The Train to Paris (6 page)

I turned back and watched Élodie. She was animated and enthusiastic with Selvin, but her eyes were hollow. It was impossible to tell whether she was relaxed or uneasy. She leant away from me, making Selvin her sole objective. She drew her feet up off the floor, her shoes gleaming in the light. They must have been uncomfortable, with their high-arched curves and tight fastenings.

A waiter brought over plates of olives and cheeses, for which I was glad. It gave me something to do. I thanked him, while Selvin and Élodie ignored both him and the food. Then Selvin took a call on his mobile phone, and wandered over to a dark corner of the bar, putting a finger to his ear to block out the noise.

‘I must say,' Élodie said to me, ‘I refuse to be chained to a phone. Fewer intrusions.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Although it might have helped me today.'

Both Ethan and Sophie would be wondering where I had got to. Sophie liked to talk often, even from the other side of the world, and it was liberating to think that we were truly out of contact for the first time. But I pushed this thought away.

‘You don't have a mobile phone?' she said. ‘Goodness. I thought that everybody your age had one.'

‘I must be the exception. I know, it's old-fashioned, but it keeps things simpler.'

‘There is nothing wrong with being old-fashioned.'

When Selvin returned he drained the whisky glass of its last amber drop and set it down so heavily that the table shook.

‘Vanessa and I need to go find some dinner,' he said, taking his newly named companion by the arm. ‘Hope you don't mind. We'll see you later, I'm sure.'

‘Not at all,' Élodie said, betraying a certain disappointment. ‘It's not a bit early for dinner?'

‘No, it isn't.'

Vanessa had not finished her drink. He held her around the middle, which was awkward due to his girth.

I waited until they had cleared the bar before rounding on Élodie.

‘Who is
he
?' I asked, thinking that in some ways the answer was less important than the question.

‘An old friend,' she said. ‘I don't know where he found his wealth. Just one of those fellows who was born poor and decided to make himself rich. He's fun, isn't he?'

‘If that's how you define fun. How did you meet?'

‘Years ago. He has something to do with film. It was a party in Cannes. We danced on the beach. But that was another lifetime. He's changed, I've changed.'

‘You could always dance on the beach with him here. I'm sure he's more your equal.'

I must have sounded more woeful than I had intended, because she became mockingly sympathetic.

‘Oh Lawrence. I only want to dance on the beach with you. There, is that better? Those clothes become you, by the way. You are doing well, boy.'

‘Please don't call me that.'

‘What?
Boy
? I will if you stop acting like one.'

I suddenly wanted to kiss her. I imagined how her mouth would feel. I could taste the oil of her lipstick and smell her perfume on my collar. But this was another joke, I told myself, born of the drink. I held up the daiquirí and took another gulp. Yes, I thought, that was definitely it. I took one of the olives and rolled it around my mouth.

‘Why were you at a party in Cannes?' I asked.

Élodie's attention turned to the terrace beyond the windows, and she folded and unfolded her legs. A crease appeared in her thigh, but then it smoothed out again, the lone disruption a mole beneath her knee.

‘Are you an actress?' I continued. After all, it had been playing on my mind.

She was pained, but then she pulled her mouth into a defiant line.

‘Yes, that's it. I never did anything very popular. I have been out of that game for years.'

She said this with a shade of regret. She had the appearance of an ex-actress. Her beauty was enhanced and preserved with what I presumed to be surgery.

‘That makes sense,' I said. ‘Why didn't you tell me that before, when I asked who you were?'

‘Because it isn't who I am.' Her voice had lost its breezy tone. ‘I've moved on. And besides, Ed has his own life.'

‘I thought he was interested in you,' I said. ‘Or is the feeling mutual?'

‘None of that cheek.' She reclined in her chair and ran a hand along the surface of her hair. Her mouth was downturned. She was judging me, and this judgement was more powerful than her expression. ‘Lawrence, darling; are you really jealous?'

‘Only as jealous as you are of Sophie.'

‘But you have every reason to envy Ed. You really should aspire to him. He has lived a full life.'

‘I knew it. You are interested in him.'

I could not remember the last time that I had talked to anybody so flirtatiously.

‘Silly boy. Leave those clichés alone. They need a master's hand.'

She picked up her purse, which matched the purple of her dress. She held it close to her chest and drew her shoulders in. They were limber, and they must have been strong.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘I want to run into more people.'

She had finished her drink, while mine was untouched. I forced myself to down it. The flavour had improved. I wondered if this was because the sugar collected in the bottom of the martini glass, or if my palate was seizing up under the burn of the alcohol. As usual, I had no answer for my own question.

‘How many people do you know in this place?' I asked.

‘Who could say? It is the high season, so anybody could turn up here. When you've travelled as much as I have you will understand how small the world is.'

She sounded a little intoxicated already, which did nothing to improve my image of her. But then, I thought, perhaps it was for show. She dropped those impractical heels to the carpet, and I followed her out towards the terrace, watching for any sign of discomfort. I knew, even then, that this was unlikely. She was the actress, after all.

6

Élodie lit up another
cigarette on the terrace. We were by the swimming pool, which afforded a fine view across the ocean and over to the dense line of buildings on the bluff. The beach was emptying, but with a fresh gust of wind I could see that the surfers were out on the rip-tide.

‘Are you having fun, Lawrence?' Élodie asked, inhaling deeply so that her voice became huskier.

‘Sure I am.'

She tapped the ash from the decaying cigarette to the tiles.

‘That really is bad for you, you know,' I said.

‘I know. Have you not noticed? I do many things that are bad for me.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it is who I am.'

She held the cigarette out to me. I put up a hand.

‘I've never smoked,' I said. ‘And I don't plan on starting now.'

‘Really, Lawrence, you must try. One puff won't hurt. Look at me—I've been smoking since I was twelve. Do I appear ill?'

I tried to find some sign of the rotting carcass beneath the make-up and jewellery. She had angled herself as though she were in the middle of a photo shoot.

‘No,' I said, failing to hide my reproof. ‘You've covered it very carefully. I'm not capable of doing that.'

‘One puff and I will let you off.'

Resigned, I took the white stick and pressed it to my lips. It was as if I had inhaled a mixture of burnt tar and ashes. I coughed, but tried to subdue it. Élodie took the smouldering torture device back. It left a crude aftertaste.

‘Not to your liking? Don't worry. One does get used to these things. Good thing Ed didn't offer you a cigar.'

‘Are they stronger than this?'

‘They are utterly divine. There is nothing like a good cigar. It is the difference between a
cafetière
and a strong espresso. Incomparable.' She took another puff of the cigarette and grimaced. ‘I only have these out of necessity. If it were possible I would be smoking five Montecristos a day. Even my husband's credit wouldn't extend that far. But do give smoking a chance. It gets better. One cannot say that about many things.'

‘But it really is unhealthy.'

‘Isn't everything? Coffee, alcohol, that bouillabaisse. They all do harmful things to the body, but we enjoy them.'

The sun was on its path towards the horizon. It would take another hour or two to set, but the terrace was already bathed in the deep gold of a day's end. It shimmered on the water, and it all felt wrong. Unlike Hendaye, with its hostile townspeople and a blaring white sun, this terrace felt like a Hollywood film set.

‘Where do you live in Paris, Lawrence?' she asked, as she continued to lean on the parapet, her shoulderblades pointing out to sea.

‘The Sixth,' I said as casually as I could. It was a fashionable address that suggested more money than I had. ‘I have a little one-bedroom. Rue Saint-Sulpice.'

‘Good Lord. I had you down as the Thirteenth at best. What possessed you to live there? How do you afford it?'

‘An aunt left me some money. And my flatmate is meant to be contributing.'

‘He is not French, is he? Or she?'

‘Ethan is from New Zealand. He's a musician, and he is doing well for himself. But he is younger than me, and he doesn't know how to share a house.'

‘Fancy that. Two clueless boys living in Rue Saint-Sulpice. Let me guess—your parents must have had a hand in this arrangement.'

‘I came here to get away from them. And I thought that this would be the best way to spend my money. Enjoying life while it lasts, right?'

‘Good for you, Lawrence. So you really can pop down to the Louvre from there. It must be quite the hovel, though.'

‘I don't need much. A home is a place to be when you're not outside, surely. It gives me a good excuse to go places.'

‘How unusual. Don't ever change that, Lawrence. You are a strange boy. Very strange indeed.'

‘No. No, I'm very ordinary.'

‘Never say that again, child. You owe me that much.'

Once again her change in demeanour disoriented me. I had done something wrong. She had stayed in the same pose for a long time. The mechanics of it were uncomfortable, but when I stood back and admired her, craning her neck up and breathing out a stream of that sickly smoke, it could not have been more natural.

‘I need another drink,' she said. ‘I haven't seen anybody. And I need another drink when I haven't seen anybody.'

‘And what if you have seen somebody?'

‘Then I need another several drinks.'

This made no sense to me. Nonetheless, I followed Élodie to the bar. She asked for another Campari and soda.

‘This is getting silly,' I said. ‘How many of them do you need?'

‘As the occasion dictates.'

‘Do you always drink this much?'

‘I do when I want to have fun. I don't always want to have fun. Sometimes I want to be damned serious.'

‘I don't understand that whole concept of fun.'

‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘You poor lamb. It's worse than I thought.'

She waited for me to explain myself. At a nearby table a woman shrieked with laughter. I watched the barman as he shook a martini, determination written on his face. He would go home after work to a family in one of those whitewashed villas on the outskirts of town. He had a life and a purpose.

‘I would rather make my own fun than follow someone else's,' I said in a single breath.

‘Now that I can understand,' Élodie said. ‘Why not make me your fun?'

‘Because you would enjoy it more than I would.'

‘I'm not so sure about that.' She flicked her eyelids up and down, reaching around to straighten her hair. Her elbow was red and flaky. ‘Oh hell. Have another drink.'

‘I'm all right, thanks.'

‘I insist. You might need it if we are to see Ed Selvin again.'

‘What if I don't want to see him again?'

‘You didn't like him?'

‘No.'

There was no point in pretending otherwise, and Élodie deserved to taste her own flavour of bluntness.

‘That's a real shame,' she said. ‘He's a nice fellow. You don't like him because he is confident, sure of himself. Is that right?'

‘What? No, I never said that.'

‘It's the most obvious thing in the world. Does he perhaps remind you of the children at school who looked down on your modesty and earnest studiousness with contempt? The ones who thought that you took it all too seriously, and mocked you for that reason?'

‘I don't know where you're getting this from,' I scoffed. ‘I was happy in school. You wouldn't know. You know nothing about me.'

‘But they were right,' she continued, ignoring my growing frustration. ‘You do take things too seriously. Have you never wanted to simply relax and love life for what it is? Now, what will you have?'

There was no way to refuse her. I asked the barman for a dry martini.

‘You really are a bully,' I said. ‘Are you happy now?'

‘You've gone to the other extreme, silly boy. You are mixing rum and gin. A true recipe for disaster.'

‘You're impossible to please, aren't you?'

‘I'll be pleased if you don't end up passed out on the beachfront. Drinking needs to be treated with sophistication and sensibility. So don't have the whole thing at once.'

‘That's not the sort of advice I would expect from you.'

‘Well remember it, boy. Retain your dignity.' She picked up her handbag. ‘Please excuse me. Won't be a minute.'

I was left to the sound of ambient chat. I always preferred to stand up at the bar, where I had a vantage point of the rest of the room. This was a good bar, made from polished oak and bound by brass. My reflection stood out in the mirror, which had bottles of gin and whisky stacked in front of it, and my head appeared between them. I was becoming sick of the gold. The room was lit to accentuate the yellow end of the hue, and it felt like being stuck behind a pair of tinted glasses. The chandeliers gave off a nauseating glow, and the diamonds were not so much glinting as fading into the half-light.