A Week in Paris (23 page)

I don’t need looking after
, she told herself. And yet it appeared that she did. This evening, outside her family’s old apartment, she’d been prepared to simply walk inside. What if she had, and someone had been there? Perhaps the past was driving her on, thrusting itself remorselessly into the present.

She thought again of the man with the grand moustaches who’d emerged from the flat next door. She’d never seen him before. She’d expected a man to live there, but not that one.

As she drowsed, a picture formed in her mind of a man reading. Whenever she saw him, which was quite often, because he didn’t go off to work in the morning like her father, his nose was in the pages of a book. Whether waiting for the lift, or outside in the street, her mother would have to repeat her greeting before he’d look up from the page and stammer a reply. At first Fay was shy of him, for his skin was lined like a winter apple and he wore thick-lensed spectacles that made his eyes appear unnaturally large, but she liked the way his greying hair stood on end like a halo when he pushed his spectacles up on to his head and how he smiled down at her, not stern or falsely cheerful like some grown-ups, but with complicity, as though he remembered exactly what it was like to be nearly three.

Another picture took the place of the first. They met him coming out of the boulangerie, carrying his book under one arm and a baguette under the other and he nodded to them as he passed. Fay stared bewitched at his departing figure, then pointed, laughing, and said a word she still couldn’t manage yet, but which her mother understood: ‘Zipper’. Her mother gave a delighted ‘Oh!’ and squeezed her daughter’s hand. The man was wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. After this, Fay always spoke of him as ‘M’sieur Zipper’.

Friday

When Fay woke it was to a faint dawn light filtering through the curtains and the soft purr of Sandra snoring in the other bed. She remembered her dream. It had been the man next door who’d given her the zebra, she knew that now. ‘Zipper,’ she whispered to herself. Maybe she’d called her zebra Zipper because he’d given it to her, or simply because it was striped, like his slippers.

When she went downstairs to breakfast at eight she left Sandra sleeping. She had tried to wake her, but Sandra had muttered, ‘Too early, go ’way,’ so she let her lie. After all, the morning’s concert wasn’t until ten. There was no sign of the two or three others from the orchestra who were staying in this hotel, and Fay ate her rolls and jam alone.

She was enjoying a second cup of the milky coffee when the receptionist she’d spoken to about finding the convent entered and came across to her. ‘
Une lettre pour vous, mademoiselle
,’ the woman said with a polite smile as she placed an envelope on the table by her plate.

‘
Merci
.’ Fay picked the letter up and examined the envelope, wondering who would write to her with a French stamp. Tearing it open, she slid out a single folded sheet. By the letterhead she saw it was from the priest she’d met at the convent. It was short and to the point, but as she read it a sense of excitement stole over her.

And a scrawled signature underneath:
André Blanc
.

She brushed at some breadcrumbs that had fallen on it and read it again, wondering what he could possibly have found. She must go to see the man as soon as possible – but when? Not until after the concert, that was for sure, and she was supposed to see Mme Ramond in the early afternoon. It was past nine now, she saw, glancing at her watch, and she should wake Sandra. Perhaps she would ring the curé in a moment.

With an auditorium full of excited children the orchestra members were more relaxed this morning. They were to play a light programme:
Peter and the Wolf
, the Nutcracker Suite and a Mozart overture – nothing very demanding, but an air of enjoyment was vital to the success of it. It wasn’t only Fay, therefore, who was shocked when Frank appeared in the Green Room beforehand looking deathly pale and with all the signs of a hangover. She noticed the conductor giving him a black look. The rest of his coterie simply looked tired. Sandra, remarkably enough, was as fresh as a flower.

Fay found her spirits lifted by the playfulness of the music, and for an hour or two she was able to forget her tiredness and all the worries that beset her. Music did that for her, took her out of herself, and she sensed the rapt attention of the young audience. Music was a gift she could give them, too. So the concert flew by.

There was no time to visit the priest, Fay told herself in the Green Room afterwards. She’d tried to ring him earlier whilst she had been waiting for Sandra to get dressed, but there had been no answer.

‘That was rather fun,’ James, the violinist with silver hair, remarked, breaking into her thoughts.

‘They were very appreciative,’ Fay agreed.

‘You sound as though you know what you’re doing, I must say,’ he said in an encouraging tone.

‘Do I?’ Fay loosened her bow, pleasure swelling in her at his compliment. ‘I feel I’m keeping up, at least.’

‘That’s the most important thing.’

She was leaving the Green Room to look for Sandra when she bumped into Colin as he came marching in. ‘Oh!’

‘Steady,’ he said, grasping her arm. ‘Ah, Fay, a quick word if I may.’ She allowed him to steer her out into the corridor, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

‘How do you feel you’re getting on?’ His eyes, thankfully, were kind.

‘Oh, it’s going well, I think.’ Nervousness made her gabble. ‘I’m enjoying myself enormously.’ It was the truth. When she played, it was as though she became a part of the music as it swelled and ebbed, and this satisfied something profound in her.

‘Good. Just thought I’d check. There might be an opportunity for you to continue playing with us – we’ll see.’ He patted her arm in a paternal fashion, and she saw that his thoughts were already on something else.

‘Thank you, that would be wonderful,’ she replied as he moved away. What had
that
been about? she wondered. She watched him pick up a sheet of music and return it to the oboeist who’d dropped it, exchanging some quip about notes floating in the air.

‘Teacher’s pet are we now, eh?’ came a familiar voice from behind. She looked round to see Frank who, close up, looked puffy-faced, his thinning hair greasy. The stink of stale alcohol was on his breath.

‘I think he was simply being polite.’ She was shocked at Frank’s change of attitude to her.

Frank made a dismissive gesture, but before he could say anything else Sandra hurried up and hoiked her away to have lunch.

‘You looked as though you needed rescuing,’ she whispered as Fay followed her to the cloakroom.

‘I did. He was being a little unpleasant.’

‘I’ll say. Taking his bad mood out on you. I suppose you didn’t see?’ Sandra said, as they found their coats.

‘See what?’

‘At the end you rushed off, but I was messing about with my music-stand and heard Colin call Frank back. I didn’t hear the exact words, but Colin was clearly tearing him off a strip. Frank looked ghastly when he walked past me just now.’

The two girls pushed open the back door and walked out on to the street.

No wonder Frank had seemed so resentful of her just now, Fay thought. It must have stung, seeing her being complimented by Colin, and yet it was unfair of him to be so changeable. He’d been almost fawning last night. She recalled the drinks he’d bought her and wished now she hadn’t let him.

‘He’s a funny old stick,’ she sighed.

‘That’s a generous way of putting it. Of course, everybody’s used to him – he’s played with the orchestra forever. I say, shall we find somewhere we can sit outside? It’s so warm.’

It was sunny and there was a light breeze. A perfect spring day. Still, Fay could not relax and enjoy it. It was partly Frank, but everything else crowded in, too: thoughts of Adam, and her forthcoming visit to Mme Ramond to hear more about her mother. Then there was the matter of the priest’s letter to follow up. She had better try telephoning again later.

‘Fay?’ Sandra broke into her reverie. ‘Are you all right? You’re not really bothered by Frank, are you? Don’t, he’s not worth it.’

‘No,’ Fay said. ‘It’s been a long morning, that’s all.’

‘Come on, let’s try here.’ They’d come to an elegant café with round tables outside. At one, two young men in sunglasses, drinking lager, eyed them appreciatively. At another, a Parisian matron in an elegant woollen suit was slipping bits of bread to a greedy terrier sitting in her lap, a napkin tied round its fat neck.

The girls settled themselves at an empty table and after a moment a jolly-looking waiter stepped out and took their order.

‘Now,’ said Sandra, when he’d brought their wine. ‘Confession time. I simply must tell you about last night. We all went back to Georges’ place after the meal. So modern. Leather sofas, a glass coffee table – and you should have seen the kitchen.’

‘And did you meet Alain Delon?’

‘He wasn’t there, but it was quite a party. There was a girl who was in that film called
Breathless
– terribly pretty face. Now you must tell me about your evening with Adam, you naughty thing.’

Fay laughed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been naughty at all.’ Still, she was careful to ask questions about Georges and his film friends for most of lunchtime, so that she didn’t have to talk about Adam.

Sandra was very entertaining company. ‘There was an older man who begged me to go for a screen test,’ she said, smiling, ‘but Georges got annoyed and told me this director was always promising parts to girls he fancied, so I said no. I think Georgie Boy gets a teeny bit jealous.’

Because lunch went on, Fay was late for her appointment with Mme Ramond. The lift in the apartment block didn’t come right away so she ran up the stairs instead, the clack of her heels echoing in the stairwell.

The door to the flat opened at once to her knock. Seeing Fay flustered and out of breath, Mme Ramond’s eyes widened in alarm and the colour drained from her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ she croaked, clutching at a silver crucifix she wore.

‘Nothing,’ Fay said in surprise. ‘I’m sorry to be so late. I was lunching with a friend and it was difficult to get away without seeming rude.’

‘Oh, that’s all.’ The woman visibly relaxed as she let Fay into the apartment. ‘I feared you weren’t coming.’

Fay apologized again, finding the woman’s concern out of all proportion to her being a few minutes late. Was it simply the anxiety of a lonely woman, or something more? Perhaps Mme Ramond’s unburdening of herself was as important to her as it was to Fay. If so, there was some mystery at the heart of this matter that wasn’t just to do with Fay and her mother, but with Mme Ramond too.

She followed the older woman into the drawing room where cups and saucers were laid out on a tray, along with a plate of palm-shaped biscuits. Whilst Mme Ramond made tea, Fay took a seat on the sofa and looked about her. The room was exactly the same as yesterday, the music in its neat pile on the gleaming piano, the clock ticking peacefully on the mantelpiece and yet – was it her imagination? – there was an expectant atmosphere, as though the room itself was waiting.

One thing was different. On a side-table lay an old scrapbook with a creased cover, and now she’d noticed it her eyes kept being drawn to it. Then she heard Mme Ramond’s soft footsteps, and the woman appeared carrying a full teapot, which she placed on the tray.

‘I spoke to my mother’s doctor yesterday evening. I thought you’d like to know that he said she’s a little better,’ Fay told Mme Ramond, who sat down in the chair next to the table with the scrapbook.

‘I am relieved to hear that,’ Mme Ramond whispered. She leaned forward, checked under the lid of the teapot, gave a nod of satisfaction and poured the tea. After Fay refused a biscuit the older woman settled back in her chair.

‘I am surprised that you say your mother never married again,’ she began. ‘She was still very young and I always thought her so lovely and graceful, so full of life. There never was anybody?’

A picture came briefly to mind that Fay hadn’t thought of for years. One afternoon when she was thirteen she had arrived back early from tea with a friend and gone round the side of the cottage to the back door. There she saw her mother by her beloved rosebed with Mr Stewart, another teacher from the school. Mr Stewart was kissing her in a very thorough sort of way, but as she watched – horrified, but fascinated, too – Kitty pulled away from him and said something in a voice too gentle for her to hear the words. Shocked, Fay ran back the way she’d come. For weeks afterwards she’d stalked her mother and worried, but when no word of the incident was mentioned and life continued as normal, she let all memory of it fall away.

‘I think that maybe she had the opportunity,’ she told Mme Ramond now, ‘but nothing came of it.’

‘That is understandable. She loved Eugene so much. She told me once, she never regretted staying on in Paris during the war, not for a moment. She had nobody else, you see. Her uncle, she loved very much, but I think he was used to being alone. She didn’t worry about him, whereas of course she’d have been frantic about Eugene if she’d returned to England, leaving him in Paris. And since the Occupation itself was initially peaceful, she did not feel you were in danger. Though in the end, of course, the danger was extreme.’ She shook her head. ‘But no, that comes later in the story. First things first, as you say in English.’ And she smiled. Then she took a sip of her tea, a tiny bite from a biscuit and wiped her fingers on a serviette.