The Train to Paris Page 5

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to run into more people.’

  She had finished her drink, while mine was untouched. I forced myself to down it. The flavour had improved. I wondered if this was because the sugar collected in the bottom of the martini glass, or if my palate was seizing up under the burn of the alcohol. As usual, I had no answer for my own question.

  ‘How many people do you know in this place?’ I asked.

  ‘Who could say? It is the high season, so anybody could turn up here. When you’ve travelled as much as I have you will understand how small the world is.’

  She sounded a little intoxicated already, which did nothing to improve my image of her. But then, I thought, perhaps it was for show. She dropped those impractical heels to the carpet, and I followed her out towards the terrace, watching for any sign of discomfort. I knew, even then, that this was unlikely. She was the actress, after all.

  6

  Élodie lit up another cigarette on the terrace. We were by the swimming pool, which afforded a fine view across the ocean and over to the dense line of buildings on the bluff. The beach was emptying, but with a fresh gust of wind I could see that the surfers were out on the rip-tide.

  ‘Are you having fun, Lawrence?’ Élodie asked, inhaling deeply so that her voice became huskier.

  ‘Sure I am.’

  She tapped the ash from the decaying cigarette to the tiles.

  ‘That really is bad for you, you know,’ I said.

  ‘I know. Have you not noticed? I do many things that are bad for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is who I am.’

  She held the cigarette out to me. I put up a hand.

  ‘I’ve never smoked,’ I said. ‘And I don’t plan on starting now.’

  ‘Really, Lawrence, you must try. One puff won’t hurt. Look at me—I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. Do I appear ill?’

  I tried to find some sign of the rotting carcass beneath the make-up and jewellery. She had angled herself as though she were in the middle of a photo shoot.

  ‘No,’ I said, failing to hide my reproof. ‘You’ve covered it very carefully. I’m not capable of doing that.’

  ‘One puff and I will let you off.’

  Resigned, I took the white stick and pressed it to my lips. It was as if I had inhaled a mixture of burnt tar and ashes. I coughed, but tried to subdue it. Élodie took the smouldering torture device back. It left a crude aftertaste.

  ‘Not to your liking? Don’t worry. One does get used to these things. Good thing Ed didn’t offer you a cigar.’

  ‘Are they stronger than this?’

  ‘They are utterly divine. There is nothing like a good cigar. It is the difference between a cafetière and a strong espresso. Incomparable.’ She took another puff of the cigarette and grimaced. ‘I only have these out of necessity. If it were possible I would be smoking five Montecristos a day. Even my husband’s credit wouldn’t extend that far. But do give smoking a chance. It gets better. One cannot say that about many things.’

  ‘But it really is unhealthy.’

  ‘Isn’t everything? Coffee, alcohol, that bouillabaisse. They all do harmful things to the body, but we enjoy them.’

  The sun was on its path towards the horizon. It would take another hour or two to set, but the terrace was already bathed in the deep gold of a day’s end. It shimmered on the water, and it all felt wrong. Unlike Hendaye, with its hostile townspeople and a blaring white sun, this terrace felt like a Hollywood film set.

  ‘Where do you live in Paris, Lawrence?’ she asked, as she continued to lean on the parapet, her shoulderblades pointing out to sea.

  ‘The Sixth,’ I said as casually as I could. It was a fashionable address that suggested more money than I had. ‘I have a little one-bedroom. Rue Saint-Sulpice.’

  ‘Good Lord. I had you down as the Thirteenth at best. What possessed you to live there? How do you afford it?’

  ‘An aunt left me some money. And my flatmate is meant to be contributing.’

  ‘He is not French, is he? Or she?’

  ‘Ethan is from New Zealand. He’s a musician, and he is doing well for himself. But he is younger than me, and he doesn’t know how to share a house.’

  ‘Fancy that. Two clueless boys living in Rue Saint-Sulpice. Let me guess—your parents must have had a hand in this arrangement.’

  ‘I came here to get away from them. And I thought that this would be the best way to spend my money. Enjoying life while it lasts, right?’

  ‘Good for you, Lawrence. So you really can pop down to the Louvre from there. It must be quite the hovel, though.’

  ‘I don’t need much. A home is a place to be when you’re not outside, surely. It gives me a good excuse to go places.’

  ‘How unusual. Don’t ever change that, Lawrence. You are a strange boy. Very strange indeed.’

  ‘No. No, I’m very ordinary.’

  ‘Never say that again, child. You owe me that much.’

  Once again her change in demeanour disoriented me. I had done something wrong. She had stayed in the same pose for a long time. The mechanics of it were uncomfortable, but when I stood back and admired her, craning her neck up and breathing out a stream of that sickly smoke, it could not have been more natural.

  ‘I need another drink,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen anybody. And I need another drink when I haven’t seen anybody.’

  ‘And what if you have seen somebody?’

  ‘Then I need another several drinks.’

  This made no sense to me. Nonetheless, I followed Élodie to the bar. She asked for another Campari and soda.

  ‘This is getting silly,’ I said. ‘How many of them do you need?’

  ‘As the occasion dictates.’

  ‘Do you always drink this much?’

  ‘I do when I want to have fun. I don’t always want to have fun. Sometimes I want to be damned serious.’

  ‘I don’t understand that whole concept of fun.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘You poor lamb. It’s worse than I thought.’

  She waited for me to explain myself. At a nearby table a woman shrieked with laughter. I watched the barman as he shook a martini, determination written on his face. He would go home after work to a family in one of those whitewashed villas on the outskirts of town. He had a life and a purpose.

  ‘I would rather make my own fun than follow someone else’s,’ I said in a single breath.

  ‘Now that I can understand,’ Élodie said. ‘Why not make me your fun?’

  ‘Because you would enjoy it more than I would.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ She flicked her eyelids up and down, reaching around to straighten her hair. Her elbow was red and flaky. ‘Oh hell. Have another drink.’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

  ‘I insist. You might need it if we are to see Ed Selvin again.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to see him again?’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘No.’

  There was no point in pretending otherwise, and Élodie deserved to taste her own flavour of bluntness.

  ‘That’s a real shame,’ she said. ‘He’s a nice fellow. You don’t like him because he is confident, sure of himself. Is that right?’

  ‘What? No, I never said that.’

  ‘It’s the most obvious thing in the world. Does he perhaps remind you of the children at school who looked down on your modesty and earnest studiousness with contempt? The ones who thought that you took it all too seriously, and mocked you for that reason?’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re getting this from,’ I scoffed. ‘I was happy in school. You wouldn’t know. You know nothing about me.’

  ‘But they were right,’ she continued, ignoring my growing frustration. ‘You do take things too seriously. Have you never wanted to simply relax and love life for what it is? Now, what will you have?’

  There was no way to refuse her. I asked the barman for
a dry martini.

  ‘You really are a bully,’ I said. ‘Are you happy now?’

  ‘You’ve gone to the other extreme, silly boy. You are mixing rum and gin. A true recipe for disaster.’

  ‘You’re impossible to please, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be pleased if you don’t end up passed out on the beachfront. Drinking needs to be treated with sophistication and sensibility. So don’t have the whole thing at once.’

  ‘That’s not the sort of advice I would expect from you.’

  ‘Well remember it, boy. Retain your dignity.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘Please excuse me. Won’t be a minute.’

  I was left to the sound of ambient chat. I always preferred to stand up at the bar, where I had a vantage point of the rest of the room. This was a good bar, made from polished oak and bound by brass. My reflection stood out in the mirror, which had bottles of gin and whisky stacked in front of it, and my head appeared between them. I was becoming sick of the gold. The room was lit to accentuate the yellow end of the hue, and it felt like being stuck behind a pair of tinted glasses. The chandeliers gave off a nauseating glow, and the diamonds were not so much glinting as fading into the half-light.

  ‘Your martini, sir.’ The barman had presented it to me on a tray. He wore a mauve tie that set him apart from his customers.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stared at me while pretending to clean down his work surface.

  ‘Is there something else?’ I asked.

  ‘No sir, of course not.’ He said this in English. My accent must have been worse than I thought. ‘Only that your friend is very…How do you say?…Forthright?’

  ‘Forthright. Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘She used to come here a lot.’

  It was my turn to stare.

  ‘I have served her many times,’ he continued. ‘Normally I would not remember, and I am sure that she does not remember me. Always the Campari and soda, though.’

  ‘Right.’ I could see Élodie returning from the bathrooms, with her hair rearranged. I bent in closer across the bar. ‘Should I be worried about her?’ I asked in a conspiratorial sort of a whisper.

  ‘I would not trust her. Be careful, sir.’

  She arrived before I could respond. The barman kept watching us out of the corner of his eye. I asked Élodie if we should find a table. We took one by the window and I chose the seat with its back to the bar.

  ‘Are you all right, Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone pale. Paler than usual, I mean. Did you not tan at all in Madrid?’

  ‘I never tan. It’s an unfortunate constitution.’

  ‘I do feel sorry for you sometimes. No matter—surely some successful men have been pale.’ She was trying to think of an example, and failing. Not that it offended me. I had decided long ago that if my pallor meant that I could not go outside very much, at least I could read a lot. But I was not going to relate any of this to Élodie.

  ‘When did you come here last?’ I asked.

  She put her arms in a triangular formation and leant her head against her hands. I could see the hint of her breasts for the first time, protruding from the purple satin dress. I must have been drunk because I thought of Titian’s Venus of Urbino, except that Élodie was merely teasing me with her breasts, withholding them. I wanted to touch them.

  ‘A few years ago,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Just curious. This isn’t one of those places where you would go on a whim.’

  ‘Oh, my whims are never rational. Have we not come here on a whim?’

  ‘That’s true, when you put it like that. But who were you with last time?’

  Élodie was bemused. She slanted her brow and shook her head, so that the diamond earrings swayed to and fro.

  ‘Why are you asking me these impertinent questions?’

  ‘Surely it’s your turn now.’

  ‘Ha. I see. Because you are so unguarded with your thoughts and feelings, you presumed that I would be the same.’

  This was unfair, but I could not have said why. I sampled the martini. It was too bitter, without any of the daiquirí’s sweetness. I gave a little hiccup.

  ‘I’m sorry, Élodie,’ I said once I had recovered. ‘I was only wondering. Is there any harm in that?’

  ‘Maybe not. Ask me again when I’ve had a few more drinks.’

  I could feel the alcohol forming a pool in my stomach. I needed water, but there was none available. The bar might as well have been in the Fourth Circle of Dante’s Inferno.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask about your husband?’ I said.

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘How do you define love, Lawrence? This will be a laugh, I am sure.’

  There were too many ways to define love. Sophie and I had discussed it during our holiday in Madrid, sitting in a café where the couple at the next table were kissing. The memory of this conversation brought with it a tinge of shame. We had both decided that there were too many different types of love to encapsulate one definition. And so we had searched it up in the dictionary on her phone.

  ‘Devoted affection and union, I guess,’ I said, recalling what the dictionary had told us. ‘Is there much more to it than that?’

  Élodie’s eyes opened wider than usual. I could see the slight blemish in her mascara. I realised that I was playing to her expectations. It was as though I were a circus act, giving her the entertainment that she craved.

  ‘Now that is completely limp,’ she said. ‘Did you steal it from a clergyman?’

  ‘All right, I have to concede that I don’t have my own definition of love. That wasn’t my question, though.’

  ‘You have never been in love, Lawrence, so you wouldn’t know. Shall we say that I love him by my own definition of the word? He is a large part of my world. One day you will understand what I mean by that. Sadly it isn’t something that can be explained easily.’

  ‘And yet you’re perfectly happy to be unfaithful.’

  She snorted, rather an unpleasant noise, and I hoped never to hear it again.

  ‘Faith? I have never come across a sillier idea. If I devoted the whole of my life to one person, then wouldn’t you think that rather a dull life?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘No, Lawrence, you don’t suppose anything. Either yes or no. Which is it?’

  Her eyes flitted around while she spoke. She never lingered. I must have given much more away with my eyes. They were always open and waiting to be caught. I had not thought about it before. It was intimidating to sit across from her, now that our faces were on the same level.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said at last. ‘I can imagine fidelity working for most people.’

  ‘But not me.’

  ‘How can you know if you’ve never tried?’

  ‘Oh, I have tried.’ She said this in a defensive way, as though she had been expecting the question. She previewed everything somehow, like a clairvoyant. ‘Your failures in adulthood might be easy to guess, but rest assured that mine aren’t.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring.’

  I had been about to say something else, but I held back.

  ‘We must get some dinner,’ she said. ‘Or are you feeling the effects of that revolting bouillabaisse?’

  ‘Not really.’ This was a lie, and she must have seen it. ‘You don’t like to stay in one place for long, do you?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. We miss out on an awful lot if we stay in one place. Who knows what might be going on elsewhere?’

  She stood up, and I needed no persuasion to abandon my martini. She drew into the light beneath a chandelier, and I had to marvel at how smooth her skin was from this particular angle. It took on an even more lustrous gold.

  ‘You look beautiful, by the way,’ I said. She smiled at me in her usual mischievous way. As we walked past the barman’s field of vision, I tried to avoid him.

  7

  The decor in the hotel
’s restaurant was in keeping with everything else. I was becoming accustomed to the excess. There were three layers of linen on each table. I took issue with the china plates, which were decorated with violent pink roses. The waiter had to ask twice before I gave him my coat.

  We sat at an angle next to each other, close to touching. Élodie ordered a bottle of Bordeaux that was not even the most expensive on the menu, and I told her so once the waiter had left.

  ‘The most expensive wine is not usually the best,’ she said. ‘It depends on what you want out of the wine. The waiter would disagree. That is another point, in fact. The waiter does not always know best. I should start writing all this down for you.’

  ‘I’m sure I can remember,’ I said dryly.

  She hit me with her napkin in a way that I never could have without somebody noticing.

  ‘This is all useful. One day you might impress a girl with it.’

  I had to wonder what sort of a girl would be impressed by any of this. Did she mean Sophie? The dining room was impressive, but only in the way that Albert Speer’s architecture was impressive. It was an enormous construction of nothingness, a fantasy created for those with enough money to pay for its upkeep. Anybody could have been impressed by it, although it would be difficult to love.

  The wine arrived with a decanter, and the sommelier used a silver breath-easy and a muslin cloth. He held the decanter up to a candle. It could have been a scientific experiment. The process took too long, and the formality of it was unbearable. The waiter went to pour me a tasting glass, but Élodie interrupted and insisted on trying it herself.

  ‘I am sorry about that,’ she said, once we were alone. She did not sound at all sorry. ‘But I could not have you making a fool of yourself with the wine. You are playing a role now, and we must stick to it.’

  ‘And what role is that, exactly?’

  ‘Do use your imagination,’ she snapped. ‘I would hate for people to think that you are my son.’

  ‘Like Ed did.’

  ‘He didn’t really. There is no need to take him seriously. But I think that you could pass for somebody much older, if you made the effort.’