East Fortune (11 page)

He knew that he should not be on the train.

It was mad to see Julia.

He tried to justify the decision. He could hardly blame Emma. Their work took them away from each other and their sex life had dwindled but after two rounds of IVF that had been predictable. They could have worked harder at their marriage, been kinder, perhaps, and taken each other less for granted, but they
had been so tired by all that had happened that neither of them had the energy or the will to resurrect or redefine the little they had left.

Douglas worked and drank and slept. He had lost touch with most of his friends (his schedule was so unpredictable he could never commit to any arrangements in advance) and he only saw people socially when his wife or his parents forced him to do something that he could find no excuse for avoiding.

He had met Julia in Vienna. She was working for the British Council; he was making a documentary. They had been out a couple of times, flirted and then kissed on the last night.

Julia was a few years younger and lived in London. Her husband was some kind of corporate lawyer but Douglas had not asked too many questions about him, or her two boys, just as he had skirted around the fact that he was married to Emma. He had kept it vague, half implying that they were separated. After the first betrayal the rest had followed.

They had exchanged phone numbers and told each other that it would be good to meet if they ever found themselves at a loss in a foreign city again. Then Julia sent him a text:
In Paris 2July. Want to come?

Douglas felt guilty as soon as he received it. He waited a few hours and replied:
Why not?

At first he thought their meeting couldn't do any harm. They had settled on lunch rather than dinner. They did not know each other well and Douglas could treat the whole thing as just another flirtation. He had had enough of them in the past. But however much he told himself that such a meeting was normal, almost routine, he still felt the anticipation.

He tried to define why Julia was different from previous ambiguities. She was less available, less neurotic, and married with two sons. Douglas decided this made her safer (neither desperately single nor in need of a child) and at the same time more dangerous (they would both know the rules).

He wondered if his presence on the train was due to the fact that he had seen Jack and Krystyna together and had felt unexpectedly competitive. His brother had discovered a renewed sense of purpose. The despair of the abandoned husband had disappeared.
Instead he had turned up at the family home with a girl who was falling out of her dress and was young enough to be his daughter. It was a form of showing off, Douglas decided, and now perhaps he wanted something of the same; a change, new energy, hope. He was not going to accept that his behaviour was attributable to something less justifiable such as lassitude, loneliness or the simple selfishness of a midlife crisis.

He had arranged to meet Julia at the Brasserie Lipp. Douglas had always liked it because it was where Hemingway had decided to write his longer stories, training for the race that would be a novel, trying to stay sound and good in his head. Douglas had once thought of becoming a writer himself but he did not have the patience. Early attempts had left him bored and frustrated, and besides, he drank too much already.

The brasserie had retained its art deco style, with ceramic tiles of palm and aspidistra and gas sconces above the coat hooks. Douglas was shown upstairs to a table next to an elderly couple who were eating their meal in silence. They had to be married to each other, he thought, to say so little. He only hoped that they did not speak English.

He sat with his back to the wall, looking out into the room. Already he worried that Julia would not think to come upstairs.

He ordered a sparkling water and tried to look as though he lunched in St-Germain every day. Although the other diners had dressed with an unstudied elegance Douglas had made an effort, buying a new white shirt, moleskin trousers and a pinstriped velvet jacket that he hoped would make him appear raffish. He'd even added a silk scarf in honour of the encounter.

He was just about to take off the scarf when Julia arrived. She was wearing a dark-burgundy blouse, her blonde hair was swept behind her ears, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She appeared to have taken as much trouble as Douglas to look effortless.

He stood up and Julia turned her head at the last moment, forcing him to kiss her on the cheek rather than the lips.

‘I hope I'm not late.'

‘No, it's fine. I wanted to be first.'

Douglas knew that he should not have been so forward so soon.
Perhaps Julia was simply avoiding smudging her lipstick but he would have to reclaim lost territory.

The couple at the next table looked up to assess the new arrival but Julia dismissed them with a firm
‘Bonjour'.
She sat down and picked up the menu.

‘Oh God, I can't read this,' she said. She put on her reading glasses. ‘Another sign of ageing.'

‘You look fantastic.'

She could sense Douglas staring at her as she read, and she spoke without looking up, concentrating on the menu.

‘You're looking good yourself. Not sure about the scarf.'

‘I've only just bought it.'

‘The jacket's good.' She smiled. ‘What shall we have?'

‘I thought the pâté followed by the
daurade,'
Douglas said. Then he worried that he wasn't good with bones.

‘Well, I'm going to have the beetroot salad,' Julia announced, summoning the waiter, ‘and then some steak. I see you're not having any wine.'

‘Not yet.'

‘I hope that's not being done for my benefit.'

‘No. It's done for mine.'

He poured out the mineral water and said, ‘Let's have a bottle of Brouilly.'

Two businessmen in suits that were almost identical edged on to the next table. They were talking about a property deal. At least Douglas wouldn't have to worry about them listening.

‘I hope you didn't mind hearing from me,' Julia said.

‘No. It just surprised me.'

‘I thought Paris, Eurostar, you could just come over. It only takes a couple of hours.'

Douglas didn't want to tell her how long it had taken him from Glasgow; the effort he had made, the excuses he'd given.

‘Well, here I am.'

‘Did you think about not coming?'

‘Not really. Did you?'

‘I have to be here for my work. And there's an exhibition I need to visit. I thought I could combine it with seeing you. You're supposed to be the highlight of my trip.'

‘Then I'll try and live up to your expectations.'

‘Oh I didn't have any. I just thought we'd have lunch and see what happened.'

‘I'm not sure I believe you.'

‘Why, don't tell me you were hoping for something more?'

Douglas offered Julia the bread. He knew he had to be careful what he said before the corridor of uncertainty closed. It was ridiculous to think of a phrase from cricket at a time like this:
the corridor of uncertainty.
He was still not sure if Julia thought there was as much at stake as he did.

‘When I got your message,' Douglas began, ‘I remembered the last time we saw each other. Then I couldn't stop thinking about it.'

‘I'm glad I made such an impression.'

‘You did, believe me.'

Douglas worried that he was saying too much too soon. The kiss had been in the American Bar, just before Julia had left for the airport.

‘Too bad you didn't make your move earlier,' she had said at the time.

The beetroot salad arrived.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘I can't eat that. They've put eggs in it. Why didn't they say?'

‘Order something else.'

‘No, I'll just have some of your pâté.' She reached over.

‘Let me help you,' Douglas said.

‘It's good to see you,' Julia said.

‘It's good to see you too. I'd almost forgotten how much I liked you.'

‘You just said you keep thinking about me.'

‘Thinking isn't the same as feeling. You're much better in the flesh.'

‘Steady…'

He should give it up right now, he thought. He should leave the restaurant while it was still safe, before anything happened.

‘Sorry. I'm only saying what I feel.'

‘You're very kind. I'm flattered.'

‘I'm telling the truth.'

Douglas wondered how many other people were having assignations at this very moment; or if they were waiting for the two-hour
window after work and before their return home. In Paris he assumed it was commonplace, the
cinq a sept.
He tried to think what such a life might be like. Did people book regular hotel rooms or borrow apartments from their friends? What were the logistics of doing this regularly and how much money did you need?

Julia's steak arrived. It was too tough.

‘Perhaps it's horse,' she said.

A waiter brought her a serrated knife and apologised but it made little difference.

‘This place seems to be resting on its laurels.'

‘I don't know,' said Douglas. ‘People seem to come here all the time.'

‘But the world has moved on since it became famous.'

‘I suppose they don't come here for the food any more,' Douglas said.

‘Why do you think people come here then?' Julia asked.

‘It must be the romance of it all.'

The couple at the next table rose and squeezed past them. A waiter brought over a ‘just in case' summer raincoat for the elderly lady. The man shook his hand and gave him a tip in cash.

‘A demain.'

Douglas tried to picture the routine. Did the man have a different guest every day of the week or did he just meet his wife? Would they just order the
plat du jour
or study the menu every time they came? How long would it take before they were bored? What kind of marriage did they have? And surely the restaurant would have given them a corner table by now?

‘Have you got somewhere to stay?' Julia asked.

‘Yes.'

‘And have they let you check in?'

‘I've done all that …' said Douglas.

‘Is it close?'

‘It's just round the corner. I can't think why you're asking.'

‘Neither can I.' Julia took a sip of water. ‘So, you've made your arrangements.'

‘Have you?'

‘Yes,' she said, without elaborating further.

Douglas could not think what to say next.

‘What would you like to talk about? Entertain me,' she said.

Douglas didn't feel like
talking
at all, he wanted her there and then, even in the toilets, but if they were going to stay in the restaurant then he might as well ask Julia a few questions about her life.

‘Are you happy?' he asked.

The waiter refilled their glasses.

‘Well,' she said. ‘I'm not unhappy.'

This appeared to be all he was going to get.

Douglas realised, yet again, that he hardly knew this woman. What was he doing? He tried to think of other things to lessen the anticipation but he could not think of anything safe that was not dull.

‘What about you?' Julia asked. ‘Doing anything interesting?'

‘Apart from talking to you?'

‘Well, that is obviously a highlight.'

Douglas was almost irritated that the conversation had fallen back on him. He started to tell her about the television series he was making, the history of the relationship between art and anatomy.

‘I'm surprised you haven't taken up life classes,' said Julia.

‘I may well do.'

‘Although I can't see you drawing men very well. I think you'd lose interest pretty fast.'

‘Well, I do prefer women, Julia.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. Shall we have something else?' She looked at the menu. ‘You can have the pancakes, or the chocolate mousse, or, of course' – she looked up – ‘you can have me.'

‘When?'

‘That was a joke, Douglas. Shall we just have coffee?'

‘Why bother with the coffee?'

People were beginning to leave, readying themselves for an afternoon in the office. He could see the tension returning to their faces as they rose from their tables.

‘I'll get the bill,' Douglas said. ‘I can't wait any longer.'

Julia smiled.

‘I'll freshen up.'

Douglas wanted to follow her into the Ladies. He didn't think he had ever felt like this, wanting someone so urgently that he
could think of nothing else. He signed the bill and waited for Julia. When she emerged he could smell her freshly applied perfume.

‘Let's go,' she said.

‘I didn't expect this, you know.'

‘Expect what? I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘I mean I didn't plan on it.'

‘No, of course you didn't.'

They walked through the market and along the rue du Bac until they found themselves in the midst of a group of demonstrators protesting about housing developments in the Languedoc.

‘Honestly,' Julia said, ‘only in France. A demonstration by archaeologists.'

The protesters handed out leaflets, chanted, blew whistles and let off flares and firecrackers as policemen on Rollerblades circled around them.

They neared the hotel.

‘I suppose you do this all the time,' said Julia.

‘No,' Douglas replied. ‘I don't.' They walked into the foyer and he picked up his key. ‘Could we have a bottle of champagne?' he asked. He didn't bother to speak French.

He let Julia enter the lift first.

‘I bet the hotel hasn't seen this before,' she said. ‘A couple going up to a room in the afternoon with a bottle of champagne.'

‘Do you think we are a cliché?'