Dream Paris (37 page)

“How do you think she’d feel if she knew about those women on your way here?”

“What are you talking about, Anna?”

That floored me. He’d read the truth script. Wasn’t it working?

“Those prostitutes in Dover,” I said. I could feel my ground shifting.

“What prostitutes? You mean Mandy and the others?” He laughed. “They were dancers! Why would you think they were prostitutes?”

“You said they were working girls!”

“Yes! They’re hard-working girls! They get out and earn, they go where the work is.”

“But… you can’t blame me for thinking…” The tables were turning. No! I was the one who had been hard done by. “Even so, you were way too familiar with Mandy.”

“Too familiar? I’m friendly with everyone. That doesn’t mean that I’m unfaithful to ’Chelle. My family means everything to me.”

I felt more foolish than ever. I should have left it there, but I was desperate to salvage some pride at his expense.

“So, what do you think of me, Francis?”

“You’re very clever, a lot smarter than me. But you’re still young. Everything is very black and white…”

“Do you fancy me?”

Why was I doing this? Because I was hurt, and I wanted to hurt everyone else.

“Well. You’re an attractive young woman. You’ve got a great figure…”

“Would you like to sleep with me?”

“Yes.”

“Pig!” I was back in control again. I might be immature, but he was a sexist pig.

“Francis,” said Mr Monagan, gently. “Do you intend to try?”

“Of course not. Just because I find her attractive doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. I love ’Chelle.”

“How many women have you slept with?”

“Does it matter? Too many. That was all before ’Chelle.”

“You’ve been faithful to her?”

“Yes”

“Why?”

“I love her.”

My face was on fire.

“Stop!” cried Mr Monagan. “Don’t say anything more!”

I wished I’d never handed him the script. I wished I’d kept my temper. All I was doing was proving what everyone around me seemed to know. I was still just a naive little kid.

“You didn’t want me to come, here did you? Because I was just a girl. You’re sexist.” I was grasping at straws. It sounded hollow even to me.

“I didn’t want you to come because it was clear to me that you were being used. Anna, you’re suffering from PTSD, you should be at home being treated.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear this. I really didn’t want to hear any of this. Something dripped onto my front. I touched my face. It was wet. I was crying, and I hadn’t even known it.

“Anna,” he said, gently. “Can we stop this? It’s not doing you any good.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to finish like this, looking weak. I scrabbled for something to ask.

“You have lied to me. Tell me now, have you ever killed anyone?”

“Four people.”

“Why did you lie about it?”

“No one likes to admit to that.”

“But you’re a soldier. You were just doing your job.”

“That doesn’t mean I take pleasure in it. Anna, can we stop this?”

I’d been rejected by my mother, I’d just humiliated myself.

What made it worse was the way they were all so nice about it. They gently led me into the truck and drove me home. I kept my face down, I felt the tears dripping into my hands.

THE MEN IN MY LIFE

L
ET ME EXPLAIN.

I hadn’t really thought about sex. Okay, that’s not right. I’d thought about sex, I’d imagined my first time, imagined how it would be. I’d thought about it a lot. The man, the seduction, the place, the time, how everything would just be
right
. But back in Dream London everything was
wrong
. You spent your time wondering if your thoughts were your own, your body sent on flights of lust by the smell of flowers. There was that spicy musk to the air, that aching in the night, that sense of constantly reining yourself in, of not allowing yourself to falter…

And then, back in Mundane London, it was the complete opposite. There, it was an effort just to keep yourself going. The daily grind through the chill damp, trying to stay warm, always feeling hungry. The sense of isolation. That emptiness, that desire to desire.

Again, I was feeling completely alone. My mother didn’t want me, Francis had betrayed me. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted someone. Anyone.

And yes, I got carried away. In my mind, I thought I’d go so far, appreciating the attention, and then I’d stop. But I was inexperienced. I didn’t know what it would be like. I didn’t realise that sweeping wave of excitement would be stronger than my intellect. I thought that I was the master of my body… I suppose it’s true, I’m too clinical, I spend too much time living in my head. You do that, you forget that you have a body and your brain rides it. Sometimes, the body just takes over…

O
H YES.
A
ND
isn’t there something special about your first time being somewhere exotic? Out on an adventure, out in the most romantic city in the world. There with a
really
handsome man who knows what he was doing. Do you blame me? More to the point, would have you done otherwise? If you think so, you’re either wrong, or a coward.

But this was
my
first time. It’s part of the story. It happened like this.

M
R
M
ONAGAN PULLED
up in the
Place de le Révolution
and turned off the motor. The coffee van shuddered to silence. I stumbled out, into a night filled with billowing stars that rose up and up forever into a deep purple sky, and the silvery sound of a trumpet floated by. I froze, terrified.

“Anna!” said Francis.

“Leave me alone.”

I breathed in. I had to face this.

“Anna! You’re already upset!”

“Leave her, Mr Francis. She’ll be okay here in the square.”

“But…”

I pushed their voices from my head. I was fed up with dancing to other people’s tunes. The music terrified me. I wasn’t going to let it do that anymore. I was going to face up to it.

I pushed my way into the café, into dimness lit only by candles on the tables. The music was coming from the corner. Three figures: a snare and brushes, a double bass and there in front – knees bent, curled around a trumpet – was Luc. Luc, the man from the café that morning. Beautiful, sexy Luc, blowing his soul through the instrument.

He was good. He was very good. Tone, technique, articulation, musicality. All the things that make a great player. The music he was blowing was different. Dream Paris Jazz is different, there is so little American influence. This music had evolved in a different way, only a few melodies had slipped in from our grey world. I listened, half-fascinated, half-terrified. The piece ended and there was a little applause. He noticed me, and that lazy smile was turned in my direction.

“Anna.”

“I didn’t know it was you. I heard the music from outside. I…”

I was babbling. His amber eyes danced in the candlelight.

“
Un moment.
” He turned to the band, said something in French. They laid down their instruments, picked up their drinks. It was break time.

Luc placed his trumpet carefully in its case and then he was at my side, amber eyes burning.

“Here. We sit down.”

He took my arm, led me to a little table.

“Wine?”

I nodded.

He proffered a pack of cigarettes. I shook my head. He shrugged and placed the packet on the table. Someone had brought over a bottle of wine and two glasses. No one had ordered it. I guess it just seemed the obvious thing to do.

“
Où est
Francis?
Et
Mr Monagan?”

“I don’t know. Back at Mr Monagan’s flat, I guess.”

“And you came here alone?” He nodded, approvingly.

“No! I didn’t, I… I heard the music and…”

I was hot all over, sweating. My tongue felt thick, suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was both embarrassed and annoyed with myself. This wasn’t me! I didn’t act this way!

“Well, you’re here. That’s good. And how did today go? Did you see your mother?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

He poured the wine, picked up his glass and held it up. It glowed ruby red – ripe with the fecundity of the land where the grapes had ripened.

“
Santé
!”

“Cheers!”

We drank. This time the pictures in my mind were not so strong. This time I felt a warmth, deep inside me.

“You look so lost.”

“Not lost. I’m fed up with being told where to go.”

He understood.

“We all have to go our own way, Anna.”

“I know that.”

He shrugged and poured a little more wine in my glass.

“Why did you shrug?” I wasn’t so annoyed. I thought the shrug charming, so very French. He shrugged again.

“No reason. Why do you think you have to sort things out, Anna? Why do you think you are responsible for everyone?”

I opened my mouth to reply, to say that wasn’t true, but I faltered.

“Because…”

He drank a little wine, waved his free hand in an expansive gesture.

“Let it go. Anna! Let it go! Do what makes you feel good. Look at me, I just follow the music. I’m happy.”

He pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it on the candle flame. He exhaled, smoke drifting sensuously from his lips. Oh, I know that’s not a good thing, I know that cigarettes are unhealthy, I knew that he was harming my health just smoking near me, but, hell, he looked so
fucking sexy
. The way he narrowed his eyes, that scent on his breath.
Hell, he looked good!

He sucked again, and his eyes narrowed.

“And what about you, Anna? Do you play?”

“I used to.”

“What did you play?”

“The cornet.”

“Why did you stop? Were you no good?”

Even lost in that moment, I couldn’t stand the thought of being second best.

“I was excellent.”

“Then it is a crime that you stop! Here…”

He rose from his seat, went to the stage and fetched his instrument.

“No, I’d really rather…”

“Take it!” He pushed it into my hands. It felt warm and heavy, heavier than I was expecting. The trumpet was old and scratched, but it felt loved.

“What do you think of her?”

“It feels like a really nice instrument.”

“Then play her.”

“It’s not quite the same as a cornet. The mouthpiece…”

“
Bof
! Play!”

I detected the glint of eyes in the darkness. The other customers in the café were looking at us. Looking at me.

I raised the instrument to my lips. I hadn’t played for months, not since… well, you know. My embouchure had gone. I blew, and the note that emerged was breathy. I licked my lips, licked the mouthpiece, tasted him. I concentrated, blew again. That was better. Straight down the middle. I played a scale, frowned.

“Good,” he said. “You can play a bit.”

“I can play better than that,” I snapped. The other people in the café were still watching, speaking behind their hands, smiling. They didn’t think much of me. And yet I was better than that. I stood up, I was remembering how it was done. And there it was… deep breath, instrument to lips…

I began playing.
Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky…
Verse. My lips were too tired, I was splitting the high notes. I didn’t care. This was better. This was where I was supposed to be… in the moment. Not thinking of the next chord, not reading notes, just playing music. I’d forgotten how it felt to be so free, to just let yourself go and play music, because when I was playing music that’s what I was doing. I was playing music…

… and I gradually realised that I’d finished, that everyone in the café was staring at me. Staring at me and applauding.

“
Très, très bon
! You can play!”

“That wasn’t just me,” I said, looking around. I felt dizzy, half removed from the room. “That was this place. That was Dream Paris. It was playing me…”

“
Non
! It was the other way around! You were playing Dream Paris! You allowed the Dream World into you, you allowed it to go through you, but
you
sent it where
you
wanted it. You sent it through the music. You have the power, Anna. What’s more, you have the
balls
to do it!”

“I didn’t! I was just feeling the music.”

“Feeling the music? You were in touch with the world! No wonder the wine affects you so much. You have the courage to just let go…”

And he leant forward and kissed me. I’d never been kissed like that before. Never like that. He kissed my lips gently, and then I felt one hand touch my hair and he was kissing me more firmly, and I could taste the tobacco, I could taste the wine and I could taste
him
so close to me, the heat of him, the musk of him and it was so wild and reckless that that was the moment I thought,
Well, why not?

The rest of the café seemed to drift away. I drank wine, I laughed, I looked into those eyes, and I allowed myself to be seduced. I wanted desperately to be seduced. Anything to help me forget this grey confusion, this feeling of rejection. We finished the wine and he led me outside. We kissed in the square, both his hands cupping my face. We kissed outside a doorway and then his hand clasped mine as he led me up a set of stairs and into a little room.