife crisis?’

  Élodie was touching at her neck again, with those pearly white hands, and I could see the veins standing out on her wrist.

  ‘I keep forgetting that you don’t understand these things,’ she said. ‘Take it for what it is. Nobody will ever be this generous to you again. Think of it that way. And don’t use terms that you have heard in films to describe me.’

  I folded my arms on the zinc bar top. ‘Have I offended you?’

  ‘Nobody can offend me.’

  There was no hint of doubt in her voice. But Élodie was becoming progressively unhappy. She took out another cigarette and smoked it, ignoring the sign on the wall that announced a new anti-smoking law. Nobody stopped her. Nobody would dare to stop Élodie from doing as she pleased.

  ‘Do you need to buy some champagne for the party?’ I asked after a while.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘There is a speciality shop on Saint-Sulpice, around the corner from the apartment. You might like it.’

  ‘Wait a second. I never thought this would happen. You know of an interesting shop that I have never heard of. An impressive achievement on both fronts, Lawrence. Did you take my advice to heart?’

  ‘You didn’t give me any advice. I felt the need to celebrate my birthday with something, and that was it.’

  ‘Your twenty-first?’ she said, cheering up. ‘I hope that you had someone to celebrate it with.’

  ‘Only my flatmate. And he had a show that night, so I had to go along to that, and had a thoroughly bad time.’

  ‘Wonderful. It gets better. Tell me more.’

  ‘There isn’t much more to tell, trust me. I made myself three Kir Royals for lunch and lost myself for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Now that must be a joke.’

  ‘It’s true. But I don’t see why people make such a big deal out of it. There’s nothing special about that birthday. It’s an arbitrary number.’

  ‘It is an arbitrary number you will never identify with again. You need to learn to make things like that last, Lawrence. You can relive them forever. And that really is incorrigible behaviour. When was your birthday?’

  ‘Last month.’

  ‘Then it is not too late. We can celebrate it this evening.’

  ‘No, really. It’s not necessary.’

  ‘I will be the judge of that, thank you very much. I insist on it. We must at least have a toast. And, who knows? I might give you a belated present.’

  This attracted my attention.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, as casually as I could. ‘Whatever you see fit.’

  ‘On one condition, though.’

  ‘Yes, I thought there might be a catch.’

  ‘Be charming tonight. It will make the whole thing so much more bearable.’

  ‘Right. No pressure at all, then.’

  ‘Now really, Lawrence, I won’t hear you say such a thing. You can do it. Act naturally.’

  She drained her wine glass. The wine matched her lipstick as the two touched. The snow had abated, although the clouds remained low and grey.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

  Out on the boulevard snowflakes hung in the trees, but otherwise the snow had not settled. I shivered. No amount of clothing could block out this chill. Élodie continued to talk as we walked, explaining that she disliked this end of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and that the area around the intersection with Rue Bonaparte was a far better place to shop.

  ‘Anything within the triangle formed by Raspail and the Rue de Rennes is fine,’ she said. ‘Have you been to the Bon-Marché? Well, no, it is not your sort of place. It is flypaper for rich women.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘If I have nothing better to do. But where do you go? There must be some filthy student shops over in the Fifth that you frequent.’

  ‘I shop for bargains. I have to.’

  ‘Then you will enjoy the sale day in January. Although you will have to fight tooth and nail with the other bargain hunters.’

  I half listened. Her advice served no purpose, when I had no desire to waste money on those luxury goods that returned nothing apart from fleeting satisfaction. But that was not true of Élodie. She could make the satisfaction last a lifetime. Could I ever experience the same thrill from shopping, rather than the confusion and guilt?

  We passed the Romanesque covered market, and Élodie insisted on purchasing foie gras and Italian hams. I had never been to this market, even though it was around the corner from my apartment, because it was too expensive. The same could be said for the bakery on the Rue de Seine, where Élodie bought a paper bag of four baguettes. She gave these to me, naturally enough.

  ‘You really have the finest situation here, Lawrence,’ she said in a rare show of genuine excitement as we left the bakery. We pushed past an American couple who were blocking the doorway, fascinated by the window display of stylised bûches de Noël, with their spider webs of cream and chocolate at either end. ‘I am envious. One of the best markets in Paris, one of the best bakeries, and neither of them more than a few steps away. Oh, and look.’

  She stopped at the chocolatier’s frontage. Three lighted pillars in the window supported boxes of macarons, in varying colours and styles.

  ‘We absolutely must,’ Élodie said.

  The chocolatier insisted on showing us the full range of macarons, and he chatted with Élodie about how they were made and that he used green tea powder imported all the way from Japan. We stopped by the champagne boutique on Saint-Sulpice, where the shopkeeper suggested one of the most expensive cuvées. I was expecting Élodie to rebuke him for this lapse in etiquette, but she bought several bottles of it. I could not keep up with the weight of these new purchases, and by the time we had carried them to the fourth-floor apartment, my arms were begging for release. Élodie was enjoying it.

  ‘Your building has a rustic feel,’ she said as we reached the top of the staircase. ‘Have you noticed that the landings slope?’

  She slipped off her sunglasses. She had deep lines under her eyes, the sort that no amount of make-up could ever hide. They had not been there in Biarritz.

  ‘Why do you wear those in the middle of winter?’ I asked.

  ‘Because nobody else does, of course.’

  The door took a long time to open, with its rickety upper and lower latches, and when it did I would have been happy to close it again. Ethan was absent, but his presence lingered in the form of breakfast dishes, his unmade bed and a distinct aroma that hung in the air. Élodie did not disappoint.

  ‘Hell, it really is worse than I thought it would be,’ she said happily. It was colder inside the apartment than out, and remnants of snow clung to the windowpanes. I turned the old gas heater on, while Élodie took a cautious step inside.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I might well catch something. Get that tie I bought you in the summer and we can leave.’

  The thin black tie from Biarritz was at the bottom of my armoire. It was badly creased. I tried to straighten it out so Élodie wouldn’t be able to tell.

&nb
sp; In the main room Élodie was poring over my possessions. She was completing a circuit, stopping at each surface and going through all of the items on them. She paused on a copperplate engraving of a Madonna and Child, which had come with the apartment. It was the only piece of art that I owned, so it had to stay on display, to inspire me.

  ‘That is rude, you know,’ I said. She glanced up from a photograph of Sophie and me outside the Prado, which I kept on my writing desk.

  ‘Why put them on display, then?’ she asked. ‘I like this one. I’m surprised. She is prettier than I thought. But she tries too hard to pose for the camera. Have you seen her since then?’

  ‘No, she is stuck in New Zealand.’

  ‘Poor thing. She must be heartbroken. But consider this, Lawrence: you might as well be free. Why don’t you run off somewhere? Have a proper holiday of your own down in Capri or Corfu. Somewhere fabulous.’

  ‘That depends. Would you come with me?’

  ‘I can’t go to Capri again, darling. I’ve done it to death.’ She examined the photograph closer. ‘This is funny, you know. She is trying too hard, but you could almost be enjoying yourself here.’

  Over her shoulder I could see that my hair was too long in the photograph, as it still was, and I had not shaved well that day. But I was happy, happier than I remembered being at any time in Madrid.

  ‘So I don’t look like that all the time?’

  ‘No. I see little flashes of it, every now and then. You try to hide them.’

  We had come close together. Élodie’s lips were not so far away from mine. I hesitated. What did I want? If I kissed her it would prove to her that I could be assertive and take charge, if I so desired. I wrapped my arm around her lower back. But Élodie drew away and replaced the photograph.

  ‘Come along,’ she said coolly. ‘I am going to show you an alternative to this filth.’

  I cursed myself for my stupidity. I was staring out at myself from the photograph, me with my excessive smile and one too many shirt buttons undone. And Sophie was staring out at me too, although she was avoiding the lens. I put the photograph in my desk drawer.

  16

  I suggested that we take the métro over to the Eighth, but Élodie refused to hear a word of it. Nor would she take a taxi. Instead she led the way down the Rue de Seine, which was a colourful street lined with many galleries and alleyways that led into tree-filled courtyards.

  ‘You must read some more Baudelaire,’ she said. ‘The point of walking is to see and to be seen. What does one see on the métro?’

  ‘Not much. It is faster, though.’

  ‘Indeed. Time is irrelevant to us.’

  One of the galleries was showing a photography exhibition. Élodie caught me by the arm and pulled me over. The work in the window was a black-and-white view of Manhattan. The shadows and exposure were manipulated to give it a surreal quality.

  ‘What’s interesting about that?’

  ‘Oh darling, it’s beautiful. This man has captured how I feel about New York in one shot.’ Her eyes were obscured by the sunglasses, but they must have been fixed on me. ‘You must go there, Lawrence. Promise me that you will, one day. If you want to have some real fun.’

  There was nothing I could say. Did I want to have real fun? Élodie’s interpretation of it was not the same as mine.

  The street opened out at the riverbank, which was a relief after the narrow stone lanes of the Sixth. The bouquinistes were shut up against the weather, and their ancient green lids were covered with anarchist graffiti. I headed for the Pont des Arts.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Élodie called out. ‘That bridge is no good. Too many sickening lovers.’

  There were tourists on the bridge taking pictures of one another with their mobile phones, but there were also artists selling charcoal portraits and a man with a guitar and unruly dreadlocks. The couples were all enjoying themselves, but whether or not they were in love was another question. Élodie started down the quay towards the Pont du Carrousel.

  ‘How do you know that they are in love?’ I asked as I caught up.

  ‘Because they aren’t really in love. They attach a padlock to the railing and throw away the key. Blind sentimentality at its very worst.’

  ‘They aren’t all like that. You try so hard to be cynical. It doesn’t do you justice.’

  ‘Perhaps not. It is who I am, though. The world never ceases to underwhelm me. But you shouldn’t think like that. It is a bad example to follow, and it can get you into all sorts of trouble.’

  I was going to ask her what sorts of trouble it had got her into, but I stopped myself. I had my own theories on the matter.

  ‘Where is your apartment?’ I asked as we crossed the bridge and walked through to the other side of the Place du Carrousel, alongside the Louvre. Tourists stood in an orderly line in front of the Pyramid, which was beckoning them into an overpriced underworld. The old buildings of the Louvre somehow showed none of their age.

  ‘I never said it was my apartment.’

  ‘Oh. Whose is it, then?’ I asked.

  ‘It might as well be mine. It is on the Rue Lord Byron. Rather a long way off. Christ, we might have to get a taxi. I cannot walk up there in these shoes.’

  ‘You contradict yourself a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘But I am not indecisive. You cannot accuse me of that.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Your problem is that you make too many decisions.’

  She stopped walking and leant against a lamppost. I had been through the Place du Carrousel many times on my way to see the paintings in the museum. While it inspired a centuries-old sense of awe, it became less impressive with each visit. The triumphal arch opposite the Pyramid was grandiose, unrestrained in its use of pink marble and gold trimming. It was a neoclassical feast that nobody could finish. The sun was coming out from beyond the fast-burning snow cloud, and this illumination improved the scene. Élodie’s sunglasses were no longer ridiculous.

  ‘Oh look,’ she said. I followed her gaze towards two people who were coming through the archway that led onto the Rue de Rivoli. ‘You will never guess who that is.’

  ‘No, I probably won’t.’ They were faceless figures from this distance.

  Élodie waved, and one of them waved back. ‘It’s Ed. Would you believe it?’

  My whole body tensed. As we drew closer, I saw that it really was Ed Selvin. He was wearing an overcoat and a patterned scarf, neither of which did much to complement his figure. He did not appear affected by the cold, and this must have been due to his extra layer of insulation. My cheeks and nose were pink, while his remained a sickly shade of white. He was with a girl, but she was not Vanessa. She was younger and blonder. Her face was hidden beneath too much blush, and she wore a tweed coat and knee-high boots, between which was a hint of her bare, pale legs.

  ‘Ed, darling, what a coincidence,’ Élodie said. ‘You remember Lawrence, don’t you?’

  Selvin took in my new clothes as though I were part of a displeasing museum display. ‘Larry,’ he said. ‘How could I forget you?’ He did not introduce his latest piece of jewellery, and like Vanessa she stood removed from the conversation. ‘What are the chances of a meeting like this? Say, we should get a drink together.’

  ‘Why not make it lunch?’ Élodie said.

  ‘All right.’ He directed his attention to the bags we were carrying, and for a moment I thought that he might offer to carry some of mine. This proved to be wishful thinking. ‘What’s with the bags? Are you in the charitable business?’

  ‘No, darling. I’m having a party tonight; I completely forgot to invite you. Everyone will be there. You must come along. I thought that you would be in New York.’

  ‘I’ve come over here to do some more talent scouting,’ he said. This made me look at the girl a little more carefully. ‘Leaving tomorrow. So unfortunately I’ve already made plans for tonight.’

  ‘That really is too bad,’ Élodie said. ‘Gosh, it is far too cold to be standing here.
Tell me all about your wicked plans before we get to the restaurant.’

  We walked towards the Cour Carrée. I had always liked the passage that linked it to the Carrousel. An old man played the cello, practically in the dark, and there was often a congregation around him. There was something communal and reverential about it. He kept his eyes down beneath a cloth hat, and he refused to be photographed. But there was no mystery to him; he was a man bound to his occupation, and nothing else mattered to him. I held back and watched him.

  Élodie continued to enthuse. She made herself even more ridiculous around Selvin, and they walked close together. The footpath in this passage was wide enough for three people, so I was left to bring up the rear.

  ‘I hope that we haven’t interrupted anything,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. We were going to have a drink right about now. What have you been doing all this time? How’s Marcel?’

  ‘You know perfectly well how Marcel is. And I have been doing nothing out of the ordinary. I felt a desire to cut loose today, though. To enjoy ourselves while we still can.’

  ‘And are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Ever so much. You can’t begin to imagine. Lawrence is being a wet blanket, though.’

  This stung. Perhaps Élodie’s jocular treatment of me masked something else. Selvin must have seen my blush. I wished that I could have some control over it, and willed the blood to leave my cheeks.

  The chosen restaurant was beside the Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, and it had orange awnings. They were the only injections of colour in this otherwise grey corner of the city. What few trees stood on this street were skeletal, and looked as though they might disintegrate in a gust of wind. There were no free tables in the salle. The waiter recognised Selvin, even though I presumed that he did not live in Paris. He might have had a pied-à-terre, a concept that I did not understand. At his request, we were shown to the private room and given a table by the window. The waiter took our shopping bags and coats and pushed our chairs in. We were a motley group. Selvin’s attachment was my age, and yet she could never have passed for my sister. Or so I hoped.