The Train to Paris Read online

‘Don’t be silly, Lawrence. Let the drink be what it is. The celebration can come later.’

  I raised my glass anyway, and she bit back her laughter. The champagne was acidic and sweet, but it was refreshing. I could see myself becoming fond of it.

  ‘I must change out of these rags,’ Élodie said, swirling the champagne around her mouth and savouring it. ‘Please excuse me. You amuse yourself out here.’

  I watched her back as she returned to the main room. It was visible above the hemline, and I could see that it was as brown as the rest of her skin. The tan was complemented by a few conspicuous moles. There was what appeared to be a small white scar running down her shoulderblade, and I would not have noticed it had it not stood out so pronounced from the dark skin around it. I tried a tentative bite of the caviar on a blini. It was rough and salty, and I wanted to spit it out. It was hard to imagine why anybody might pay good money for it.

  From the railing I had a view out onto the beach, and beyond to the ocean. The horizon line in Europe was different. In New Zealand it was a rigid contrast of dark sea to light sky, the two drawn apart as if with a pencil and a ruler. The ocean was never this blue, or the beaches this golden.

  I stood admiring it for a long while. It was remarkable to find myself so elevated. The people on the beach appeared much further away than I knew them to be.

  As I went to the tray of caviar my eye was snagged. Élodie had forgotten to pull the bedroom curtains. Usually my reaction would have been to turn away. Instead I caught my breath as she bent over to find something in her suitcase. She really was brown all over. I had failed to notice the ideal shape of her frame from beneath the dress, but naked it made me think of the Aphrodite torsos that I had seen in the Louvre.

  I turned away. She must have intended that. She had more sense than to let herself be seen. The thought of confronting her again was becoming too much to bear. And the thought of reaching around those thighs was becoming less of a joke. This made me no better than a voyeur, and I told myself to stop. I left her to continue dressing and leant over the ornamental parapet.

  My thoughts turned to Sophie. Would she have enjoyed herself here? Her tastes were simpler than champagne and caviar. But perhaps champagne and caviar were an aspiration for her as much as they were for Élodie, and perhaps she had wanted them when we were in Madrid. I asked her where she wanted to go for dinner, what she wanted to drink, but I never asked what she really wanted.

  A waft of understated perfume announced Élodie’s return. She wore a shiny purple gown that fell to the knee and was cut deep at the back. She might have read my mind. I held the tray of caviar out for her, my hand shaking.

  ‘How chivalrous you are, Lawrence,’ she said in a more sensuous voice than I had heard before. ‘You must be learning. Remember what I said, though: Don’t tell me how beautiful I look.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to. You look pretentious and fake.’

  ‘Ah.’ She put the blini to her lips in an impossibly suggestive way. ‘You are learning. You are being insincere.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be anything. How you interpret these things is entirely up to you.’

  ‘Come now. You can’t win, Lawrence.’

  She took the tray of caviar and replaced it on the table. Her body edged closer to mine, and I was pushed backwards towards the balustrades. I felt my panic rising.

  ‘Stop, Élodie, please.’

  I ducked away and rounded her. Nobody had ever approached me in this way before. What was I meant to do? It was unsettling, but like an electric shock it was also thrilling. I could have touched her then, and I could have run my hand down her back with the moles and the scar. Her breath could have been an inch from mine. Instead I was paralysed.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I said.

  ‘I wanted to show you a few more secrets.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Who are you?’

  I was in the middle of the terrace with my arms at my side, suddenly feeling debased in these new clothes that really did belong in a Fellini film.

  ‘I am whoever you want me to be,’ Élodie purred.

  ‘Sure. Prostitutes say that. Are you a prostitute? Have you stolen your client’s credit card? It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  She cast her gaze down at the tiles, which were baking beneath the sun, and she scratched her neck. She remained alluring despite her irritation.

  ‘You don’t have to give this the theatrical treatment, you silly boy. You are too young to understand.’

  ‘Just tell me who you are. Return the favour at least.’

  ‘What do you want to know? I can tell you anything.’

  This was true, I thought. She had plenty of stories in her arsenal. I remained facing her for a while, trying to think of a way to expose her.

  ‘I keep forgetting how young you are,’ she said.

  ‘So how old are you?’

  She could have been anywhere over thirty. She was a different person from every angle.

  ‘You can ask me that later, when I’m a little more drunk and you’re a little less prudish.’ She abandoned the champagne. ‘Let’s go to the bar. I need a drink. A proper drink.’

  The sun would soon set. I wanted to stay on the terrace to watch it. I could tell that it was about to dip below the last layer of cloud and bathe the scene in gold. But it was clear to me now that Élodie Lavelle was not accustomed to denial. I could not have left her, had I wanted to. Her will was stronger than mine. She extended her arm, and I took it tentatively. I was the last in a line of jewellery pieces adorning her, somewhere below the gold ring on her hand. The band was inscribed, but I could not make out the words.

  5

  Although it was early in the evening, the bar was full. Light cocktail piano played in the background. It suited the atmosphere. Even in my new jacket and tie I felt underdressed, and I was by far the youngest person in the room. They might have smelt my discomfort. I stood on the shore by a sea of dinner jackets.

  ‘Should we have bought a dinner suit?’ I asked, as quietly as I could. ‘I’m feeling a little out of place.’

  ‘Nonsense. I want you to stand out.’ She leant at the bar. All of the other ladies in the room were seated. ‘It is very important to stand out, Lawrence. You might as well be anyone, otherwise. What are you drinking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have a daiquirí.’

  ‘I’ve never had one before.’

  ‘There is a first time for everything. Not to worry. You will be drinking Scotch whisky by the end of the evening.’

  She said this with such certainty that I could not disagree. She ordered another Campari and soda. I asked her if this was routine.

  ‘When your life is as chaotic as mine, you want some routines,’ she said.

  She used the straw to stir her drink and studied the bobbing ice cubes.

  ‘May I try it?’ I said.

  ‘Certainly not. It is my drink.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She swayed her head so that her hair moved without coming out of its arrangement. ‘Where shall we go? Shall we take a table?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I followed her in the direction of a free corner table. But before we could reach it, she swept down on one of the fellow patrons, who was himself sitting at a table, and kissed him on the neck.

  ‘Guess who?’ she said into his ear.

  He was a dark-haired man in his forties. His belt was a notch too tight. I felt a rush.

  ‘Why, Élodie,’ he said in a New York accent. ‘What in the hell are you doing here of all places?’

  ‘You know me. I always have to be where the party is.’

  ‘Quite right. And who’s this?’ He gazed at me, in a way that was irritatingly casual. ‘Illegitimate son?’ He laughed at his joke, while I stood to the side and wished that he would stop.

  Élodie joined in.

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t that be funny?’ she said. She accen
tuated the English streak in her accent, leaving any trace of a drawl behind. ‘No. I met this lad at the station in Hendaye, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Hendaye? What were you doing there? Wait, sit down, then tell me.’

  He was with a woman who had permed hair and wore a shiny gold dress. He gestured for the waiter to bring two more chairs over. I felt sick. I wanted to be on the roof terrace with Élodie again, talking about something real and drinking champagne, not this disgusting cocktail. I was beginning to realise how much I enjoyed talking to her. The man extended a hand, and I took it, feeling a much tighter grip than my own.

  ‘I’m Lawrence,’ I said. I had been lingering for too long. My palm was wet, and I felt it slip against his callused skin.

  ‘Ed Selvin. Pleasure to meet you, Larry.’

  From across the tabletop I could see that he had the smile of a terrier. I tried to move my chair nearer to Élodie, but she stuck close to Selvin. The other woman was never introduced, although she feigned some interest in our conversation. She wore too much eyeliner, which smothered the life out of her eyes. Like an unoriginal landscape painting, she faded into the background.

  ‘You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady,’ Selvin said in a tone that was neither jovial nor serious. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’ve agreed to show my new friend the high life,’ she said.

  Selvin raised his eyebrows, which were effeminate and thin. ‘Well you came to the right place, let me tell you.’

  ‘He has no money, would you believe? And of course, with those damned rail workers on strike, he won’t be in Paris for days.’

  ‘Wow, Élodie. I never picked you for the charitable type. Is this some sentimental ageing thing?’

  ‘Now really, darling, that is too cruel. Besides, you wrote the handbook on ageing, didn’t you? Midlife crisis over yet?’

  ‘Had it twenty years ago. It’s out of my system.’

  The conversation was humiliating. I tried the daiquirí. It was both bitter and sweet, and very strong.

  ‘What do you do, Larry?’ Selvin asked.

  ‘I’m a student of art history,’ I said, much to Élodie’s evident displeasure. ‘At the Sorbonne.’

  ‘How coincidental. I run an art dealership in New York.’

  ‘Do you?’

  It was a joke, and it meant something to Élodie.

  ‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘Do you consider yourself more of an artist or a connoisseur?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Right. So what are you, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  Selvin waited for me to elaborate. And then he laughed, a mocking, self-righteous noise, and I should have got up and walked away. Élodie joined in, in much the same tone, but it did not suit her as it suited him.

  ‘Go easy on the boy, Ed,’ she said. ‘He’s learning.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Selvin drank deep from his whisky, relishing the bite. He had the beginnings of a beard, which was grey around the edges. He wore his wealth explicitly. His suit was expensive, but it clung too tight around the shoulders and accentuated his meaty gut. His drooping eyelids said that he was drunk. This was how the rich survived their dull lives: by pouring liquor down their throats for half the day.

  Fortunately he returned his attention to Élodie. She did not want to give her reasons for being in Hendaye, and I thought it was strange that she did not mention her mother in Ascain. Instead she continued to exchange repartee with Selvin. They got on well, and their jousting played in harmony. It was both enviable and deplorable.

  ‘Are you still with that bozo in Paris?’ he asked.

  Élodie’s eyelids fluttered. It was the only hint of her discomfort.

  ‘What was his name again? Marcel?’

  ‘He doesn’t stop me from having fun. Have you seen my beautiful ring?’ She laid her hand in the middle of the table. I leant forward to read the inscription, which glinted in the light. Nous sommes nés magnifiques. I could translate it, but the phrase meant nothing to me. ‘I will sell it for a fortune one day.’

  ‘Of course you will. Hey, why not sell it now? Then you could buy me a drink.’

  ‘I have money, you silly man. It just isn’t mine.’

  ‘Ah, the best sort.’ It seemed as if he was about to say something to me—his diaphragm drew in and he sat up—but he continued talking to Élodie. ‘We need to have a word later,’ he said. He did not intend for me to hear.

  ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘We should. How long are you here for?’

  Selvin positioned himself so that I would be unable to hear his reply. I was surprised that he could speak at such a low volume, when he had been so loud and energetic. Despite my curiosity it felt impolite to listen in, so I directed my attention to the nameless woman. She was attractive in a more conventional way than Élodie. Her hair was golden and clashed with her fake tan. She was not European. I could tell how uneasy she was in her lavish surroundings. This French decadence was an alien concept, even newer for her than it was for me. I was about to introduce myself, but I thought that this might be rude. I presumed there was a reason she had not been introduced and I struggled to guess what it could be.

  I turned back and watched Élodie. She was animated and enthusiastic with Selvin, but her eyes were hollow. It was impossible to tell whether she was relaxed or uneasy. She leant away from me, making Selvin her sole objective. She drew her feet up off the floor, her shoes gleaming in the light. They must have been uncomfortable, with their high-arched curves and tight fastenings.

  A waiter brought over plates of olives and cheeses, for which I was glad. It gave me something to do. I thanked him, while Selvin and Élodie ignored both him and the food. Then Selvin took a call on his mobile phone, and wandered over to a dark corner of the bar, putting a finger to his ear to block out the noise.

  ‘I must say,’ Élodie said to me, ‘I refuse to be chained to a phone. Fewer intrusions.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Although it might have helped me today.’

  Both Ethan and Sophie would be wondering where I had got to. Sophie liked to talk often, even from the other side of the world, and it was liberating to think that we were truly out of contact for the first time. But I pushed this thought away.

  ‘You don’t have a mobile phone?’ she said. ‘Goodness. I thought that everybody your age had one.’

  ‘I must be the exception. I know, it’s old-fashioned, but it keeps things simpler.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with being old-fashioned.’

  When Selvin returned he drained the whisky glass of its last amber drop and set it down so heavily that the table shook.

  ‘Vanessa and I need to go find some dinner,’ he said, taking his newly named companion by the arm. ‘Hope you don’t mind. We’ll see you later, I’m sure.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Élodie said, betraying a certain disappointment. ‘It’s not a bit early for dinner?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Vanessa had not finished her drink. He held her around the middle, which was awkward due to his girth.

  I waited until they had cleared the bar before rounding on Élodie.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked, thinking that in some ways the answer was less important than the question.

  ‘An old friend,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where he found his wealth. Just one of those fellows who was born poor and decided to make himself rich. He’s fun, isn’t he?’

  ‘If that’s how you define fun. How did you meet?’

  ‘Years ago. He has something to do with film. It was a party in Cannes. We danced on the beach. But that was another lifetime. He’s changed, I’ve changed.’

  ‘You could always dance on the beach with him here. I’m sure he’s more your equal.’

  I must have sounded more woeful than I had intended, because she became mockingly sympathetic.

  ‘Oh Lawrence. I only want to dance on the beach with you. There, is that better? Those clothes become you,
by the way. You are doing well, boy.’

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘What? Boy? I will if you stop acting like one.’

  I suddenly wanted to kiss her. I imagined how her mouth would feel. I could taste the oil of her lipstick and smell her perfume on my collar. But this was another joke, I told myself, born of the drink. I held up the daiquirí and took another gulp. Yes, I thought, that was definitely it. I took one of the olives and rolled it around my mouth.

  ‘Why were you at a party in Cannes?’ I asked.

  Élodie’s attention turned to the terrace beyond the windows, and she folded and unfolded her legs. A crease appeared in her thigh, but then it smoothed out again, the lone disruption a mole beneath her knee.

  ‘Are you an actress?’ I continued. After all, it had been playing on my mind.

  She was pained, but then she pulled her mouth into a defiant line.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. I never did anything very popular. I have been out of that game for years.’

  She said this with a shade of regret. She had the appearance of an ex-actress. Her beauty was enhanced and preserved with what I presumed to be surgery.

  ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before, when I asked who you were?’

  ‘Because it isn’t who I am.’ Her voice had lost its breezy tone. ‘I’ve moved on. And besides, Ed has his own life.’

  ‘I thought he was interested in you,’ I said. ‘Or is the feeling mutual?’

  ‘None of that cheek.’ She reclined in her chair and ran a hand along the surface of her hair. Her mouth was downturned. She was judging me, and this judgement was more powerful than her expression. ‘Lawrence, darling; are you really jealous?’

  ‘Only as jealous as you are of Sophie.’

  ‘But you have every reason to envy Ed. You really should aspire to him. He has lived a full life.’

  ‘I knew it. You are interested in him.’

  I could not remember the last time that I had talked to anybody so flirtatiously.

  ‘Silly boy. Leave those clichés alone. They need a master’s hand.’

  She picked up her purse, which matched the purple of her dress. She held it close to her chest and drew her shoulders in. They were limber, and they must have been strong.