A Week in Paris (21 page)

‘Doctor, it’s Fay Knox, calling from Paris.’

‘Fay.’ The man was equally surprised. ‘I was on my way out. You were lucky to catch me.’

‘I’m sorry if you’re in a hurry, but I wondered if you could tell me how my mother is.’ She pressed the receiver closer to her ear, winding the flex around her fingers.

‘Of course. I spent some time with her today. She’s doing well. Brighter, if anything, I’d say.’

‘Is she?’ Fay said, releasing the flex and smiling. ‘That is wonderful. Would you mind giving her a message from me? Tell her that I’m fine, the concerts are going well, and that I’ve found Nathalie Ramond. That’s an old friend of my mother’s. Please be sure to tell her that.’

Fay spelled the surname for him, and the doctor promised to tell Kitty. He said goodbye and she replaced the receiver with a sense of lightness. Her mother was getting better!

Half an hour later, Fay was resting on her bed, waiting for Sandra to be ready and wondering why there had been no message from Adam, when one of the hotel staff knocked on the door. There was someone on the telephone for her – a Monsieur Warner. She hurried downstairs, breathless with anticipation. In reception, she leaned her elbows on the desk listening to Adam’s voice ask her about her day. He had an attractive voice on the telephone, warm and low, almost confiding, though because of the background noise at his end she guessed this was because he didn’t want to be overheard by the rest of the office.

‘I’ve had a really interesting afternoon,’ she said in answer to his question.

‘I look forward to hearing all about it. Are you still able to meet me tonight?’

‘Yes, of course, but Adam, I simply must have a drink with the others first or they’ll think I’m rude. Would you mind picking me up from Harry’s Bar at about eight?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Oh, and you won’t need your diamonds tonight. We’re going to be new Bohemians.’

‘What diamonds are those?’ She was amused.

‘I only meant we’ll be going to the Left Bank.’ He chuckled. ‘See you later.’ And he rang off.

Bohemians, honestly, she thought, grinning as she skipped back upstairs. What should she wear? She had a mental picture of loose flowing dresses and trailing head-scarves, but that was the 1920s, wasn’t it, and she owned nothing like that. Maybe he was referring to Simone de Beauvoir, or today’s young intellectuals – the Nouvelle Vague, Jean-Luc Godard? She’d glimpsed a picture of the film-maker’s pretty new wife on the cover of
Paris Match
, all pale lipstick and a rose in her hair. She preferred the singer Juliette Gréco. Mysterious in black with great kohled eyes . . .

Back in her room she washed quickly, dabbed on some cold cream, frowning at herself in the washstand mirror, then contemplated her meagre wardrobe. She selected finally a flared skirt in a stiff, shiny material, matching it with a silky black top, and dressing up the outfit with a pendant on a gold chain. Gold clip earrings, lashings of eye-liner, some pale lipstick, then a quick brush of her hair, which fell nicely into Jean-Paul’s layered waves, and she would have to do. She turned as the door opened and Sandra came into the room like a queen in a golden robe and a towel turban, and with her face glowing pink from her bath.

‘Oh là là, we
are
chic!’ Sandra exclaimed on seeing Fay.

‘Are we?’ Fay sat on her bed to roll on her stockings, smiling up at her.

‘
Très parisienne
.
Très jolie.
’

Fay laughed. She told her friend about the telephone call and finished, ‘I’ve no idea where Adam’s taking me.’ Despite the story she’d heard this afternoon she felt very happy suddenly. Her mother was improving and she was looking forward to the evening ahead. Sandra knew nothing of this afternoon’s quest, and when Fay changed handbags, something made her hide the wooden zebra in the lining of her suitcase. The past could stay safely in the past for a little while longer.

But the past did not do that at all. As soon as she and Sandra walked into Harry’s Bar, she remembered that it was here, according to Mme Ramond, that her father had brought her mother on their first evening together. From the neon sign outside to the dark wooden panelling and plush red seating within, it felt clubbish in that East Coast American kind of way she’d seen in films, and she wondered if it had always been like this or whether it had changed much since 1937. Certainly many of the clientele were still well-heeled Americans and from somewhere further inside cascaded the bright notes of a pianist playing ‘The Entertainer’.

Fay was surprised to see only five members of the orchestra at the bar, and they were Frank Sowden and his acolytes: the eldest of the first violinists, the bassoonist and two brass players, in evening suits. ‘So where’s everyone else then?’ Sandra whispered in her ear. ‘Frank said—’

‘Ah, the fair sex, at last,’ Frank interrupted. ‘Cocktails, ladies? What’ll you have?’ His satyr-like face was flushed, as though he’d been making his way down the cocktail menu for some time already.

‘A White Lady for me, thank you, Frank,’ Sandra said in a prim voice and Fay said she’d have the same.

‘Harry’s Bar invented the White Lady, don’t you know,’ Frank said as they watched the barman measure gin and Cointreau into a shaker. ‘And the Bloody Mary, if you’ll pardon my French.’

‘How fascinating,’ Sandra said. ‘Where are the others? I thought you said everyone was coming.’

‘It seems they have no sense of adventure.’ Frank pressed his lips together. ‘Some of ’em went off to a chamber concert. I don’t know about the rest. Tucked into bed early with their teddies, I expect, ready for the schools concert tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘It appears we’re the only ones to make a proper evening of it. And we shall. Carpe diem, seize the day. Or the night rather. Chin-chin, ladies.’

A glazed look of politeness crossed Sandra’s face as she took a large sip of her cocktail.

‘Actually, neither of us can stay long, I’m afraid,’ Fay said, trying to look regretful. Frank gave a harrumph of disappointment, but she didn’t care. If they’d known it was just his small coterie who’d be here, she would never have come. They were the more raffish element of the orchestra, the ones who turned up to the morning rehearsals late and bleary-eyed. It didn’t seem to affect the high standard of their playing, goodness knows how, but it displeased the conductor all the same.

‘That is a pity,’ Frank said, waggling his eyebrows. ‘We’d better make the most of you ladies whilst you’re here. Where shall we disport ourselves?’

Fay found herself squeezed between Sandra and Frank at a table, the drink relaxing her despite everything. Sandra finished hers quickly and kept glancing at her dainty wristwatch. Whilst the other men argued about where they should go to eat, Frank jiggled his leg against Fay’s and rambled on.

‘So you’re enjoying Gay Paree, are you, girls? Marvellous city, isn’t it? Always love coming here. So invigorating after stuffy old London. I was here during the war, you know.’

‘Were you?’ Fay said, edging her knee away.

‘Twenty-sixth of August 1944, we followed de Gaulle and the Frenchies in. The fighting was mostly over by that time though. The Resistance fellows had done the messy business. They didn’t muck about, by all accounts. Not that
le Général
was very happy about that. He wanted the glory for himself, you see.’ Frank had a solemn air, and despite his reductive interpretation Fay caught a glimpse of a more serious person beneath the habitual banter.

‘I don’t really know much about it,’ she said humbly. ‘Only that General de Gaulle spent most of the war in London trying to help his country from there. And after France was liberated he became President.’ Beside her, Sandra was laughing at some anecdote the bassoonist was recounting, her head lifted, revealing her long white throat.

‘That’s right. Well, some of the Parisians weren’t at all pleased to be liberated. They’d got their feet under the enemy’s table, you see. Collaboration – and worse. I saw some nasty incidents, I can tell you. Rough justice, acts of revenge, that sort of thing.’ He looked about him furtively, like a conspirator, then leaned across and said hoarsely,

‘I’ll tell you what, you don’t want to scratch beneath the skins of some of the people in this city. They know things they want to forget about. The war was only yesterday.’

‘It feels like ancient history to me.’ His words gave her a shiver of dread though.

‘So it should,’ he continued, his eyes twinkling. ‘We need to press on with life, don’t we? Now, how are you doing with that tipple? Have another, will we?’

On the dot of seven forty-five, Sandra stood up. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, but I promised to be at Maxim’s about now.’

‘Maxim’s, eh? Very nice,’ Frank sneered. As she left, Sandra telegraphed Fay a glance of sympathy.

‘Hope you meet Monsieur Delon,’ Fay told her.

‘What’s that?’ Frank growled.

‘Oh, nothing. I’ll have to go when my friend comes,’ Fay told him. Glancing surreptitiously at her watch for the hundredth time, she wondered where Adam could be. Quarter past eight came, half past, and here she was still stuck with Frank and his chums, who were now gossiping unpleasantly about other members of the orchestra. She hardly heard. She was worried that something was wrong, that Adam wasn’t coming after all. Had he gone to a different bar? She went over their conversation in her mind, but still thought she’d got the time and meeting place right. There was a lump in her throat. He’d let her down.

At a quarter past nine there was still no sign of Adam, and Frank was glancing at her pityingly, so she made a decision to cut her losses and return to the hotel. She hadn’t eaten, but didn’t feel like anything now, and if she did later, perhaps she could order a snack at one of the cafés near the Madeleine. She thanked Frank for the drinks, but then, as she was going out of the door, she almost bumped into Adam coming in. He was agitated and quite out of breath.

‘Fay, thank heavens I caught you.’ He ushered her outside and stood facing her. ‘Something came up I had to deal with. Look, I can’t say how sorry I am – are you very angry with me?’ His hair was ruffled and the look of dismay on his face melted her heart.

‘A little. Not really,’ she said, trying to be cool, though in truth she only felt terribly relieved. She waited for him to tell her what it was that had kept him, but he didn’t, merely saying, ‘Shall we go by Métro? It’s only a couple of stops.’ They began to walk to the station. It had started to rain, but not enough to matter.

‘Where are we going?’

‘A restaurant where interesting people go. The décor’s a bit on the plain side, but the food’s excellent. Are you hungry?’

‘Yes,’ she said with enthusiasm. For suddenly she was very hungry indeed.

The restaurant on the Left Bank was in a small street off the river, in the shadow of the great gothic edifice of St-Germain-des-Prés. As they approached, the golden light of its window was a patch of warmth in the gloom of the square, and when they entered, she saw that the light came from candles, mounted in old wine bottles around the room.

‘I was in too much of a hurry to go home and change,’ Adam confessed, when they took off their coats and she saw he was wearing his workday suit. ‘But you, you really look the part!’

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to wear.’

She looked about with pleasure at where he’d brought her, at the Audrey Hepburn film posters on the walls, the communal wooden tables with their paper tablecloths, the rough and ready stylishness of it all. It was busy, but not full. Everyone was dressed in ordinary clothes – there was a young woman mannish in slacks and a polo-neck sweater, her
petit ami
in white shirt and a cravat tied with typical Parisian elegance. The atmosphere was cheerfully noisy and the other diners did look interesting. There were a couple of pale studenty types in jackets with frayed cuffs devouring enormous bowls of stew. A plump woman with short iron-grey hair sat against the far wall, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, an open Penguin paperback held up in front of her. Two older men and an intense girl of Fay’s age argued in loud, urgent French about politics, gesticulating furiously.

Adam seemed to know the patron, a bluff fellow with a white apron tied round his portly belly, who pointed them to spaces at a table in the window, then came across to take their order, inclining his head as he memorized their choices.

They sat quietly over the glasses of glowing red wine he poured them, enjoying the ambience. Adam had still not explained the reason for his lateness, and Fay remained puzzled, though she assumed it had something to do with his work.

The patron brought plates of coarse pâté and wished them
bon appétit.
Adam offered Fay curls of thin toast from a basket. ‘When I telephoned,’ he said, ‘you mentioned you’d had an interesting afternoon. Was it to do with this woman you went to see?’

‘Yes, it was.’ Here, in the cosiness of the restaurant, Fay felt relaxed enough to confide in him. ‘She’s the wife of a concert pianist and it turns out that she knew my mother. Adam,’ she said, meeting his eyes with growing excitement, ‘she says I lived in Paris once. That I was born here. This must be why I keep having those odd episodes. They’re memories. Or as much as they can be, given how young I was.’

‘Memories? You mean what happened in the Champs-Élysées yesterday?’ Adam looked puzzled, so she explained what Mme Ramond had told her. How her mother had met Fay’s American father here, their experiences in the early days of the war.

‘And you say this woman was a friend of your mother? How is it you’ve never heard of her before?’

‘I think they must have lost contact.’ Fay thought for a bit. ‘Or I wonder if something came between them. Well, I expect I’ll find out more tomorrow.’ She crunched a mouthful of toast and pâté, appreciating the savoury taste as she thought about what the woman had said. ‘It’s so strange,’ she went on. ‘All sorts of things are being dredged up. Things I never knew about my mother.’ She shook her head. It was difficult to explain her feelings; she didn’t understand them herself yet.