French Kissing (30 page)

I stepped towards him. ‘Alex, I – Last night – This morning – I –'

‘Ssh.' He rested a finger against my lips. ‘I need –
We
need to talk, I know we do. But when we're back in London, not now.' His dark eyes searched my face. ‘
D'accord
?'

I'd almost told him that I loved him, but now, under the intensity of his gaze, all I said was,
‘Oui, d'accord
.'

‘I don't mean to rush you, but we do need to catch that train –'

‘Oh, yes, the train –' I hurried off to shower. I blow-dried my hair, and packed my wash-bag. Alex had seen me without make-up often enough over the past few months, but I took the time to put on some mascara and spray myself with perfume. In the vestibule, I scanned the outfits I'd hung in his cupboards, picking out a white top and a floral skirt. I got dressed, and carrying the rest of my clothes, went back into the living area. Alex, also fully dressed now, was sitting on the sofa, texting on his mobile. He put down his phone and retrieved my suitcase from under the bed.

‘I've made you coffee,' he said.

‘
Merci
.' I dropped my clothes on top of the duvet, folded them one by one, and put them in my case. Last to go in was the white dress I'd worn to the exhibition, rescued from the floor where it had fallen the previous night. Many of the tiny pearl buttons were missing and there was a small tear in the cotton that I'd have to repair, but the memory of Alex undressing me was enough to make me smile as I stowed the dress away.

‘I'm done,' I said, closing the case and zipping it shut. Alex wheeled it into the vestibule, and left it with his small holdall next to the front door. I gulped down my coffee, rinsed out the mug, and put it on the draining board.

‘Ready to go?' he said.

‘Just about.' I checked my shoulder bag for my passport and my Eurostar ticket.

The doorbell rang.

Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Who calls at this hour on a Sunday?'

‘One of your family perhaps? Come to see us off?'

‘Unlikely – we did all the fond farewells last night.' With a sigh, he went to the front door and opened it.

A girl, wearing a short black dress, was standing on the landing outside. Her hair was longer and more unkempt, and her face was thinner than in her photograph, but I recognised her immediately. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were feverishly bright.

‘Alexandre,' she said. ‘
Mon
Alex.'

‘
Cécile?'
Alex's whole body tensed. ‘How did you get into the building?'

‘Your neighbour was just going out and she let me in. She's seen me here often enough.'

‘Who told you I was back in Paris?'

‘No one
told
me – there are photos of you at the Lécuyer Award all over the internet.' Alex's ex, the girl who'd broken his heart, stepped over the threshold and into the apartment.

‘What do you want, Cécile?' Alex said. ‘Why are you here?'

‘I've come back to you.'

Alex stared at her.

Unbelievable.

Cécile said, ‘René and I are over.'

Alex opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it again.

A single tear ran down Cécile's face. ‘Oh, my Alex … When I left you I made the worst mistake of my life. The two of us are meant to be together.' Without warning, she flung herself at him, burying her face in his shirt. ‘I know I've wronged you, and I'm so very sorry, p-please f-forgive me.'

Her hands snaked over Alex's chest and around his neck. His face was an expressionless mask. I waited for him to disentangle himself from her grasp and tell her to leave, but he just stood there. Then, to my dismay, he put his arm around her, and ushered her through the vestibule and into the living area. The shutters were still open, and the sun still shone, but for me, it was as though all the light had gone from the room.

Why didn't he just tell her to get lost?

Alex cleared his throat. ‘Cécile, this is my friend Anna.'

Cécile sank onto the nearest piece furniture, which happened to be the bed where Alex and I had so recently made love. She glanced vaguely in my direction, and then she started crying in earnest, throwing herself full length on top of the duvet, her whole body wracked with heaving sobs.

‘
Mon Dieu
,' Alex said, ‘she's becoming hysterical. Cécile, you have to stop this.'

‘I c-can't s-stop. I'm s-so unhappy.' Cécile continued to cry, but more quietly. I regarded her with distaste. Then I thought to look at my watch.

‘Alex,' I said, ‘we have to check in for the Eurostar in less than an hour.' I gestured questioningly at Cécile. Alex took me by the arm and drew me across the room.

‘I'll have to get a later train,' he said, his voice low so that only I could hear.

What? ‘Why would you do that?'

‘Cécile – I can't leave her, not like this.'

I looked at Cécile lying on Alex's bed. A leaden weight settled in my chest. ‘I'll get a later train as well.'

‘I don't think so, Anna.'

He didn't want me to stay with him. Why?

‘Do you remember how to get to the Gare du Nord? Do you have a ticket for the Metro?'

I heard myself say, ‘Ye-es.'

‘I'll carry your case downstairs.' Raising his voice, Alex said, ‘Cécile –' He went closer to the bed. ‘Cécile, listen to me. I'm going to take Anna's suitcase down to the street. I'll be right back.'

Cécile sat up, her face wet with tears. ‘I'll be here waiting for you, Alex.' She spared me one dismissive glance, before turning her head away.

This wasn't happening.

Alex was in the vestibule, opening the front door, wheeling my suitcase out of his apartment.

I said, ‘Alex, don't do this –' But he was already on the stairs, leaving me no choice but to go after him. On shaking legs, I followed him down to the ground floor and across the courtyard.

Outside on the street, he said, ‘I may still be able to make our train. If not, I'll see you in London.'

Mechanically, I repeated, ‘Yes, I'll see you in London.'

‘
Á bientôt.
' He kissed me as friends do in France, on both sides of my face, and then he went back inside his building. The door closed, and he was gone. I pictured him running back up the five flights of stairs and going into his apartment, where Cécile was waiting for him. I could picture her too, tragically dishevelled, sprawled on his bed: her short black dress, her long pale legs. It was all too easy to imagine Alex lying down beside her.

My throat constricted, but I made myself start walking down the hill to the Place des Abbesses, my bag on my shoulder, dragging my suitcase behind me. The wheels kept jamming on the cobbles, but eventually I reached the entrance to the station. I man-handled my case down the short flight of steps that led to the elevators and the ticket barriers, and finally I was standing on the platform. As always seemed to happen on the Metro, I only had to wait a few minutes for a train, but it felt like an eternity. I hefted my case into a carriage and got off again at the Marcadet Poissonniers stop to change from
ligne
12 to
ligne
4. When I'd done this journey in reverse with Alex it had seemed very quick and easy, but now it seemed unnecessarily complicated. My arms ached from the weight of my case.

I arrived at the Gare du Nord with half an hour to spare. I went through security and passport control, and found myself in a crowded departure lounge. All the seats were taken by other travellers, tourists discussing the sights they'd seen in Paris and spending the last of their euros at the bars and food counters, businessmen and women tapping away on laptops, harassed parents trying to amuse lively toddlers, a school party of bored teenagers welded to their iPhones. Resigning myself to standing until it was time to board my train, I found a space where I could lean against a wall. It grew hotter, and the noise levels rose. I was desperately thirsty, but couldn't face the thought of fighting my way through the crowd to buy a bottle of water. More people came into the waiting room. Alex was not among them. A few minutes later, I heard an announcement that the check in was now closed.

There was a sudden flurry of activity as people started to round up their children and their belongings. I joined a ragged queue going through the doors that led to the platform, lugging my suitcase, following the throng. I walked alongside the train, counting off the carriages until I came to mine. I put my foot on the first of the steps leading up to the carriage door, but struggled to lift my case off the ground. On the outward journey to Paris, Alex had carried my case. Tears pricked my eyes. Behind me, a group of people waited impatiently to mount the steps into the train.

A boy of about twenty said, ‘
Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle
?'

‘
Merci
,'I said, pathetically grateful.

He was shorter than me, but wiry, and he had no trouble in hoisting my suitcase into the carriage, and placing it in the luggage rack.

‘
Merci
,' I said, again. ‘
Merci beaucoup
.'

‘
De rien
.' My rescuer shrugged, in a manner achingly reminiscent of Alex, and slouched off down the aisle between the seats.

My seat was next to the window, not far from the entrance to the carriage. I slid into it, and put my bag on the empty seat next to it. The seat where Alex would be sitting if he hadn't stayed in Paris with Cécile. Misery overwhelmed me. I'd fallen in love with a man who loved another girl.

Alex didn't love me. Our first kiss and the torrid night that followed, the way he'd looked at me, his gentleness as he'd made love to me again this morning, had made me think he must have feelings for me, but I was wrong. For him, it was just sex, and nothing more. Given his reluctance to talk to me, apart from telling me to hurry and pack my case, I should have realised that.

A couple, a man and a woman in their thirties, sat in the seats opposite mine, talking in soft Yorkshire accents about a restaurant they'd been to in Paris, smiling at me. I shrank into the corner, avoiding eye contact. I couldn't have made conversation with anyone at that moment, let alone strangers. To my relief, the guy got out an iPod and she started reading a Kindle. There was a burst of laughter from the seats across the aisle as a girl showed her friend something on her phone. Further along the carriage, a child wailed. I sympathised – I felt like wailing too.

The train started to move out of the station. I stared unseeingly out of the window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Cécile cheated on Alex. She left him. She told him she never loved him. How could he still love her? And how could I live with him now?

I thought about the three months Alex had shared my flat, how much I'd liked having him around, and knew that I couldn't go back to that, couldn't live with him as though I looked on him only as a friend. I'd have to ask him to find somewhere else to stay. If he ever came back to London, now that he had Cécile. The thought that Alex might not return to London made my heart ache. No, he would come back. He was too much of a professional to break his contract. At least, I assumed he was. If he could take Cécile back after the way she'd treated him, maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought. I couldn't decide what would be worse: having Alex living in my flat, seeing him every day, knowing that he would never love me, or not seeing him ever again.

Suddenly, outside the window of the carriage, there was nothing but opaque darkness, as the train entered the Channel Tunnel.

Thirty-three

The first thing I saw when I started walking along the platform at St Pancras, was the famous bronze statue of the man and woman locked in an embrace. It was separated from the passengers disembarking from the Eurostar by a glass panel, but as I drew closer, I could see the exact spot where I'd met Alex when he'd first arrived in England. My eyes filled with tears. I dashed them away with the back of my hand. Somehow, I got myself together, and followed my fellow passengers down the escalator that led to the arrivals hall and out onto the station concourse. I'd only been away for four days, but the sudden onslaught of English voices all around me was strangely disorientating. Tightening my grip on my suitcase, I followed the signs to the underground, and the Piccadilly Line train that would take me home. I was back in London. Alex was in Paris. With Cécile. I
would not
cry.

Encumbered as I was with my luggage, dragging my ridiculously heavy suitcase up and down steps and escalators, and on and off the train, my wretched bag sliding off my shoulder, the journey home took on the quality of a nightmare. When I finally emerged from the underground into daylight, it was to find that the sky was overcast, and it was beginning to spit with rain. A fresh wave of misery hit me. Shivering in my thin summer T-shirt and flimsy skirt, I trundled my luggage along the uneven pavement as fast as I could, but the rain grew heavier, and I was drenched by the time I reached my building. Gritting my teeth, and with many stops on the way to catch my breath, I managed to haul my case up the stairs and onto the landing. I unlocked my front door and stumbled into my flat. I let go of my case. It toppled over and burst open, spilling its contents out onto the carpet. I dropped my shoulder bag beside it.

I loved Alex. I went into the kitchen and drank some water. Then I went into my bedroom, stripped off my sodden clothes, and put on jeans and a jumper. I lay down on my bed. Alex didn't love me. He'd kissed me and slept with me, but he'd never told me that he loved me. He'd made me no promises he couldn't keep. I wanted more from him than he was able to give.

I will always be your friend. I'd said that to him once. Before I'd fallen for him. How could I go on being his friend, when I was in love with him and he didn't want me?

That was when I cried. I lay on my bed, curled myself into a foetal ball and cried, hot tears pouring down my face, until I had no tears left, and I fell into an exhausted sleep.