French Kissing (23 page)

An hour or so later, we arrived at the Gare du Nord.

‘
Bienvenue a Paris
,' Alex said.

‘Merci
,' I said. ‘I can't quite believe I'm actually here.'

We got off the train and threaded our way through the crowds on the station forecourt – Alex insisted on taking charge of both our cases – and having bought a
carnet
of tickets, rode the Metro to Abbesses, the stop nearest his apartment. My guidebook had warned me that Montmartre was no longer the home of bohemian artists, musicians, and writers, but full of over-priced tourist restaurants and hordes of pushy souvenir sellers, but the Places des Abbesses, the square outside the station, was delightful, with pavement cafés, plane trees, and wrought-iron streetlamps. It was only a few minutes' walk from the square to Alex's home, but we took it slowly, giving me time to take in the sights and sounds of this historic part of Paris, the voices talking in French, the winding cobbled streets, the terraces and flights of steps, and the houses with shuttered windows and balconies. Eventually, we arrived at a typically Parisian apartment building. Alex produced a key to unlock the heavy double-doors that opened onto a paved interior courtyard. An archway on the far side of the courtyard led to a dim, narrow, twisting staircase.

‘There's no lift, I'm afraid,' Alex said. ‘Very few of the old buildings in Montmartre have lifts, but once we're on the fifth floor, I hope you'll agree the view is worth the climb.'

He hefted up my case, his holdall, and his camera case, and sprung lightly up the stairs, with me following rather more slowly in his wake. I was soon out of breath, and very glad when we reached the tiny landing at the top, and Alex's studio apartment.

‘After you,' he said, showing me inside, and switching on a light.

I found myself in a small vestibule. To the left, the wall was completely taken up with a row of cupboards. A door on the right was open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a cream-tiled bathroom. In front of me was an open-plan living area. It had a sloping ceiling, natural wood floors, white-painted walls, and French windows with iron railings across their lower half. It was furnished with a small round table and two chairs, a white, two-seater sofa with red cushions, and a double bed with a white wooden frame and a brightly striped duvet. On the side of the room where the ceiling was highest, a pair of folding doors had been left open to reveal a compact kitchen area. The overall effect was of a light, airy space, with just enough splashes of colour to relieve the monotony of the white walls and furniture. I went to the windows and looked out over the roof-tops of Paris, just as the sun was setting, streaking the sky with red and golden light.

‘Ooh,' I said. ‘I can see the Eiffel Tower. This view is amazing. The whole apartment's lovely. Not at all what I imagined.'

‘What were you expecting?'

‘You did write that you lived in an attic. I was thinking of peeling paint and threadbare carpets.'

‘It really was an attic once, but about twenty years ago, the whole building was completely renovated. I still like to think that it was some impoverished nineteenth-century artist's shabby garret. And that he – back then it would have been a he not a she – set out each morning with his charcoal and his sketchbook to make drawings of Paris – just as I go out with my camera. Or maybe he painted the dancers at the Moulin Rouge or the Opera.'

‘You've thought a lot about the artist that used to live in your flat, haven't you?'

Alex shrugged. ‘If I'd been born in the nineteenth century I'd have been a painter, not a photographer.' His gaze travelled round the room. ‘My home isn't large, but then I'm away so much, and I've accumulated so few possessions, that I don't need a bigger apartment – everything I own, including my clothes, fits into those cupboards in the hall. Anyway, now that you've seen my humble abode, shall we go out to eat or would you prefer it if I cook us something?'

‘We should definitely go out,' I said. ‘I can't possibly stay in – it's my first night in Paris.'

We went to a small restaurant, just around the corner from Alex's building, where the clientele were locals as well as tourists, and a young man played jazz on a piano while a girl sang. Alex and I sat at a rough wooden table which was barely large enough for the two of us and the single candle that flickered between us. We ate steak and
frites
and drank red wine, and Alex told me anecdotes about some of the less well-known artists and writers who'd once lived in his neighbourhood, stories that hadn't made it into my guidebook. His eyes were very dark in the candlelight, and when he reached for his wine-glass, and his fingers brushed mine, a shiver ran up my arm. I thought, enough, Anna, and reminded myself that nothing was ever going to happen between us.

Back at Alex's apartment, as soon as we got inside, I went straight to the window, and gazed out over night-time Paris.

‘I can still see the Eiffel Tower,' I said. ‘It's sparkling.'

‘Yes, it does that once every hour,' Alex said. ‘Shall we make the tower the first place we visit tomorrow? It's only a short walk from there to the Musée D'Orsay, so I could show you my favourite paintings.'

I remembered a phrase from a letter he'd once written to me:

One day I hope you will come to Paris, and I will show you my favourite paintings in the Louvre and the Musée D'Orsay.

‘That,' I said, ‘would be perfect.'

‘We'll have to get there early to beat the crowds,' Alex said, ‘so I suggest we call it a night. I'll get my sleeping bag –' He went out into the vestibule and returned with a sleeping bag which he spread out on the sofa. ‘You're the guest – you get the bed, and you can go first in the bathroom.'

I opened my case, located my wash-bag, and my old baggy T-shirt, and went off to wash, change and clean my teeth. When I came back, Alex had stripped down to his boxers. He'd turned off the electric light, and was standing by the window, his muscular body, his broad shoulders, the sharply defined ridges of his stomach, bathed in moonlight and shadows.

He is so beautiful, I thought, And not for me. Aloud, I said, ‘B-bathroom's free.'

‘
Merci
,' he said, and headed off to perform his night-time ablutions.

I got into his bed – it was extremely comfortable – and whether it was the thrill of finally coming to Paris, the wine, or the effect of twice climbing the stairs to Alex's apartment, I fell asleep before he came back into the room.

Twenty-six

The first thing I did when I woke up was open the shutters – Alex must have closed them the previous night – and take another look at the Paris skyline. It was a gloriously sunny day, with a blue sky and just a few white clouds. I took a photo of the view on my phone, and then showered, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and flat shoes suitable for exploring a city on foot, and did my hair and make-up, all while Alex was still asleep. He looked hideously uncomfortable on the sofa – he was too long for it, and his legs inside the sleeping bag were hanging off the edge – but he was sleeping soundly, so I didn't wake him. Instead, I unpacked my case, hanging my clothes in one of the cupboards in the vestibule. Then I made myself a cup of coffee and sat by the open French windows, reading the book I'd brought with me from England.

In a little while, Alex stirred, raising his tousled head from the pillow, sitting up slowly and rubbing his hand along his unshaven jaw.

‘
Bonjour
,'I said. ‘
Du café
?'

‘Oui, s'il te plait.
' He got up and stumbled out to the bathroom. I heard the sound of the shower.

I was still making him coffee when he came out of the bathroom and went to the cupboard he used as a wardrobe. The towel he'd wrapped around his waist suddenly fell to the floor, and as there was no door between the living area and the vestibule, I was treated to a full-frontal view of his completely naked body. My stomach lurched, and to my embarrassment, heat flooded my face. Hastily, before he realised that I'd seen him, I looked away. I poured milk into his coffee and then went to the window, so that the breeze wafting in from outside could cool my flaming cheeks.

From the vestibule, Alex said, ‘Last night, after you were asleep, I checked what provisions my mother left us, and I saw that we have baguettes.' He stepped into the living area, dressed now in jeans and a T-shirt, like me. ‘That's one thing I've really missed living in London – you simply can't get good baguettes in England. They have them in the supermarkets, but they're just not the same as the ones you get from
le boulangerie.
'

Pulling myself together (I had, after all, seen a naked man before), I joined Alex in a typically French breakfast of baguettes, spread liberally with his favourite apricot jam.

‘And now,' he said, when we'd both eaten our fill, ‘I'm going to show you Paris.'

Alex told me that in his opinion, the most scenic way to approach the Eiffel Tower, and one of the best places for photographs, was from the right bank of the Seine, across the Pont d'Iéna. We took the Metro to the Trocadero, and walked through the gardens with their fountains and statues, to the river, and then crossed the bridge, stopping in the middle for Alex to photograph me with the tower in the background. The nearer we got, the more impressive the iconic landmark became, and when we were right underneath, all I could do was gape up at the massive structure and wonder how something so graceful from a distance could also be so majestic and monumental. Having arrived just before the tower opened, we didn't have long to queue at the entrance, and our climb up to the first level with its glass floors was unimpeded by the teeming crowds that Alex assured me would be there later in the day. From the first level, we took the lift, gliding up through the lattice of iron girders, catching tantalising glimpses of wide boulevards, palaces, and cathedrals, the blue of the river, the green of the Champs du Mars, until we reached the top, with its wonderful panoramic views of the whole city, including the hill of Montmartre, from where we had set out that morning.

‘This is the ultimate tourist experience,' I said, ‘so I have to do what every tourist does at this point –'

‘Take a selfie?' Alex said. ‘I was hoping you'd forgotten.'

I took several photos, and Alex took more on his camera – I suspected he didn't entirely trust in my ability to take a picture without putting my finger over the lens – and then we began the long descent down the stairs to the ground.

From the Eiffel Tower, we walked along the left bank of the Seine until we came to the arched façade of the former railway station, now art gallery, that is the Musée D'Orsay.

Alex said, ‘My parents used bring me – me and Hélène – here when we were children. I was obsessed with those animal statutes.' He gestured to the bronze horse, rhinoceros, lion, and elephant that stood in front of the museum. ‘Somewhere at home I still have the photos I took of them when I was about eight.'

I smiled to think of a skinny, eight-year-old Alex solemnly photographing works of art. ‘Shall we go and join the queue?' I said, eyeing the line of people waiting to enter the museum.

‘No need,' Alex said. ‘I already have tickets. I bought them on the website while we were still in England.'

‘I knew there was a reason why I hired you as my tour guide.'

Three hours later, I was still wandering awestruck amongst the masterpieces in the Musée D'Orsay, Degas' famous statue of a young dancer, paintings by Gaugin and Manet, Renoir and Cézanne, and Alex's particular favourite,
Women in the Garden
by Claude Monet.

‘It's the way he depicts the play of light and shadow on the figure in the foreground of the painting that first fascinated me when I was a child,' Alex said. ‘And the effect of the other figures' pale dresses against the dark green leaves.'

I studied the picture of the four women, one sitting on the grass, two standing behind her, and the fourth darting behind a tree. Most of the painted garden was in shadow, with a band of bright sunlight falling across the seated woman's voluminous white skirts.

‘I think this painting influenced your photography,' I said. ‘You have a lot of deeply contrasting light and shade in your work.'

‘Not to mention that when I was a student I took a whole series of pictures of women dressed in white. My tutor once asked me if I was planning on becoming a wedding photographer.'

After the paintings and the sculpture, we looked at a display of early photographs – Alex's area much more than mine, and about which he talked very knowledgably and with great enthusiasm – before exiting the museum and finding a café down a side street, a little way back from the river, in which to have lunch. Eating my
salade niçoise
, drinking a glass of
vin rouge
, talking to my charming Frenchman about the view from the Eiffel Tower, and the paintings we'd seen, I felt sure that this trip was going to be every bit as wonderful as I'd hoped it would be. I listened to Alex telling me about the visits he used to make to art galleries with his parents as a child, watched as his fingers traced the route we'd taken that morning on the map, and thought, dreamily, I'm here in the City of Light with Alexandre Tourville – life doesn't get much better than this.

Alex said, ‘And next, the kiss.'

I choked on my wine.

Alex half-rose from his chair in concern. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes, I'm fine. It just went down the wrong way. Sorry, what did you say?'

‘Next, we should see
The Kiss.
The Musée Rodin is only a couple of streets away.'

‘You're talking about
The Kiss
? The sculpture by Rodin?'

‘
Bien sûr
,' Alex said.

We went to the Musée Rodin, and stood for a long time in front the sculpture of the nude man and woman, admiring the skill with which the artist had captured the raw emotion of their embrace. And when the image of Alex naked that morning floated into my mind, I quickly pushed it away.