The Train to Paris Read online

  ‘He is a painter, if you must know,’ Élodie said in an impressively offhand manner. ‘He does all sorts of things, don’t you, Lawrence?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do. I studied at the École des Beaux-Arts, and I had an exhibition at a gallery in the Sixth. It wasn’t all that successful, but it’s a start.’

  ‘How impressive,’ Fanshawe said. ‘What sort of paintings are they?’

  ‘Do have a glass of champagne,’ Élodie said to the Fanshawes, before I could take this fabrication any further. ‘You haven’t seen the place since we redid the main room. Come through, come and see it. We had to be creative with such a small space.’

  I struggled to make sense of this. No person in their right mind could describe the room as small. But, then, Élodie was never in her right mind. She poured the champagne in one smooth movement and led the way through to the living area, explaining every detail of the renovation. I finished my champagne and went to pour myself another glass. The night was going to be a long one.

  21

  The other guests arrived over the next hour. I did my best to participate, although my amateur French made it difficult. I had never grasped the unspoken rules of Parisian conversation. It felt as if I were trapped in an absurd play. Élodie left me to fend for myself after she had introduced me to everyone, recounting our meeting in the process. She was always selective about the details.

  Arthur Fanshawe grew very drunk. He tripped and spilled wine over the carpet. Contrary to her words of warning, Élodie remained in a state of tranquillity despite the amount of champagne she’d had. And yet her restraint was more disturbing than Fanshawe’s unbridled behaviour. It made me wonder how much of her day she spent intoxicated.

  I found myself talking to an Italian interior designer named Armando. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his thin eyebrows were adorned with piercings. He spoke limited French and no English. The party was livening up, and it was hard to hold a conversation over the clamour. Élodie had changed the music to a raucous swing record, with trumpet solos and tribal rhythms, but nobody was dancing. She was entertaining a group with a long story, and they were listening with rapture. Despite fierce competition, she was by far the best dressed in the room.

  ‘So what do you do?’ Armando asked. He had been telling me about his career, and I had understood little of it.

  ‘I’m a painter,’ I said. ‘Had an exhibition earlier this year and now I’m trying to find inspiration for a new show.’

  He nodded along, although he was as confused as me. He was slight of frame and dressed trimly. My shirt was made from a better cut, but he pulled the whole look off with more confidence. His sports jacket fit tight while mine hung limp.

  ‘How do you know Élodie?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘She is the host, yes? My partner knows her. He designed that dress.’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ I said. ‘So you don’t know anybody here either?’

  ‘Some by reputation.’

  ‘And what is Élodie’s reputation?’

  Armando became uneasy. He must have misunderstood. I repeated the question.

  ‘Her reputation? You would have to ask Sergio. He knows more about her.’

  ‘Sergio is your partner?’

  ‘He’s the one talking to her right now.’

  I could see that Sergio did not dress with the same restraint that Armando managed. His jacket was made from red velvet, and it had been hung over a low-cut singlet.

  ‘He hasn’t told you anything about her?’

  ‘I cannot repeat. I might get some of the details wrong.’

  I made a vague excuse to Armando and headed through the press of bodies. A group of well-dressed men had descended around the grand piano, and they were hammering at the keys in time to the music from the stereo. I pushed past two men and a woman, who were taking turns kissing each other. It could have been a performance piece. The wine had been laid out on the kitchen bench and the guests were making the most of it. Élodie caught my eye as I approached. She beckoned me over.

  ‘Darlings,’ she said to the fashionistas, in French. ‘Here is the star of the show, the boy that I was telling you about.’ She wrapped an arm around my middle and presented me to the made-up dolls, one of whom I recognised from a perfume advertisement on the métro.

  ‘This is his first tailored shirt,’ Élodie continued. She pushed me into the circle. ‘Go on, Lawrence. Do a twirl. Show off.’

  I did as I was told, even though this made me feel like a performing monkey. They all laughed, Élodie too. I was doing something wrong.

  ‘This is the boy that you found sleeping in a train station?’ one of them said.

  ‘Why yes,’ said Élodie as I was about to correct her. ‘I have something of a soft spot for such hopeless young causes. He has done well for himself, has he not?’

  Élodie began to introduce me. I forgot their names. But when she arrived at Sergio, I manoeuvred myself around to stand next to him. Curiosity had taken over. I wanted to know the truth, whatever it was.

  ‘I hear that you designed Élodie’s dress,’ I said. He was unhappy to be trapped in my exclusive company.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘You like it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful. Do you know Élodie well?’

  ‘Well enough. We met through her husband. He wanted her to have something spectacular that would make his colleagues sick with envy.’

  This could have been the same story behind every one of Élodie’s dresses. I tried to get an impression of Marcel’s tastes from the apartment’s furnishings. It was all showy and expensive. The diamonds in the chandelier matched the ones in Élodie’s ears.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘What was she doing, in those days?’

  ‘The same as always,’ he said, as though it was one of the first things that I should have known about her. ‘Nothing. She has no occupation. Surely you know that.’

  ‘No. I haven’t known her very long.’

  ‘Then we shouldn’t be talking about her.’ He said this without a shade of levity. ‘You should ask her about it.’

  ‘Honestly, I have. She doesn’t give much away.’

  ‘Then neither do I.’ He drank the last of his wine and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, young man, but I must go and fill my glass. I wish you all the best.’

  He disappeared into the crowd. It had felt as though some sordid secret was on the edge of his thin lips. Élodie’s circle had closed around her.

  I was about to pour myself another drink when I felt a hand pat roughly on my back. It was Fanshawe. He was smiling mindlessly, unsteady on his feet. He must have been ostracised by everyone else—I could think of no other reason he would want to talk with me.

  ‘How are you, Arthur?’ I asked. ‘Good party?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lawson.’ His voice was a low rumble. ‘None of these people speaks the Queen’s. I thought that everybody spoke English these days.’

  I suspected a number of people did speak English, but simply did not wish to speak it to Fanshawe.

  ‘That girl is something all right,’ he said.

  I had never thought of Élodie as a girl, although now I thought it was an appropriate description of her.

  ‘She is. Did you meet in London?’

  ‘Who? Élodie? No. I met her through Marcel. Did business with him years ago. I’ve never seen her in London.’

  ‘So what do you know about her?’

  ‘Not much. Just that she had some sort of a falling out with the husband recently. It’s no secret. We all know, but she doesn’t know that we know. That’s why Marcel isn’t here. They organised this party weeks ago. Something happened in the interim, she isn’t wearing a ring.’ He narrowed his eyes after he had said this, as though realising that he had made a terrible mistake. ‘But I shouldn’t be telling you this, Lawson. You ask her about it.’

  ‘I have. She won’t tell me anything.’

  Fanshawe waggled a finger. ‘Tread carefully, Lawson. Sh
e is dangerous. You know, in my darkest hours, I have considered her.’ He swayed and struggled to regain his balance. ‘But I shouldn’t be telling you that either. Between us men, you know?’

  ‘Sure.’ I wasn’t interested in Fanshawe’s fixations. I was more intrigued that she attracted this attention in the first place. It had never occurred to me that others might be similarly enchanted by Élodie’s familiarity and her ability to light up a room with a word.

  I disappeared before Fanshawe could continue. It was dawning on me that this party was open to anybody and everybody. The number of guests had grown to a swell and the wine was running out. Élodie showed no signs of worry. She was holding court as though she were royalty.

  The champagne was gone. I put my flute to one side, and tried to find a proper wine glass. There was a liquor cabinet in the living area, and some of the guests had already made their way into it. Large amounts of Highland single malt and cognac had been poured into cut crystal brandy glasses.

  I gave up trying to find a clean glass and took a used one from the side table. I filled the glass from a bottle of Pétrus that must have come from the cellar. The label was covered in dust. I checked the vintage: 1971. It was clear now—if it had not been from the outset—that Élodie was about to get herself into a lot of trouble.

  I tried to imagine a scenario where we ran off somewhere together, a place like Capri or Corfu, where she would never run into any of her old friends, and where I could finally find out who she really was.

  Why was I at this party? There was no purpose for it. Élodie was no less cruel than she had been, and whatever had happened between her and Marcel was neither my business nor something I cared to know. There was something beyond this mess, waiting for me on the other side of town, and it did not involve Élodie.

  I prepared to leave. Élodie wanted me to be her clown, and I had played my part. I went to find her and say a final goodbye. Perhaps she would realise how despicably she had behaved, if I made things as curt as possible. But her lustrous head of hair and her silky red lips were nowhere to be seen. She was not in the reception area, or in the kitchen or the living area.

  I was about to abandon all hope and leave anyway when I caught a glimpse of her shining sequins over by the front door. She left her glass of champagne on the sideboard. I found her eye, as she was about to step outside and pull the door closed behind her. She gave me an intense stare that lingered for a second before it melted into nothing.

  I decided to follow her. But before I could feel my way through the crowd, I heard the crash of breaking glass from behind me, accompanied by a gasp. I turned around to see Fanshawe staggering against the kitchen island. He had dropped the bottle of Pétrus, and it appeared that a shard of the broken glass had lodged in his wife’s leg. The gasp ascended to a scream. The blood was running out onto the white tiles. I pushed past the shocked bystanders towards the front door.

  22

  I took the staircase to the ground floor. The stairwell was narrow, and I stumbled around the tight corners. Élodie was closing the door to the lobby behind her. I called out. She ignored me, and kept walking. I pursued her out onto the street. The steely noises of the party were ringing in my ears.

  ‘Wait,’ I said as I caught up with her. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Away,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough of those people.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘You should be up there enjoying yourself, Lawrence. Go back.’

  She was on the verge of tears. I could tell she was trying to hide it from me. She stopped walking and held a hand to her forehead. I tried to put my arm around her, but she shrugged me off.

  ‘Why are you leaving your own party?’ I asked. ‘You’ll get in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I hope so. Marcel will be enraged when he gets in tomorrow morning.’

  Her eyes were glassy and large, which made her look like an exotic insect.

  ‘So this party had nothing to do with me,’ I said, trying to keep my anger and humiliation contained. ‘It was a way of getting back at your husband.’

  ‘Oh darling. You really do paint things so simplistically.’

  She had her handbag but not a coat, and she was now shivering. I took my jacket off and hung it over her shoulders.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ I said. I wanted to shake the truth out of her.

  She started to walk down the street. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to be around when the neighbours call the police.’

  She produced another cigarette, and tried to light it without the jacket falling off. I took the lighter and did it for her.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I only want to enjoy my last night here.’

  ‘That’s your definition of enjoyment?’

  ‘I needed to do it. He deserves a shock, after the way he has treated me.’

  ‘How has he treated you?’

  ‘Can’t you see that I have no desire to talk about it? The situation is very delicate, and you would not understand any of it.’ She raised her eyes to her bright apartment window. ‘None of those people wanted to see me. They turned up for Marcel.’

  ‘They are your friends, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know anymore.’ She drew on the cigarette and tried to hide a cough. ‘I am nothing without Marcel. He gives me a purpose in life. Nobody else can offer that.’

  It was as though her compliment had doubled back on itself.

  ‘So you’re going to let that horde destroy his house? And you won’t accept any consequences?’

  With a scoff, she turned to the stacks of rubbish bags on the curb. They were wet from the snowfall, and beads of precipitation clung to the shiny black plastic.

  ‘I want to go somewhere fabulous,’ she said. ‘But I want to be alone. You should go home, Lawrence. We’ve done enough for each other today, haven’t we?’

  ‘You’re not getting away that easily, Élodie. You have to go back up there. Fanshawe smashed a bottle of wine and embedded broken glass in his wife’s leg.’

  This news cheered Élodie up. ‘Typical Arthur. This is part of the fun. Don’t worry so much about it. They deserve whatever they get.’

  ‘Why?’

  As soon as I asked the question I understood. She would never tell me what I wanted to know if I asked for it.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘All right. I want you to tell me the truth. And we aren’t going anywhere fabulous. We’re taking the métro to the Left Bank, and I’m showing you somewhere real. You need some reality.’

  ‘How funny. At least you have learnt something from me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have asserted yourself, at last.’ Her voice had become lighter but her expression remained dark. The street lamp illuminated half of her face. ‘Very well, darling. This is your birthday treat. Take me anywhere.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes. Take it or leave it.’

  I couldn’t leave her alone in this state. I reminded myself of the last time I had tried to walk away from her. It would be unfair on both of us if I were to let that happen again. At least there was no swimming pool for her to jump into.

  ‘No more of this indecisiveness, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘Or I will go somewhere fabulous, on my own, and I will drink myself to oblivion.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Come with me. But you have to tell me the truth.’

  ‘I will make no such promise.’

  She set off in the direction of the Champs-Élysées. The traffic sounded faint, despite it being only a few blocks away. The Rue Lord Byron could have been a country lane. The clack of Élodie’s heels reverberated around the old buildings. I tried to match it with my own shoes, and failed.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ she asked, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  ‘I did. They are interesting people.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Obviously none of them is as interesting as you. And that isn’t necessaril
y a compliment.’

  ‘But darling, the thing is that I am not half as interesting as you think.’

  We rounded a corner to the avenue. The trees were decked with garlands of electric blue lights, and these melded with the neon advertising to create a hypnotic tunnel. Élodie moved in and out of the shadows.

  We took the métro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and this time Élodie did not give a word of protest. I wanted to ask her more questions—about the party and the Italian fashion designers and Arthur Fanshawe—but I persisted with the belief that I would learn more if I left them unasked. The carriage was quiet and we were able to sit together. A gypsy band came through and asked us for money, and she glowered at them. She was out of place on the métro in her cocktail dress and her glinting jewellery. I waited patiently for her to talk.

  ‘So where are you taking me, silly boy?’ she said once we were on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ I said. ‘You like surprises, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes. So long as it isn’t some rat-infested, Irish-theme pub filled with loutish expatriates.’

  ‘What if it was?’

  The cafés were empty and preparing to close. Noise came only from the traffic. Young men from the suburbs rode along the boulevard with their windows down and bass up, as though they were on a freeway in Los Angeles.

  ‘Then I would take a taxi over to the Crillon and book myself a room,’ she said at last. ‘Would you try to stop me?’

  ‘No. I can’t stop you.’

  ‘And nor should you. I don’t need to be stopped.’

  She said this bleakly. It was more of a confession than a defiant statement. I led the way across the road, testing Élodie’s method. I walked in front of the oncoming traffic and, miraculously, it stopped. I gave off a passable imitation of her way of walking, gliding past the glaring headlamps as though I had no concern for anything. This time she was the one struggling to catch up.

  It was the same bar Ethan had introduced me to, near to the Odéon theatre, with a rusting metal façade that would have been inconspicuous to most people. It was where the Shakespeare and Company bookshop used to be, in the days of Hemingway and Joyce. Decades of posters and advertisements ran across the frontage. Élodie stopped and stared at the bar.