The Train to Paris (20 page)

‘What are you doing?' I said, not ashamed enough to hide my disbelief. She put a finger to her lips and came up closer to me. Her breast touched mine. It was cold, but I could feel the blood surging through her veins. ‘What if the guests come?'

‘We have an hour. Now relax. Let me do the work. And get on the floor.'

It was an order, and I obeyed. In her hands she held a pair of silver scissors. I leant over the edge of the bath, and I felt her legs pressed up against my back. They too were cold. I willed myself to trust her, even though I could imagine her taking the sharpened end of the scissor to my throat and letting me bleed into her husband's spotless bathtub.

She was, in fact, gentle, if meticulous. She ran her hands through my hair, then used the shower head to rinse out the residue. When she dropped a towel to my head she grew rough with it. I heard the clink of bangles on her arms, and I felt her skin against my back. She did not speak during this ritual.

‘Thank you,' I said once she had finished.

‘Not at all. You will like it. Now have a shave and get dressed. And put on that perfume. You smell terrible.'

I had been hoping that she would impose herself a little more, and that I would have to fight her off. I almost asked her to stay. But she picked herself up and left the bathroom. Why had she done that? She knew that I wanted to touch her again.

I admired my new head of hair in the mirror. Élodie had crafted it well. It was short at the sides and thick on top, with a gentle gradation between the two. The perfume lay waiting in its gold packaging. I sprayed it twice around my neck, and then wondered if this was enough. In the end I applied it all over my body. I shaved, and plucked the few remaining hairs between my eyebrows with a set of tweezers. Clothed again in my new shirt and my white trousers, my reflection continued to surprise me.

When I emerged, I saw that Élodie had changed into a brilliant white cocktail dress, adorned with black sequins. The white of her flame stockings melded with the dress. Her hair was held together by an ivory comb. And she had applied a glistening red lipstick. She was clicking around in her high heels, lining up silver trays of canapés.

‘You do clean up rather nicely,' she said. ‘I work miracles, do I not?'

‘You could say that.' I was dazed from our encounter. It felt as though I had taken a tranquiliser. ‘Do you need any help there?'

‘No thank you, darling. But good on you for asking. You just drink some more.' She had refilled my glass. Our eyes met, and I could see that there was mischief in hers. I wondered if she had slipped a drug into the drink.

‘So what can you tell me about these people?' I asked. ‘You know I need all the help I can get.'

‘All you need to do is remember everything I have taught you so far. And do make sure that you stay true to yourself.'

‘There's a contradiction in that, isn't there?'

‘But you know how much of what I do is based on contradiction. And I am doing fine.' Her voice faltered, although I could tell that she was trying to be flippant. ‘Anyway, two of them have come over from London. They have a son about your age, but that won't matter because you are nothing like him. The Fanshawes. Arthur used to work in finance, and now he claims to be a consultant, but we all know that he is unemployed. Some of them work with Marcel, some in advertising. The rest are in fashion.'

‘Right. And where do you fit in?'

She busied herself by taking the trays through to the reception area. The back of her dress was as low as the one that she had worn in Biarritz, and it tapered off in a silky white knot.

‘Select some music, darling,' she said from the other room. ‘Nothing too showy. Something that will disappear into the background.'

‘I'm no good with music.'

‘There's no trick to it. Be discerning.'

I found myself standing before five long shelves of vinyl records. None of them were familiar to me. This was where I needed Ethan, who would at least decide on something and not worry about it being the wrong choice. I ran a finger along the edge of the plastic wrappings, and selected one at random. The sleeve showed a sepia photograph of a well-dressed man with a saxophone at his lips. Did the records belong to Marcel or Élodie? I flicked the vinyl from the sleeve and put it on the turntable. It was a relic from some lost point in history. I was glad that Élodie listened to vinyl. It suited her.

A low-key bass and piano line faded in, and Élodie came through with her glass of champagne.

‘Excellent choice,' she said. ‘See? It's not so hard when you put your mind to it.'

‘Are these your records?' I asked.

‘Some of them are. The classical ones belong to Marcel.'

‘What if he came back right now, and found the two of us? What would he do?'

‘Who? Marcel? He won't. But I like the thought that he might. Don't you? It makes things more exciting.'

‘I thought that when you first mentioned him. Now I'm not so sure.'

She put her glass down and placed both hands on my shoulders. ‘Darling,' she said. ‘Let me worry about Marcel. I can do enough of that for both of us.'

She was so close that I could taste a hint of her breath. It smelled of cigarette ash and alcohol. I wanted to share it. It would have been easy. I could move in one step closer.

The intercom rang and Élodie took her hands off my shoulders.

‘Brace yourself, darling,' she said. ‘I might have to get drunk.'

She took up her glass again and drank it dry before she went to unlock the door. She held both arms out to balance herself. They were so white that they could have been an extension of the dress. I ran a hand through my hair.

Élodie waited by the door until the knock came. Then she waited several more seconds before opening it, as though she was practising her restraint. I stood out of the way, thinking of how to present myself to the couple who had arrived. He wore a tight tuxedo. There was a prominent vein on his temple, and his expression was pompous. He would not stand still. His shoulders were hunched, and I thought that he must have been nervous. His wife stood removed from him. She had a full face with kind eyes that reminded me of Sophie, except that the lines around her mouth were wrinkled.

‘Welcome, welcome,' Élodie said with too much enthusiasm, kissing them both. ‘I'm sorry that Marcel couldn't be here tonight. Business took him to New York. But I have found a more than adequate replacement.'

This had to be my cue. I did my best to sidle through to the reception area as though my timing was purely coincidental.

‘Lawrence Williams,' I said, presenting a hand to each of them. ‘Pleasure to meet you.'

Élodie's face rose in delight at these words. Had I finally adopted the right tone?

‘Arthur Fanshawe,' the man said, keeping his hand clasped around mine. He turned to Élodie. ‘Good Lord, my dear; where have you been hiding this one?'

‘Very good, Arthur,' she said. ‘I told you about Lawrence. Don't you remember? I found him, all lost and forlorn, in the train station. I took him to Biarritz, and we had such a fine time.'

‘Ah, yes. Now I remember. What a terrific story. What has brought him to this party?'

‘He
is
the party. He tells me that he never celebrated his birthday in November, so this is a belated bit of carousal on his behalf.'

‘I say, very sensible. How old are you, my man?'

He might have already misplaced my name. Élodie shot me a look.

‘Twenty-seven,' I said.

Élodie raised her eyebrows. Less than a minute in, and I had already let her down.

‘Oh yes, good,' Fanshawe said, as though the matter of my age was commendable in itself. ‘And what do you do with yourself?'

‘Really, Arthur,' Élodie said. ‘That is the rudest thing you could ever ask in this country. Your first faux pas.'

‘If only that were true,' he said. ‘I'm sorry for not being more familiar with the intricacies of French etiquette. But nobody here is
really
French, are they?'

‘My other guests are. Make sure not to upset them.'

‘Wouldn't dream of it.'

They all returned their attention to me, and waited for me to answer the question.

‘He is a painter, if you must know,' Élodie said in an impressively offhand manner. ‘He does all sorts of things, don't you, Lawrence?'

‘Yes, yes I do. I studied at the École des Beaux-Arts, and I had an exhibition at a gallery in the Sixth. It wasn't all that successful, but it's a start.'

‘How impressive,' Fanshawe said. ‘What sort of paintings are they?'

‘Do have a glass of champagne,' Élodie said to the Fanshawes, before I could take this fabrication any further. ‘You haven't seen the place since we redid the main room. Come through, come and see it. We had to be creative with such a small space.'

I struggled to make sense of this. No person in their right mind could describe the room as small. But, then, Élodie was never in her right mind. She poured the champagne in one smooth movement and led the way through to the living area, explaining every detail of the renovation. I finished my champagne and went to pour myself another glass. The night was going to be a long one.

21

The other guests arrived
over the next hour. I did my best to participate, although my amateur French made it difficult. I had never grasped the unspoken rules of Parisian conversation. It felt as if I were trapped in an absurd play. Élodie left me to fend for myself after she had introduced me to everyone, recounting our meeting in the process. She was always selective about the details.

Arthur Fanshawe grew very drunk. He tripped and spilled wine over the carpet. Contrary to her words of warning, Élodie remained in a state of tranquillity despite the amount of champagne she'd had. And yet her restraint was more disturbing than Fanshawe's unbridled behaviour. It made me wonder how much of her day she spent intoxicated.

I found myself talking to an Italian interior designer named Armando. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his thin eyebrows were adorned with piercings. He spoke limited French and no English. The party was livening up, and it was hard to hold a conversation over the clamour. Élodie had changed the music to a raucous swing record, with trumpet solos and tribal rhythms, but nobody was dancing. She was entertaining a group with a long story, and they were listening with rapture. Despite fierce competition, she was by far the best dressed in the room.

‘So what do you do?' Armando asked. He had been telling me about his career, and I had understood little of it.

‘I'm a painter,' I said. ‘Had an exhibition earlier this year and now I'm trying to find inspiration for a new show.'

He nodded along, although he was as confused as me. He was slight of frame and dressed trimly. My shirt was made from a better cut, but he pulled the whole look off with more confidence. His sports jacket fit tight while mine hung limp.

‘How do you know Élodie?' I asked.

‘I don't,' he said. ‘She is the host, yes? My partner knows her. He designed that dress.'

‘It is beautiful,' I said. ‘So you don't know anybody here either?'

‘Some by reputation.'

‘And what is Élodie's reputation?'

Armando became uneasy. He must have misunderstood. I repeated the question.

‘Her reputation? You would have to ask Sergio. He knows more about her.'

‘Sergio is your partner?'

‘He's the one talking to her right now.'

I could see that Sergio did not dress with the same restraint that Armando managed. His jacket was made from red velvet, and it had been hung over a low-cut singlet.

‘He hasn't told you anything about her?'

‘I cannot repeat. I might get some of the details wrong.'

I made a vague excuse to Armando and headed through the press of bodies. A group of well-dressed men had descended around the grand piano, and they were hammering at the keys in time to the music from the stereo. I pushed past two men and a woman, who were taking turns kissing each other. It could have been a performance piece. The wine had been laid out on the kitchen bench and the guests were making the most of it. Élodie caught my eye as I approached. She beckoned me over.

‘Darlings,' she said to the fashionistas, in French. ‘Here is the star of the show, the boy that I was telling you about.' She wrapped an arm around my middle and presented me to the made-up dolls, one of whom I recognised from a perfume advertisement on the métro.

‘This is his first tailored shirt,' Élodie continued. She pushed me into the circle. ‘Go on, Lawrence. Do a twirl. Show off.'

I did as I was told, even though this made me feel like a performing monkey. They all laughed, Élodie too. I was doing something wrong.

‘This is the boy that you found sleeping in a train station?' one of them said.

‘Why yes,' said Élodie as I was about to correct her. ‘I have something of a soft spot for such hopeless young causes. He has done well for himself, has he not?'

Élodie began to introduce me. I forgot their names. But when she arrived at Sergio, I manoeuvred myself around to stand next to him. Curiosity had taken over. I wanted to know the truth, whatever it was.

‘I hear that you designed Élodie's dress,' I said. He was unhappy to be trapped in my exclusive company.

‘I did,' he said. ‘You like it?'

‘It's beautiful. Do you know Élodie well?'

‘Well enough. We met through her husband. He wanted her to have something spectacular that would make his colleagues sick with envy.'

This could have been the same story behind every one of Élodie's dresses. I tried to get an impression of Marcel's tastes from the apartment's furnishings. It was all showy and expensive. The diamonds in the chandelier matched the ones in Élodie's ears.