This is Life (16 page)

What a woman!
he thought.
What a day! What a life!

S
ylvie enjoyed all her jobs, but the day of the week she looked forward to more than any other was Thursday. This was when she helped out with the
ponies in the Jardin des Tuileries. Extra hands were needed on Thursdays, because that was when the children with special needs came for a ride. She had just finished helping a group of children
with Down’s syndrome get down from their ponies and out of their gear. She took so much satisfaction from her Thursdays that she had spoken to one of the visiting teachers about the
possibility of enrolling on a course so she could begin to get some qualifications and take on more responsibility. She had even begun to think about leaving her job-flitting days behind, and
embarking on a career in the field. The teacher had met Sylvie a few times and said she could see her making a great success of such a move, that she had a very natural and easy manner with the
children, and that they responded well to her. She said she would be happy to offer advice and provide a reference for her if she were to decide that it really was what she wanted to do.

Sylvie’s primary misgiving was that such a decision would be a terrible blow to her exes, many of whom, as a survival mechanism, told themselves over and over again that she was a bitch.
She knew this from the letters they sent and the messages they left on her phone (she maintained a special number for these calls, which she checked every few days), but she also knew that in their
hearts they knew that she wasn’t, that her only crime was not loving them, but the
that bitch
mantra helped them to get through the day. If news was ever to reach them of her taking
such a direction, it could be quite disastrous. The thought of her devoting her professional life to being helpful and compassionate towards those less fortunate than herself might prove too much
for them to cope with.

It had been a good day so far, and she was getting ready for the arrival of her final batch of riders when she spotted familiar faces approaching. It was Lucien and the Akiyamas. She had told
Lucien where she would be that day, and had known he would take the hint and drop by. She felt herself becoming nervous as Monsieur and Madame Akiyama approached. Just being close to
Toshiro’s parents had given her romantic butterflies. This was a new sensation, but she felt invigorated by it even as it frightened her. She waved a greeting.

She had been grooming one of the ponies, and she introduced him. ‘This is Poirot.’

Madame Akiyama raced up and petted him. ‘Bonjour, Poirot,’ she said. Her French was coming along. Then she reverted to Japanese.

Lucien interpreted. Madame Akiyama was wondering whether she could have a quick ride.

There were a few minutes before the next group was due, so Sylvie supposed that it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. They were small horses though, and their riders were usually children.
‘Ask her how much she weighs,’ she said.

Lucien turned white. ‘No. I’m not going to ask the mother of my future bride how much she weighs. Just let her get on the horse.’

Sylvie laughed. Madame Akiyama had a slight build – Poirot would be fine. A minute later she was being led by Sylvie around the park. Lucien and Monsieur Akiyama accompanied them. Madame
Akiyama said something to Sylvie, and Lucien translated.

‘Madame Akiyama says that she thinks you are very pretty and very nice, and that one day you will be a wonderful wife for a lucky husband.’

Sylvie was speechless. She felt like crying. It was such a lovely thing for Madame Akiyama to have said. Madame Akiyama carried on, and again Lucien provided her with a translation. ‘She
says that Monsieur Akiyama feels the same way.’

Monsieur Akiyama looked as cross as ever, but he gruffly nodded his agreement.

Sylvie could stand it no longer. ‘Monsieur Akiyama, Madame Akiyama,’ she said, standing still with Poirot’s leading rein in her hand, ‘please tell me everything about
Toshiro.’

So they told her: the good news and the bad.

Aurélie had arranged to meet Sylvie at the end of her shift, and following their long conversation the night before she wasn’t too surprised to find Lucien and the
Akiyamas in the outdoor café. Madame Akiyama was happy to see Herbert again, and immediately took him on her knee. Aurélie noticed that she was wearing a particularly nice scarf, and
through Lucien, she asked her where she had bought it.

‘La Foularderie,’ she said. ‘It’s in Le Marais. It’s such a wonderful shop – I bought a scarf there for Akiko too.’

Aurélie smiled. With everything that had been happening, she had forgotten about her quest for La Foularderie. With Madame Akiyama’s recommendation, though, coupled with the
loveliness of her scarf, its legendary status in her life grew to even greater proportions. She would find it at the next opportunity.

Soon they were joined by Sylvie, who had said goodbye to her final group of children and helped put all the equipment away. Aurélie was shocked when she saw her. Her friend looked
sad.

In all the time she had known her, she had never seen Sylvie looking defeated. Even at the most trying moments she smiled, and elevated the mood around her. Lucien asked her permission to
explain the situation, and she silently nodded her consent. Earlier it had been up to him to translate the news from Madame Akiyama to a shellshocked Sylvie, and it hadn’t been an easy
task.

Toshiro, Madame Akiyama had told her from the saddle, was twenty-nine years old, and had established himself as an accomplished musician. Working mainly alone, he recorded his own compositions
digitally, providing soundtracks for television shows and video games. At this point Monsieur Akiyama had chipped in with a comment about how this was not a steady occupation, and that his son was
leaving it too late to take up a position in a large corporation, but this was brushed aside by Madame Akiyama. She continued. Toshiro’s work was in demand, and he was – she gave her
husband a look – fending for himself perfectly well. This, of course, was good news for Sylvie. As well as being incredibly handsome, he sounded interesting and independent, and what’s
more his work was portable. He could move to Paris. They would get an apartment with an extra bedroom, and he could turn it into his studio.

Then the bad news began. It started as a trickle, but soon the dam burst and it became a deluge. First of all, Madame Akiyama explained that he didn’t speak a word of French. Sylvie spoke
no Japanese. Communication was going to be a problem. Sylvie had already considered this, though, and knew it could be overcome. She had Lucien to teach her the basics, and she would enrol in
classes at the earliest opportunity. Likewise, Toshiro could learn French. People learn languages all the time.

Then came the death blow.

As Lucien related Madame Akiyama’s next misgiving to Aurélie, Sylvie looked close to tears at having to sit through it a second time, and Madame Akiyama gave her a look of sympathy
as she bounced Herbert on her knee. For the last four years, Toshiro had been in a serious relationship with a fashion stylist called Natsuki Kobayashi. They weren’t engaged or living
together but, Madame Akiyama explained, they might as well have been. They had a very modern arrangement, one of which Monsieur Akiyama did not approve. Each had a key to the other’s
apartment, and they rarely spent a night apart. Madame Akiyama told Sylvie that she and her husband had spoken to Toshiro about this relationship, and he had reassured them that he loved her, and
hoped one day to marry her.

The first time Sylvie heard this unhappy fact, Madame Akiyama had just dismounted from Poirot. She had merely nodded, excused herself and taken the pony to get ready for the arrival of the final
group of children.

Her abiding feeling had been one of pity, for herself and for other people. She felt a sudden rush of empathy with everybody she had upset throughout the years. She wanted to track down each and
every one of the surviving boys whose hearts she had broken, and say sorry for putting them through such a terrible ordeal. It was only now that she truly understood. She had been wrong to ever
have allowed them as close as she had, to have given their dreams a chance to grow wings. She should never have let them love her. She should never even have agreed to go on a date with them. It
was only as she joined their ranks that she truly realised the depth of the pain she had caused, and the extent of the destruction she had wrought. But those days were behind her now. The universe
was exacting its revenge, and it was no more than she deserved. For her, the possibility of love was over. She would be alone for the rest of her life.

She had put on a smile for the children, a lot of whom recognised her from previous visits and were pleased to see her again. For the duration of their stay she was able to function. This was
where her future lay. As the children dismounted she arranged to meet their teacher for a coffee and an informal chat about ways into the profession. She was looking to a future free of Toshiro
Akiyama. A future free of love.

As they sat at the outdoor table, Lucien finished updating Aurélie, who reached over and took Sylvie’s hand. They all sat in silence for a while, then Madame
Akiyama gave Sylvie a determined look, and launched into a short speech in Japanese. Some of the words sounded familiar to the French speakers, and they were eager to find out what was going
on.

Lucien smiled as he told Sylvie what Madame Akiyama had said:
I don’t want Toshiro to marry Natsuki Kobayashi
.
I want him to marry Sylvie Dupont
.

Sylvie allowed a tear to run down her cheek. She didn’t know if it was a breach of Japanese etiquette, but she didn’t care – she threw herself on Madame Akiyama and hugged her
tight. Madame Akiyama still had Herbert on her knee, so this turned into something of a group hug, but it didn’t matter. She felt Toshiro’s mother’s hand on her back, holding her
tight, and everything melted away, all her toughness and her self-sufficiency. For that moment she allowed herself to be the little orphan girl. She had been searching so long for a family to call
her own, and maybe – maybe – she had found it.

Monsieur Akiyama looked on, slightly baffled, as this girl they had hired to drive them around the day before wept tears of joy on to his wife’s shoulder. It had been an
unusual trip so far, with people falling in love with photographs and so on, but he didn’t see what he could do but allow it all to happen. Over breakfast, his wife had given him a stern
talking-to. He had spent many years at the head of the family, she had said, setting rules and making decisions, running it like a small department within a large corporation. Now he was retired,
and it was time for him to step back from all that, to relax a little and hand some of those responsibilities to her. It all seemed very curious, but he didn’t dare raise an objection.

Thinking about it, he supposed he had never really warmed to Natsuki Kobayashi. There had been something hard about her, maybe even calculating. The last time he had met her had been at her
apartment for dinner and her cat, an objectionable creature called Makoto, had clawed through his trousers and scratched his leg, and instead of reprimanding it she had picked it up and given it a
kiss, and shown him a photograph of it wearing a knitted Viking’s helmet. Monsieur Akiyama had pointed out that he had spent many years at a senior position within a large corporation, and if
a subordinate at this corporation had scratched the leg of a superior they would not be rewarded with kisses and cuddles, and the superior who had been scratched would not then have to suffer the
further ordeal of having to look at a photograph of the subordinate dressed in a knitted Viking’s helmet.

Natsuki Kobayashi had taken this innocent observation to heart, and spoken to him in a rather inappropriate tone, saying that her apartment was not a large corporation, and the cat was an equal,
not a subordinate. The rest of the evening had passed under something of a cloud.

It had been an unpleasant experience. He supposed his wife was right: Sylvie Dupont would make a better daughter-in-law. She did seem nicer. Ultimately, though, the decision would lie with
Toshiro. He had always seemed to be very fond of Natsuki Kobayashi.

As the chaos swirled around him, Monsieur Akiyama surprised himself by coming to the conclusion that, on balance, he was having a nice time in Paris, and that maybe there was something to be
said for a little bit of disorder after all.

Love was in the air, and when Sylvie had finally untangled herself from Madame Akiyama and Herbert, Aurélie took the opportunity to announce that she had a brand new
boyfriend called Léandre Martin.

‘I met him in Le Marais,’ she said, ‘and he looks a bit like Jesus Christ.’

‘Not this again,’ said Lucien. ‘Do all women fancy Jesus?’ He looked to Sylvie to find out her views on the matter.

She nodded. She couldn’t deny it. ‘Yes, it’s true. Jesus is incredibly sexy – like you wouldn’t believe – but most men who try to look like him don’t
get it right. They just look like dirty hippies, or folk music people. It’s not often you see a
real
Jesus.’

‘I know,’ said Aurélie ‘and the best thing about it is that I don’t think Léandre’s even
trying
to look like Jesus, he just
happens
to
look like him. It’s a coincidence. He’s definitely not a dirty hippie, and I’ll tell you something else: right from the start, from the moment our eyes met, I felt as if I already
knew him. There was something about him that seemed really familiar.’

‘Well, obviously,’ said Lucien. ‘He looks like Jesus. Everybody’s seen Jesus before.’

‘I suppose so. But there was more to it than that. It was almost magical.’

Sylvie gave her a half smile, trying to indicate that they needed to have a talk about this later on, just the two of them. ‘You’ve got it bad,’ she said.

Aurélie smiled. ‘I really have.’ She told them all about how she had spent the morning and most of the afternoon with him, how they had walked and talked and made each other
laugh, how wonderful he had been with Herbert, and how they had arranged to meet up for lunch the next day.