The Train to Paris Read online

  ‘So let me taste the wine.’

  ‘Not until you understand what it means to taste. You are in the real world now.’

  I swirled my glass and drank. The wine’s bouquet was lifeless and the tannins stuck to the corners of my mouth. It tasted old and faintly rotten. It was anticlimactic to think that this, the first truly expensive wine that I had ever tasted, could be so bland. If this were the real world, then even the real world had to be imaginary on some level.

  But I did not pursue this thought; my mind was beginning to numb. I regretted the second cocktail. The room was pulled into a wide angle, and the golden light softened at the edges.

  Élodie ordered the degustation menu. I had wanted the à la carte, unaccustomed as I was to the obscure gourmet dishes. But she knew what she was doing. Besides, the French menu was too difficult to decipher.

  ‘What sort of films were you in?’ I asked.

  ‘Not very good ones,’ she said. ‘I was in a couple of those eighties, neo-noir pictures. Bad crime flicks, very Los Angeles. No reason a smart boy like you should have heard of them. They were terrible, really. But they gave me an excuse to go to the right parties, to meet the right people.’

  ‘And was Ed Selvin involved in them?’

  ‘No. I never did anything with Ed. We move in different circles.’

  ‘What sort of circles does he move in?’

  ‘More highbrow. His last project was some sort of an art-house thing set in Japan. Shinto imagery and gratuitous encounters. I can’t claim to have seen it.’

  ‘So what is he doing here?’

  ‘That girl. They might just have married. Hence the desire to get away from us.’

  I tried to conceal my surprise. He had never introduced her. I had always thought that newlyweds were determined to show one another off.

  Élodie grew resentful as she talked about Vanessa, but she quickly changed the subject. The entrées came plated extravagantly, and I tried to stop myself from eating too fast. Élodie turned her nose up at the first mouthful and put her cutlery down.

  ‘This place isn’t what it used to be,’ she muttered. ‘It is disturbing to think that haute cuisine might be becoming a tourist attraction. Look at these people. Tourists.’

  It was true that some of our fellow diners had played reluctantly to the dress code. I became more satisfied with my navy blue jacket and my white trousers. I decided that they were in fact exceedingly stylish; they suggested success. They set me apart from the tourists. I could pretend that all of this was familiar to me, that I had seen it a hundred times. Was that snobbish? Sophie would have told me so. She would have teased me about these clothes. Or she would have been mortified. The more I thought about it, the less sure I was of what she would think.

  ‘Isn’t that true of Paris, too?’ I said. ‘I can’t find a good restaurant anywhere in my area.’

  ‘Give it time. I will show you the best of the best in Paris. It helps if you have some money, of course.’

  ‘I thought you said that the best wasn’t necessarily the most expensive.’

  ‘Well remembered,’ she said briskly, as though I had wound a key in her back. ‘It all depends on whether you want the best food or the most authentic food. Authenticity hardly exists in Paris. But I know of places that have yet to be plundered by the Americans and the Brits, places where they have no English menu.’

  ‘This isn’t bad, of course.’

  ‘It could be worse. But please don’t eat so fast.’ I had cleaned my plate, spooning up every last morsel. ‘Christ, this is what having children must be like.’

  ‘You never wanted children?’

  ‘No. I would have made a terrible mother. Besides, the day that a woman gives birth is the day that her life as she knew it ends. I’ve always been happy with it like this.’

  I was about to ask her why she was so happy to live out this fantasy, but I stopped myself. I would have to be subtler.

  ‘Who are your parents, Lawrence?’ Élodie asked after the entrées had been cleared. I thought about what to tell her, if anything.

  ‘They are both lawyers, and they have been doing the same thing for years. But I don’t want to talk about them. We don’t get on very well.’

  ‘So you are casting off into Europe on your own. How Byronic of you. Tell me more. What do they think of all this travelling business? They must have other plans for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, avoiding her and fiddling with my cutlery in the hope that she would stop interrogating me. ‘Ask me anything else.’

  I waited for her to persist, but to my surprise she backed off.

  ‘All right. But if you do want to talk about it, then I can be an impartial ear.’

  ‘I don’t trust that.’

  ‘What? My ability to remain impartial?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘That doubt is well-placed, Lawrence.’

  Rather than waiting for the sommelier to return, she leant over to pour me another glass of wine. I could see the pale skin on the inside of her arm.

  ‘Isn’t that my job?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed it is. You must be learning. Go on, pour me a glass.’

  I did so, and in the process I managed to send drips over the linen tablecloth.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘at least you had the right idea. Women love a man who takes initiative. They will forgive you all sorts of sins.’

  ‘But it’s dull chivalry, isn’t it? Mindlessly following a set of conventions. I think that women might be after something else these days.’

  ‘What, like your girlfriend? She isn’t one of those earnest little feminists, is she? Does she take offence every time you hold the door open for her?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about her.’

  ‘You were. And it isn’t true. Even the diehard feminists want their men to be little princes. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. It is human nature.’

  The sommelier returned to retrieve the decanter. He had the wine list, and he was about to present it to Élodie when I held out my hand.

  ‘I’ll take this one,’ I said. Even the list of dessert wines was overwhelming. Élodie looked over my shoulder as I read it, but I kept it to myself. I asked for a Sauternes. It was not the most expensive, though the price was outrageous for such a small bottle.

  ‘Well done,’ Élodie said when the sommelier left. ‘I am impressed. How did you guess my favourite dessert wine?’

  ‘Beginner’s luck.’

  This did not convince her.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘If you must know, I saw you looking at a bottle of it at the bar. Wistfully.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Where did you gain these powers of observation, Lawrence? They could be put to much better use.’

  This time I insisted on tasting the wine. I did not make a fool of myself. She watched me smugly as I swirled the glass and sniffed just as she had.

  The courses continued to be delivered, and Élodie picked at her food while I made sure to eat it all. She did not want to linger in the restaurant after the third dessert course, and she left a paltry tip.

  ‘I want to find Ed again,’ she said. ‘He is always up for a good time. I could do with some fun now.’

  ‘I’m not enough fun for you?’

  She surveyed me as though she were a performance assessor, and I her hapless employee.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You may be many things, Lawrence, but you are not much fun.’

  She went to return indoors, and I followed hesitantly. It felt like a bizarre old-fashioned farce, where I was a fusty chaperone pursuing my lady around the grounds of a dangerous social gathering. She was heading for the reception desk, and I ran to catch up with her, even though she was the one wearing high heels. She asked the concierge to connect her to Selvin’s room.

  ‘Ed, darling,’ she said into the telephone. I changed my assessment: she did sound drunk. ‘Do come down here. I don’t care what you’re doing. It’s damned antisocial. Join
us for another drink.’ He said something in response to this, and she shrieked with laughter. ‘Oh Ed, you naughty man. I know exactly what you mean. No, that will come later. I’m not as impatient as you are, and he certainly isn’t. Come downstairs, you dirty old man. We’re waiting for you in the bar.’

  The concierge tried to hide his amusement. He too could have seen Élodie before. She must have left the same imprint on everybody. Hanging up the phone, she beckoned for me to follow her through to the bar, which was quieter than before. It was becoming dark outside, and guests were heading to dinner after their aperitifs.

  ‘If only this hotel had a casino,’ she said, having ordered yet another Campari and soda. I asked for iced water this time. ‘Then we could really have some fun. Say, there’s an idea. Why don’t we go to the one down the road?’

  ‘So now you want to gamble your husband’s money?’

  ‘Why not? I have nothing to lose.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea, Élodie. You could end up in trouble.’

  ‘I could. One day you will learn to appreciate the joys of danger.’

  The alcohol should have induced a sense of euphoria, but I was not feeling it. I wondered if what it gave to one person it took away from another. Élodie was becoming my responsibility, and this made me anxious. A few hours ago she had been an image of adulthood, and now she was a pouting child. I was dreading another confrontation with Selvin.

  ‘You’re so tense, boy,’ Élodie observed. At least she had quietened down. ‘Why don’t you have another drink? It might help you get on with Ed a little better.’

  I didn’t want to get on with Ed a little better. I wanted to tell Élodie that she was being unkind, and that I would rather go up to the suite, while she hung off the bar and drank with Ed. She reached out to take her drink from the barman, and I noticed the underside of her arm again. There were a few hairs in the sphere of her armpit that she must have missed. I imagined her putting that arm around me and pulling me closer, pushing her breasts up to me. And then I imagined her doing the same thing with Ed, and I decided that I needed to stay because I did not want him to take her from me.

  I ordered another daiquirí. It was a different barman. The other one had disappeared. Perhaps his shift had ended, and he was cycling home through the dark. The drink tasted sweeter this time. The new barman must have put more sugar in it.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Élodie muttered. ‘I can’t stand this waiting. I might have to get properly drunk if he takes much longer.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘I will do as I please, you silly boy. You are too young to understand what this means to me.’

  ‘So tell me what it means.’

  Before she could answer my question, I saw that Selvin had come through to the bar. He looked livelier than before, and he grinned at us in a way that seemed to be saying something else entirely.

  ‘How are we, kids?’ he said. ‘Vanessa’s not feeling too well. She might come down later.’

  ‘No matter,’ Élodie said in a dismissive way. ‘Have a drink. Did you have dinner up in the room?’

  ‘I did. We did. How was yours?’

  ‘It would have been wonderful if there weren’t so many tourists around here. I used to love going out to dinner, but how can I enjoy it when I have to share it with them?’

  ‘You used to be so enthusiastic about things like that,’ Selvin said, mockingly wistful. ‘What happened? I miss the old Élodie.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ she said, and they both found this amusing. It must have been another in-joke. ‘Come on, darling, have a drink.’

  He asked for a cocktail that neither the barman nor I had ever heard of, and he had to explain that it consisted of Pernod and coffee liqueur. He grinned again, and this time he directed it at me.

  ‘Still on the same daiquirí, huh kid?’

  I considered leaving again. Neither Ed Selvin nor Élodie had welcomed me into this conversation—they might as well have been on their own. But I told myself to be patient, and to withstand Selvin’s company in the hope that Élodie still wanted me. This suspicion was confirmed as she asked the barman for more champagne and foie gras to be delivered up to the suite in an hour, while Selvin went to find a table. Resolving to follow their lead, I reinforced my smile and armed myself with the cocktail glass.

  8

  Élodie continued to drink enthusiastically, while I treated my cocktail with more caution. My mouth was drying up. But I felt compelled to quench it by drinking more. I could see why Élodie had fallen into this trap. A chilled cocktail was more refreshing than a glass of water.

  Selvin somehow managed to keep himself composed, despite the potency of his liquid death. I could smell it from the other side of the table, and it was a cloud of mismatched flavours. He and Élodie were talking about Vanessa who, true to her prediction, was indeed his newfound bride. It made me think that something was amiss if she stayed in the suite while he had a drink with a female friend.

  ‘How did you meet?’ Élodie asked in a voice that did little to mask her bitter anticipation. ‘I demand all the details, or I will have to punish you.’

  ‘We met on the shoot for The Hollow Cave. She was a last-minute casting choice. Her predecessor was involved with the scripting, so we had to throw her in at the deep end. It became a little less than professional. She’s one hell of a minx.’

  ‘I can imagine. Are you hopelessly in love with her, silly man?’

  ‘She works for me. Like how you work for Marcel. Or is it the other way around? I can never remember.’

  Élodie’s expression froze, with her mouth half-open and her teeth showing. I was reminded of a Modigliani painting, in which the subject’s long face and vacant stare suggested her disapproval.

  ‘Lawrence, do tell Ed about your studies in art history. It must be fascinating.’

  Normally, I would have relished this conversation starter, but now it felt as though my every word was being judged. I started in on the rivalry between Ingres and Delacroix, which I had been reading about. Ed nodded along like a bored parent.

  ‘Boy, that sounds interesting,’ he drawled. ‘So what are you hoping to do with your degree?’

  ‘I never really set out with a plan. I just want to do something that interests me.’

  ‘Fair enough, kid. You’re young. Hell, I didn’t know what I was doing until I hit thirty. Then I decided to turn my life around. And look where I am now.’

  ‘Well, we’re both here,’ I said. He ignored me. I wondered what my role was in this conversation, if I even had one. He and Élodie continued to talk without me. I excused myself to the bathroom.

  The table was near to the doorway, separated by a pillar, and I realised that I could hear them from the other side of it. I drew in close, so that I would not be standing in the way of the waiters, and tried to make out what they were saying. They were laughing, and it took them a while to recover.

  ‘Who the hell is that guy?’ Selvin asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s a project. I wanted to have some fun if I had to be stuck here. Trust me, if I had known that you were going to be here then I wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘And what about Marcel?’

  ‘What about Marcel? Darling, you know what I should do. I will kick my way out if I have to.’

  ‘You probably won’t get a chance. How do you think he will react when he finds out what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘It really doesn’t concern me. How will Vanessa react when she finds out about me?’ She drawled the name, as though it was the most absurd that she had ever heard.

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘But you want her to. You want another excuse to escape.’

  ‘You flatter yourself.’

  ‘And yet it is an attractive prospect, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It sure is,’ he said. ‘But I need to know that I can trust you. I need to know that you won’t go running off with the project,
or whatever the hell he is. It’s no way for a woman of forty-five to behave.’

  ‘Oh Ed, don’t pretend you know how old I am. But don’t worry. The last thing that I need is another lovelorn puppy hanging off my arm.’

  I decided to leave. Surely I was more than that? Surely she saw more in me? I recalled what she had said about potential in the taxi. She could have changed her mind. She might never have made up her mind about me. And she could say whatever she wanted about me when I was gone and I would never have to hear it. I took a step towards the exit.

  But then I stopped myself. Biarritz was no less alien than Hendaye. There was nowhere to go in the night with no money. I thought about sleeping on a park bench, clinging to my suitcase and waiting for the sunrise. That would be a bitter dénouement. And Élodie would keep playing to this script without me. I wanted to see where it would take me, if I were to keep acting out this role that may or may not have been written for me. There were no other lavish film sets in this town. There was only the park bench.

  These thoughts drove me to abandon my hiding place, even though the timing was wrong. I returned to the table. Élodie continued to talk as if nothing had happened, while Selvin was tense and unhappy about being interrupted.

  ‘That was fast,’ she said. ‘We were discussing your fascinating account of… What was it? Le Violon d’Ingres?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The two of them might as well have been a married couple, and me their unwanted child. Selvin’s cheeks were flushed and veiny. His eyes were tired but not kind.

  ‘Say, I fancy a smoke,’ he said. ‘You like cigars, kid?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘He’s never tried one before,’ Élodie said, ‘so he wouldn’t know. I say it’s a fabulous idea. We can have our drinks outside.’

  The terrace was dark and quiet, although there were some people at the poolside tables. I could hear the waves breaking on the beach, but I couldn’t see them. Illumination came only from the bulbs set into the swimming pool and the restaurant terrace beside it. Across the beach, the lights of the town’s taller buildings glinted like crystals on black velvet.

  Selvin had his cigars in a pocket-sized humidor, which was sleek and had a cutter fastened to the lid’s interior alongside a thermometer. He held one out to me.