Journey to the Centre of Myself (14 page)

After a twenty minute wait, at last, it’s my turn, and they ask what I want. Gosh what to choose? I haven’t been able to study the lists and I can feel the impatience of those next to me in the queue. I plump for a box of six and pick two of three different colours, ending up with lemon, chocolate and a raspberry with rose. They put them in a box and wrap it in a paper bag. I feel like I have treasure. Not being able to wait, I take a seat on a bench outside and tear into the box, though I decide to keep the pretty bag as a souvenir. I choose the chocolate one; it's fluffy and goes slightly chewy in my mouth. I take my time, eating it in tiny pieces. If I ever got a meal in heaven, this is what I would expect on my plate. It is divine. Finished, I chase tiny remnants around my mouth and jump in a cab. I decide to forget the restaurant. Tonight I’m eating macarons for my evening meal because I can.

Over the next few days my confidence at being out on the streets of Paris—alone—increases. I catch the Metro and buses to the different tourist attractions. I wander down back streets, seeking out small bookshops and boutiques. I admire the beautiful facades of the Parisian apartments where I think I could quite happily live for a while. Perhaps I could learn French and come back for periods of time? I wouldn’t want to be here permanently; at the moment I’m not sure I want any permanent roots. There’s just something about this city I’ve fallen in love with.

Undeterred, Arjan has been posting a daily letter under my door, giving me his room and mobile number. Every day I’ve torn the note up and put the pieces in the bin.

I’ve bought food from the local shops and eat at the apartment, as opposed to wasting money in restaurants, but today I’m giving myself a final challenge before it’s time to decide where I want to spend the final part of my two weeks to myself. I walk down the Boulevard de Grenelle and into a restaurant that appears inviting from the outside with its ambient light and general bustle. The waiter welcomes me and escorts me to a small table by the window. It’s nice because I can people watch both inside and out. There is a woman at the next table with her child. The woman is blonde, her hair wrapped in an effortless knot and she is so elegantly thin; not waif-like but so chic. Her clothes hang just right. She keeps chatting with her daughter and they giggle. I can’t help watching them and hope they don’t catch me. I think of how I look permanently messed up and sigh. Maybe if I’m contented inside, it’ll show more on the outside?

The waiter asks to take my order. He talks to me like an old friend.

‘So what would you like today, Madame?’

‘I will try l’escargot, please. The six? Though I may not like them. I’ve never had them before.’

‘Oh you will love them, I promise,’ he says, ‘and to drink?’

‘I’ll have a glass of champagne please,’ I say.

He gives me a large smile. ‘Bonne.’

I sit back and fidget, fingering the cutlery on the table, adjusting it so it’s straight and there is room for my plate. A few minutes later he brings my drink.

‘Votre boisson, Madame.’

‘Thank… err, Merci beaucoup.’

The champagne is dry but refreshing. I like how it fizzes on my tongue. I had decided earlier this morning that I needed to push my boundaries, take in new tastes and experiences.

The aroma of garlic pervades as the snails are placed in front of me.

They are covered in a garlic pesto sauce and accompanied by a tiny silver fork. I attempt to take the first one out, but can’t bring myself to do it. Now I’m back to feeling awkward and unsophisticated. I beckon the waiter over, apologise for my uselessness, and ask him to show me what to do. He takes a moment to extract it too.

‘Ah, this one is awkward, oui?’

He scoops out the next and then picks up another.

‘I’ll try to do the others,’ I tell him.

He nods and leaves me to eat them.

I stare at my plate. The three snails removed from their shells resemble the rubbery black, shrivelled mushrooms that accompany a cooked breakfast. I’m not sure I can eat them. I have a gulp of champagne. Come on Karen, I will myself.

I pick up a snail with the tiny fork and place it in my mouth. All I can taste is the garlic and pesto. I chew the snail. Yes, it's chewier than a mushroom but easily eaten. Accompanied by sips of champagne, I eat the other two. Then I use the fork to scoop out the final three. The tiny fork is adorable, small and silver and I want one, to remind me that I ate snails in Paris. I get out my camera and beckon the waiter over to take a photo of me, my tiny fork holding snail numero quatre and my glass of champagne.

I follow the snails with Duck Comfit, again exquisite. It’s accompanied by thin, delicate fries, slightly salted and extremely crisp, and a salad.

For dessert I ignore the menu, get up and peruse the dessert trolley. I request Tarte Tatin.

The champagne is long gone. I order a half bottle of house red with my main course. I take my time drinking this. While the lights of Paris twinkle and its citizens walk by, the wine brings warmth and a blush to my cheeks.

I am full and not only with food. I pay my bill, ‘l’addition, s'il vous plaît?’ Leave a generous tip and then have a slow walk back to the apartment. I don’t want to go back to England yet and then I think that maybe I don’t have to.

I’ve never been a great drunk, but sometimes the careful control I have over myself takes flight and I do impulsive things. I know exactly when I was drunk the last time and I’ve been scared for a long time about what I did on that occasion, anxious never to repeat it. However, as I more or less swing my handbag as I jollily walk back to my apartment, it would appear my control has slipped.

Back in the hotel, I knock on the door of Apartment 268. There’s no answer. Annoyed, I knock louder and for longer.

The door is opened by a sleepy, mussed up Arjan.

‘Karen?’

‘It’s Karenza, remember?’ I slur as I hold onto the doorway and somehow find myself sliding inside. I’m having trouble controlling my feet. ‘Who is Karen—right now I’m Karenza, capiche? I need to ask you something,’ I say, holding my head up as if I’m completely sober.

‘Oh-kay.’

‘Do you fancy a ride?’ I burst out laughing and find I can’t stop, tears stream down my face.

Arjan looks shocked and appears mute.

I elbow him in the side. ‘Hey, steady on, I mean do you want to go to Disneyland? I’m going.’

‘Come in and we’ll talk.’

‘Nah, talking’s boring… blah blah blah. I’m going to bed.’ I pause. ‘Alone.’

Huffing, I go into my handbag and pick out the tiny silver fork I stole from the restaurant. ‘If you come near me, I’ll prick you with this.’ I look at it. ‘Only I can have a little fork, you cannot have a fork.’ Then I get hysterical again and turn to head back to my own room.

‘You should come in and sit down for a minute.’

I crash into the apartment and flop on his squashy sofa, and that’s the last thing I remember of that evening. The next thing I know is I wake to find myself covered with a blanket. My tongue feels like it’s covered in dust. I pick my handbag up from the floor and tiptoe out of the apartment.

It’s five am. Back in my own apartment, I throw myself into the shower to freshen up, hit the coffee and finish packing. I empty out the contents of my handbag to tidy through it. The fork falls out and fragments of conversation come back to me. I am
not
going back on that plane with him.

Quickly, I phone Reception and ask them to book me a taxi to the airport. I send a text message to Celine to tell her I’ve made other arrangements and I’m travelling on elsewhere. Then I’m off.

At the airport, I book a plane to London and once again I find myself running away. I spend the time waiting, flying and arriving in London, deciding that over the next couple of days I need to spend some time thinking about where I’ve been and where I’m going, and, this time I’m not referring to travelling.

Chapter 16

Amber

Mirelle was like someone in the Army today. Say this, do that. I nodded my head like an agreeable puppy until she seemed satisfied. She wants a complete breakdown of events tomorrow.

Now there’s not much time to get ready and I’m a mixture of nervousness and excitement. I’ve had to redo the paint on my toenails because I dropped too much on and it bled down the side of my toe. Clothes-wise I have a white shirt. I don’t have capri pants, but I do have a pair of black leggings that shrank in the wash so they reach to an inch above my ankle. A trawl through my jewellery box reveals a chain with a red lips pendant on it. It sits nicely above my breasts. When I put my hair up, I don’t like it. It makes me appear young rather than sexy, so I get the curling tongs out and add a few spiralling curls. I add light eye makeup, but a line of black eyeliner to give an Angeline Jolie feline look, and then add red lip gloss. If he kisses me, it will get messy. That’s all I’m allowed tonight, kissing. My stomach tingles when I think about the challenge. I practise pouting and flirting in the mirror for a few minutes. I work out sexy ways of talking although at first I looked like I was having a stroke.

My reflection is hot. The leggings suit my body shape, giving definition to my thighs and backside and the blouse accentuates my chest. It’s sexy without trying too hard. Ten out of ten, Mirelle. That girl certainly knows what she’s doing.

I grab my bag and wait for my taxi to arrive.

Luisa’s has a few patrons but isn’t packed; it's atmospheric but not noisy. Adrian hasn’t arrived yet. The waiter asks if I’d like to take a seat in the bar area until my date arrives. I buy myself a glass of white wine and sit with one leg crossed over the other, red toenails on my swinging foot at high visibility.

At ten past seven, I start to feel a bit twitchy. I drink more of the wine than I wanted to, seeing as I’m pacing myself, and ask for some water. I explain my date is running late.

At twenty past seven, I send a text, asking where he is. I’m sure the waiters and other patrons are staring at me.

At twenty-five past seven I get up to leave. I’m just apologising to the staff when he comes rushing through the entrance. He is so attractive I almost forget to be annoyed.

‘I am so sorry I’m late. Work held me up. I promise I’m worth the wait.’

Our waitress smiles at him, instantly in love, and then turns to me looking spiky.

‘Fine, okay, let’s take our seats, I’m starving.’

‘Just a minute,’ he says, and kisses me on the cheek. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

‘Yes,’ my voice comes out breathy, I can’t help it. I realise I’ve forgotten to do anything I practiced earlier. Come on, Amber, be sexy.

I slide into my side of the booth. The lights are dim and there’s the obligatory candle in a bottle on the table. I peruse the menu. It always takes me ages to choose, something that annoyed Will to death. I have to imagine all the textures and the flavours and how they go together before I can decide. I explain this to Adrian and apologise.

‘We aren’t in a rush,’ he drawls. ‘You take whatever time you need.’ God his voice is sexy.

As I’ve had a drink of white wine, I ask Adrian if he wants to share a bottle. ‘No, you order what you like. I will have a whisky.’

‘Eurgh,’ I state. ‘That stuff is gross.’

‘You’ll like it later.’ he says. ‘When my tongue’s in your mouth.’

Moisture pools between my legs. God, I want to fuck him right now.

‘I’m not drinking much this evening, so I’ll just have one further glass of house white and some water please,’ I tell the waitress.

‘Scared of what you might do?’ he guesses.

‘Just tired of too many hangovers of late. I need to get up for work in the morning. I need to keep my job now more than ever.’

The waitress takes my order of a small mushroom risotto starter that says it has spinach, ginger and toasted pine nuts. Then I choose sea bass with dauphinoise potatoes and a redcurrant reduction. Adrian declines a starter and orders steak.

When my risotto arrives, he watches me eat. A bit of rice escapes my mouth and he’s quick to catch it on my lip. He tastes it himself, ‘Divine.’

I play with my food, putting smaller amounts onto my fork, then eating slowly and basically just short of giving oral sex to the cutlery. He sits back and smiles, enjoying the show.

‘That was delicious,’ I say, dabbing my lips with a napkin.

‘Yes, I quite enjoyed it myself.’

We chat about general stuff, what we do for our jobs. He tells me he’s a builder. I spurt out some wine.

‘What?’

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just… you seem nothing like a builder. You’re too… smooth.’

‘Should I be wearing clothes with holes in and be covered in mud?’

‘No, but, oh God, I don’t know, I’m just surprised. I assumed you’d be an Accountant or a businessman or something.’

‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.’

‘Flattered, you should be flattered. Gosh, I’m so sorry. Now you’ve told me you’re a builder I keep imagining you in a Diet Coke ad, half shirtless, sweaty, and with loads of women ogling you.’