The Train to Paris (16 page)

The thin black tie from Biarritz was at the bottom of my armoire. It was badly creased. I tried to straighten it out so Élodie wouldn't be able to tell.

In the main room Élodie was poring over my possessions. She was completing a circuit, stopping at each surface and going through all of the items on them. She paused on a copperplate engraving of a Madonna and Child, which had come with the apartment. It was the only piece of art that I owned, so it had to stay on display, to inspire me.

‘That is rude, you know,' I said. She glanced up from a photograph of Sophie and me outside the Prado, which I kept on my writing desk.

‘Why put them on display, then?' she asked. ‘I like this one. I'm surprised. She is prettier than I thought. But she tries too hard to pose for the camera. Have you seen her since then?'

‘No, she is stuck in New Zealand.'

‘Poor thing. She must be heartbroken. But consider this, Lawrence: you might as well be free. Why don't you run off somewhere? Have a proper holiday of your own down in Capri or Corfu. Somewhere fabulous.'

‘That depends. Would you come with me?'

‘I can't go to Capri again, darling. I've done it to death.' She examined the photograph closer. ‘This is funny, you know. She is trying too hard, but you could almost be enjoying yourself here.'

Over her shoulder I could see that my hair was too long in the photograph, as it still was, and I had not shaved well that day. But I was happy, happier than I remembered being at any time in Madrid.

‘So I don't look like that all the time?'

‘No. I see little flashes of it, every now and then. You try to hide them.'

We had come close together. Élodie's lips were not so far away from mine. I hesitated. What did I want? If I kissed her it would prove to her that I could be assertive and take charge, if I so desired. I wrapped my arm around her lower back. But Élodie drew away and replaced the photograph.

‘Come along,' she said coolly. ‘I am going to show you an alternative to this filth.'

I cursed myself for my stupidity. I was staring out at myself from the photograph, me with my excessive smile and one too many shirt buttons undone. And Sophie was staring out at me too, although she was avoiding the lens. I put the photograph in my desk drawer.

16

I suggested that we
take the métro over to the Eighth, but Élodie refused to hear a word of it. Nor would she take a taxi. Instead she led the way down the Rue de Seine, which was a colourful street lined with many galleries and alleyways that led into tree-filled courtyards.

‘You must read some more Baudelaire,' she said. ‘The point of walking is to see and to be seen. What does one see on the métro?'

‘Not much. It is faster, though.'

‘Indeed. Time is irrelevant to us.'

One of the galleries was showing a photography exhibition. Élodie caught me by the arm and pulled me over. The work in the window was a black-and-white view of Manhattan. The shadows and exposure were manipulated to give it a surreal quality.

‘What's interesting about that?'

‘Oh darling, it's beautiful. This man has captured how I feel about New York in one shot.' Her eyes were obscured by the sunglasses, but they must have been fixed on me. ‘You must go there, Lawrence. Promise me that you will, one day. If you want to have some real fun.'

There was nothing I could say. Did I want to have real fun? Élodie's interpretation of it was not the same as mine.

The street opened out at the riverbank, which was a relief after the narrow stone lanes of the Sixth. The
bouquinistes
were shut up against the weather, and their ancient green lids were covered with anarchist graffiti. I headed for the Pont des Arts.

‘Where are you going?' Élodie called out. ‘That bridge is no good. Too many sickening lovers.'

There were tourists on the bridge taking pictures of one another with their mobile phones, but there were also artists selling charcoal portraits and a man with a guitar and unruly dreadlocks. The couples were all enjoying themselves, but whether or not they were in love was another question. Élodie started down the quay towards the Pont du Carrousel.

‘How do you know that they are in love?' I asked as I caught up.

‘Because they aren't really in love. They attach a padlock to the railing and throw away the key. Blind sentimentality at its very worst.'

‘They aren't all like that. You try so hard to be cynical. It doesn't do you justice.'

‘Perhaps not. It is who I am, though. The world never ceases to underwhelm me. But you shouldn't think like that. It is a bad example to follow, and it can get you into all sorts of trouble.'

I was going to ask her what sorts of trouble it had got her into, but I stopped myself. I had my own theories on the matter.

‘Where is your apartment?' I asked as we crossed the bridge and walked through to the other side of the Place du Carrousel, alongside the Louvre. Tourists stood in an orderly line in front of the Pyramid, which was beckoning them into an overpriced underworld. The old buildings of the Louvre somehow showed none of their age.

‘I never said it was my apartment.'

‘Oh. Whose is it, then?' I asked.

‘It might as well be mine. It is on the Rue Lord Byron. Rather a long way off. Christ, we might have to get a taxi. I cannot walk up there in these shoes.'

‘You contradict yourself a lot, don't you?'

‘But I am not indecisive. You cannot accuse me of that.'

‘Perhaps not. Your problem is that you make too many decisions.'

She stopped walking and leant against a lamppost. I had been through the Place du Carrousel many times on my way to see the paintings in the museum. While it inspired a centuries-old sense of awe, it became less impressive with each visit. The triumphal arch opposite the Pyramid was grandiose, unrestrained in its use of pink marble and gold trimming. It was a neoclassical feast that nobody could finish. The sun was coming out from beyond the fast-burning snow cloud, and this illumination improved the scene. Élodie's sunglasses were no longer ridiculous.

‘Oh look,' she said. I followed her gaze towards two people who were coming through the archway that led onto the Rue de Rivoli. ‘You will never guess who that is.'

‘No, I probably won't.' They were faceless figures from this distance.

Élodie waved, and one of them waved back. ‘It's Ed. Would you believe it?'

My whole body tensed. As we drew closer, I saw that it really was Ed Selvin. He was wearing an overcoat and a patterned scarf, neither of which did much to complement his figure. He did not appear affected by the cold, and this must have been due to his extra layer of insulation. My cheeks and nose were pink, while his remained a sickly shade of white. He was with a girl, but she was not Vanessa. She was younger and blonder. Her face was hidden beneath too much blush, and she wore a tweed coat and knee-high boots, between which was a hint of her bare, pale legs.

‘Ed, darling, what a coincidence,' Élodie said. ‘You remember Lawrence, don't you?'

Selvin took in my new clothes as though I were part of a displeasing museum display. ‘Larry,' he said. ‘How could I forget you?' He did not introduce his latest piece of jewellery, and like Vanessa she stood removed from the conversation. ‘What are the chances of a meeting like this? Say, we should get a drink together.'

‘Why not make it lunch?' Élodie said.

‘All right.' He directed his attention to the bags we were carrying, and for a moment I thought that he might offer to carry some of mine. This proved to be wishful thinking. ‘What's with the bags? Are you in the charitable business?'

‘No, darling. I'm having a party tonight; I completely forgot to invite you. Everyone will be there. You must come along. I thought that you would be in New York.'

‘I've come over here to do some more talent scouting,' he said. This made me look at the girl a little more carefully. ‘Leaving tomorrow. So unfortunately I've already made plans for tonight.'

‘That really is too bad,' Élodie said. ‘Gosh, it is far too cold to be standing here. Tell me all about your wicked plans before we get to the restaurant.'

We walked towards the Cour Carrée. I had always liked the passage that linked it to the Carrousel. An old man played the cello, practically in the dark, and there was often a congregation around him. There was something communal and reverential about it. He kept his eyes down beneath a cloth hat, and he refused to be photographed. But there was no mystery to him; he was a man bound to his occupation, and nothing else mattered to him. I held back and watched him.

Élodie continued to enthuse. She made herself even more ridiculous around Selvin, and they walked close together. The footpath in this passage was wide enough for three people, so I was left to bring up the rear.

‘I hope that we haven't interrupted anything,' she said.

‘Not at all. We were going to have a drink right about now. What have you been doing all this time? How's Marcel?'

‘You know perfectly well how Marcel is. And I have been doing nothing out of the ordinary. I felt a desire to cut loose today, though. To enjoy ourselves while we still can.'

‘And are you enjoying yourself?'

‘Ever so much. You can't begin to imagine. Lawrence is being a wet blanket, though.'

This stung. Perhaps Élodie's jocular treatment of me masked something else. Selvin must have seen my blush. I wished that I could have some control over it, and willed the blood to leave my cheeks.

The chosen restaurant was beside the Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, and it had orange awnings. They were the only injections of colour in this otherwise grey corner of the city. What few trees stood on this street were skeletal, and looked as though they might disintegrate in a gust of wind. There were no free tables in the
salle
. The waiter recognised Selvin, even though I presumed that he did not live in Paris. He might have had a pied-à-terre, a concept that I did not understand. At his request, we were shown to the private room and given a table by the window. The waiter took our shopping bags and coats and pushed our chairs in. We were a motley group. Selvin's attachment was my age, and yet she could never have passed for my sister. Or so I hoped.

‘How is New York, darling?' Élodie said to Selvin. ‘I should so love to be there right now. This town is too dreary in winter.'

‘I couldn't agree more,' Selvin said. His bad posture irritated me. It gave him the appearance of a sleek hog dressed up and made to sit at the table as part of some cruel joke. ‘New York stays alive in the wintertime. This place closes up for months. I find it terribly dull.'

‘I hope you don't find me terribly dull?'

‘No, you light it up.'

‘Oh please, you silly man. Do you expect me to swallow such shameless flattery?'

‘I do.'

We were the only diners in this part of the restaurant. Blinds obscured most of the windows. It was designed with privacy in mind. Bookshelves formed the surrounding walls. Although I would usually have disliked this injection of quaintness, it created an atmosphere that Manet could have turned into a smoky drinking den. A shaded lamp hung over the table from the ceiling, skewed at an angle and adorned with tassels.

Their conversation continued to exclude, and I felt myself falling into the same shipwreck site as the nameless girl, who was smiling at nothing. It was Biarritz all over again. But this time I resolved to involve myself in the conversation.

‘This is a nice place,' I said to Élodie. ‘You've been here before, haven't you?'

‘I suggested it, Lawrence, so it would make sense. But I am glad that it stands up to your advanced tastes.'

‘Ed, have you been here too?' I said. ‘The waiter did recognise you.'

‘No,' he said. ‘You must have got that wrong.'

‘So I take it that you don't come to Paris all that often?'

‘Your friend here is rather impertinent,' he said to Élodie, ‘isn't he?'

‘Yes, he is. Do stop it, Lawrence, you will embarrass yourself.'

‘I was wondering,' I said, ‘because it's a coincidence. You turning up here, when you live in New York.'

‘Lawrence, darling,' Élodie started to say, but Selvin cut across her.

‘No matter, Élodie. There's nothing wrong with a bit of innocent curiosity.' He faced me with sunken eyes, which made him look older than he had before. ‘I have a branch of my business here, so I have to come over every now and then. I've always had an affinity with French culture, you know. So it's an excellent excuse to be at home here. But you're young. I wouldn't expect you to understand these things.'

‘And what is your business?'

‘I'm a filmmaker. Did Élodie not tell you that?'

‘She did. Although I don't know what sort of films you make.'

‘Wow, kid. You couldn't sound much more suspicious. I swear I'm not a criminal, Your Honour.'

‘I wasn't accusing you of anything. I thought that I should know something about you before we had lunch together.'

Élodie and the girl were staring at me with some incredulity. Perhaps foolishly I thought of this as an achievement to be proud of. Selvin was speechless for the first time since we had met. I drank some water, keeping my gaze levelled at him.

‘How does Lawrence look to you, darling?' Élodie said. She was nervous, close to panic. ‘He picked out these clothes on his own, and I am getting my tailor to do him a shirt for this evening.'

‘Very nice,' Selvin said. His brow was flat. It gave nothing away. ‘Not many people could pull that style off. I can't think of the word to describe it. Retro, perhaps. But that doesn't quite do you justice, does it Larry?'

I didn't know how to react and started to read the menu. My shame must have been palpable. Élodie glanced over at me a few times, and her intimidating expression demanded that I cheer up, or else. This made me feel worse. I gave my order in clumsy French, while Élodie delivered both hers and Selvin's in familiar fashion. The girl was indeed French and she ordered a vegetarian salad, with no wine.