Shadow Girl (2 page)

‘France? You're flying to France? You lucky, lucky thing!'

Jenny is looking at her across their small café table, envy glazing her eyes.

‘I
so
wish I was you. Well, not you in all respects, you're far too driven and focused. I'd go nuts if I was in your head. But you for just a few hours, to board that plane and get to Paris. Then it would be back to me! Undriven, unfocused, unstructured little me!'

Jenny giggles, then takes a sip of her cappuccino. Before Sandra has time to respond, she launches into an animated tirade.

‘I had such a blast last time I was there! Zipped from one expo to the next, the Louvre, the Quai d'Orsay, Pompidou Centre, Musée Carnavalet. Rubbed shoulders with buskers, mingled with the street artists. And — wait for this — there was this guy, somewhere on Butte Montmartre, who just begged on his knees to draw my portrait. Begged, I tell you, in that sexy accent — ‘oh pleeeze mademoiselle, let me mék a sketch of you, you 'ave such a special fess. Incredible feetures. Pritty little nose. Let me mék it, I beseeech you. I ask no money, no money. Not much anyway. For you, special deel.' He was talking about my face but his eyes were aiming lower and literally undressing me. And can you believe a Parisian sketch artist would know a word like ‘beseech'? How quaint! Anyway, I couldn't say no, could I, so I sat there trying to look cool and sophisticated, like the model of a Grand Maître or something except I had all my clothes on. And he kept waving and swiping his charcoal stick like a wizard's wand — swish, whizz, make a wish! Turned out in the end the portrait didn't look anything like me. Far too beautiful really. My eyes had this terribly sultry look and my lips looked like they'd been botoxed — nicely. But I kept the drawing and it still hangs above my bed, as a reminder of what could have been if the gods of procreation had been kinder.'

She pauses for half a breath, then powers on.

‘But it wasn't just the art, in Paris I mean. I spent so much time
meandering
. I don't think it's a concept you're familiar with, Sandra, but you should give it a go. It's good for the soul and the Parisians are world experts. People there don't just walk from A to B. They saunter. They stroll. They perambulate. To the bakery to pick up their morning flute. To the brasserie to meet their lovers. To the park at sunset to air the family dog. They amble and they wind whenever they get the chance. So I did the same. Canal St Martin, Place des Vosges, Pont des Arts, Quartier Latin . . . My dainty feet led me all over in tireless loops. Cobbled streets, chic avenues, narrow passageways, I did everything. Saw everything. Strolled from old to modern, from green to high tech. Watched the Seine from those cute bridges crumbling under their love padlocks. It was wonderful, simply wonderful! And don't even get me started on the trendy cafés.'

Sandra lays a light palm on Jenny's forearm. She has no desire to hear another rant about trendy cafés.

‘Jenny . . .'

‘The Palette, for instance. Full of art students of the attic-dwelling type — some of them irresistibly scrumptious. Full of poets with gifted tongues too. Visionaries who can do wonders with words and certain parts of the female anatomy. I speak from experience. And there's the Procope, the oldest tavern in the city. Positively reeking with history. Did you know that Voltaire and Rousseau used to hang out there? And Oscar Wilde when he was in need of some stimulation? I'm talking intellectually, of course.'

Sandra's hand gives a little squeeze.

‘Jenny . . .'

‘And Napoleon's hat is still sitting there in its pretty glass case. The poor man couldn't settle his tab apparently — that's before he got famous. So he had to leave his bicorne behind as payment. Wonder if drinks were the only thing he had to answer for. I hear there were a few cocottes hanging out there sometimes. Ah, and did I mention Benjamin Franklin, another famous visitor, who scribbled away at the American constitution at a table there. Spilled some coffee on the draft too apparently. At least that's what the history books . . . Ouch!'

Sandra has gone for a frank pinch.

‘I'm talking too much, aren't I?'

‘Listen, sweetheart, that's all fascinating stuff no doubt and I'd love to hear more another time, but I'm not staying in Paris.'

‘You're not?'

‘Just hopping off the plane and hopping on the train.'

‘But you can't! You've never been to Paris. You can't just skip it! That's crazy! That's . . . That's a crime against history, against art, against
savoir-vivre
and
savoir-love
!'

‘Jenny, read my lips. Off the plane and straight onto the train. No Paris. I'm going to Toulouse.'

‘To lose? To lose what? Even more of your mind? No need to tell me, I know you've flipped your lid if you're giving Paris a miss.'

‘Ha ha, funny,' replies Sandra, without a trace of mirth on her face. ‘My mind is keen as ever, thanks for your concern. No, Tou-louse. That's the name of a city in the south.'

‘I knew that. Do you think I've never ventured south of the river Seine? You are looking at a well-travelled, spirited young lover of
les
arts
, my friend, don't you forget it. I've been to every single corner of the Old World. Everywhere artists poked in their dripping brushes.'

‘I'm in no danger of forgetting that.'

‘One day I'll manage to convince you there's more to life than business.'

Sandra gives an audible sigh.

‘Remind me again how on earth we became friends?'

‘That's an easy one. That's because I saved you from that tiger snake on the Norman Lindsay estate, way back.
And
rescued you from those hordes of half-baked male students who were drooling all over you at uni. Don't even ask me what I had to do in the campus showers to keep them off your scent — though it was far from unpleasant.'

‘I don't want to hear about it, thanks.'

A smirk alights on Jenny's lips.

‘I know you, Sandra. Better than you think. I know you're really looking for something else.'

Sandra rolls her eyes to the sky.

‘Yes, deep down, if you break past the hard shell of your discipline, past the armoured layers of your work ethic, there is a bit of you that is fascinated by my bohemian ways, my spontaneity, my love of the bizarre and the unexpected. And my outrageously sexy demeanour.' Jenny tosses her ample head of dark hair to one side of her face in a mock seductive move. ‘Admit it!'

‘Mm . . . We were talking about Toulouse, I think.'

‘See? Evasive action again. That's typical of a deeply held and deeply repressed desire for the opposite of what you think you are.'

‘That does not make any sense at all.'

‘Oh but it does. You need to loosen up, Sandra. You need more yin in your life.'

‘More yin?'

‘Yes. Forgive me for being blunt, but you've got too much yang. Look, I don't want to sound like a bloody relationship expert, which I'm not — my love life is far too messy for that . . .'

‘It is, Ms. Flutter-my-lashes-at-the-first-sight-of-a-manly-chin.'

‘Hey, I'm not
that
desperate you know. But I'll let that pass because luckily for you, I have your welfare at heart. As I was about to say, you're not going to get anywhere on the emotional front unless you find someone a bit more . . . substantial.'

‘Substantial?'

‘Yes. More meaty. More assertive. With more yang.'

‘And can I deduce from that shining piece of advice that you do not think Mark and I are well suited?'

Jenny's eyes fill with pity.

‘Don't get me wrong, Sandra. Mark's a nice guy.'

‘He is.'

‘And you've been together a while, so you've got some history.'

‘We have.'

‘But do you feel fulfilled? Truly content?'

Sandra stares at the gull that has landed on the potted shrub next to their table. She is looking hard at its beak, as if the answer was written on an invisible post-it note stuck to its tip.

‘He is very . . . comfortable.'

‘Comfortable! Come on, Sandra! You're no older than twenty-five if we believe that test, and you look much younger without your make-up. You cannot seriously be settling for comfortable. You've got your whole exciting life ahead of you!'

‘The affairs of the heart take time. They've got this way of sucking up most of your energy. And your thinking time. I can see how it works for you.'

‘For me? That's a bit unfair!'

‘Is it now? So why do you keep glancing at that cute guy three tables away?'

‘The one with the bandana?'

‘No, that one you only stared at for a full thirty seconds without blinking. The studmuffin next to him, with the balloon biceps and the bum stretching his jeans. Don't tell me your mind is not drifting.'

‘I'm good at multitasking.'

‘Multitasking?' scoffs Sandra. ‘Didn't you say something about an unstructured mind earlier on? I did hear unstructured? As in hopelessly messy and disorganised? Well, I for one can't afford messy or disorganised. Not now, not in the foreseeable future. Still got a few things to prove in the workplace.'

She brings her espresso to her lips for a quick sample and hums in approval, for it is precisely at the right temperature.

‘And since we're on the topic of my professional life, there's something I need to ask you.'

‘Ask
me
? Hopelessly disorganised
me
?'

‘I'm in a bit of a tight spot,' continues Sandra, ignoring her. ‘I lobbied the board hard to get the French assignment.'

‘So?'

‘I convinced them I was the absolute best person for the job. Since I came up with the idea of that partnership with the Toulouse people, I argued I had the knowledge, the drive, the skills.'

‘So?'

‘I'm not worried about the business skills, really.'

‘Don't you usually get to the point more quickly?'

‘Quite right. I told my bosses I could speak fluent French. I might even have said perfect. Perfect French, that is.'

‘Ah . . .'

‘That's . . . being creative with the truth. My command of the language is modest at best.'

‘You mean catastrophically nonexistent? I remember you struggling through that beginners' course at uni, before dropping out.'

‘Thanks for believing in me. I can still string out a few sentences.' She demonstrates. ‘
Bondjoor monssiou, comment ça va? J'habeet en Australie, je suis vingt-cinq ans.
Err . . . Actually, I'm not so sure about that one. Isn't there a rule about not using ‘
être
' for telling your age? Maybe it should be
je serai vingt-cinq ans.
Hang on, that's still ‘
être
' isn't it?'

‘I think it should be
j'ai vingt-cinq ans
.'

‘I was just about to say that.
J'ai vingt-cinq ans
.'

Jenny is staring at her with pity again.

‘Spare me the dramatic look. I just need a quick brush-up.'

‘You mean a major overhaul, complete with a six-month immersion course somewhere in the French Alps. But hey! On the bright side, you'll discover the delights of fondue savoyarde. You might even fall for a handsome ski instructor on the slopes of Val d'Isère.'

‘Focus, Jenny, will you? Enough already with the match-making! And I don't have six months. I'm off in three weeks.'

‘Three weeks? I don't want to burst your bubble, but do you seriously think you can learn French in two wags of your clever little tongue? Don't you remember Dr Leclaire going on about languages requiring years of regular practice and dedication?'

‘Can't say I do. But the old bat was clearly a pessimist and a wet blanket, and one of the reasons I was turned off the whole thing. Three weeks will be enough. I'm a fast learner when I put my mind to it.'

‘But surely there's an easier way around this.'

‘Like?'

‘I dunno. Maybe the Toulouse crowd can speak English. Wouldn't this be quite common in the business world? Or if that's not the case, hire an interpreter when you get there.'

‘Not good enough. I told everyone here I could do it. I'd lose credibility.'

‘Well, that's the kind of claim that can too easily backfire. I'm surprised you took that risk.'

Sandra frowns, reclining in her seat. ‘Let me worry about that.' Her eyes catch the white streak of a distant plane, high up in the ultramarine sky.

Yes, she can handle the heat. She's good at that. And she
refuses
to let a stupid detail get in the way of a promotion. She deserves a spot at the very top. Deserves her full share of the booty, and some. So she'll just knuckle down. She'll learn enough bloody French to punch her way through that damn glass ceiling. By God she will.

Her musings get interrupted.

‘So what exactly did you want to ask me, Sandra?'

Jenny has cocked up one eyebrow with artistic grace.

‘I need some tutoring.'

‘Whoa. Hold it, will you? And don't look at me with those puppy eyes. My French is good enough to fool the unsuspecting visitor at the opening of an art exhibition, but it's certainly not in the crash-course league.'

‘I thought we were friends. All I need is the right push.'

‘I wouldn't be doing you a service. There are too many grey areas in my vocab. As well as gaping holes. And my grammar's equally shaky. So I'll pass, if you don't mind. You need a native speaker. Why don't you try the Alliance Française?'

‘Please. You dragged me there once for some art function. I've no desire to go back.'

Jenny has a disapproving look on her face and Sandra feels prompted to explain.

‘Can you see me discussing the ins and outs of wine-tasting with a bunch of geriatrics? Or designer labels with idle wives fantasising about their next shopping trip to Paris? As for role-playing with pimply-faced teenagers before their exams . . . Ew! Definitely no Alliance Française for me, thank you very much.'