But if Paris was bringing my soul back to life, it was also bringing my instincts back to life too. I wasn’t some popsy who worked for his father. Well, I was. But I was more than that too.
“That,” I said, “is the corniest line I have ever heard in my entire life. I bet it works all the time too.” I shook my head.
Laurent raised his hands. “It wasn’t a line!” he protested.
“Oh, I’m sure it would work on those other girls,” I said airily. “But now I have to go.”
It felt good, doing this. Not risking my ego for a little bit of comfort, not lending myself to someone whose embarrassed face I could already imagine in the morning, as he headed back to his world of dainty skinny models who didn’t unbalance the back of his scooter.
Suddenly he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, and I knew I’d been right. He really had been after some quick sex. I remembered how I’d never seen him around with the same girl twice.
“It’s early,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Do you want me to text you where Sami is?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I’m really tired.”
“Me too,” I said, standing up.
- - -
As we left, Laurent was doused in kisses for the last time as they waived the bill “as long as you bring your father back next time and come together.” I stopped to talk to Marina on the way out.
“That was…that was beautiful,” I said. “It was one of the loveliest meals I’ve ever had. Thank you so much.”
Her face smiled politely; of course she must hear this on a nightly basis. “Will you look after Laurent?” she asked me, in halting English.
“Oh, he’s not mine to look after,” I said, trying not to betray the wobble in my voice. She looked at me, shaking her head.
“You know,” she said, “he’s never brought a girl here before. Not ever.”
The email arrived the next morning, as I stumbled from bed. I’d slept ten hours, thankfully, but it either still wasn’t enough or it was far too much, as I felt wobbly and bleary. Sami was capering about the kitchen.
“Ooh,” he said. “The phone rang for you.”
“Sami, what are you wearing?”
He glanced down. “Oh, this?”
“Yes, this! I don’t want to see it this early!”
Sami was wearing a pair of tiny, tight, bright turquoise Speedos. They were unutterably hideous.
“That,” he said severely, posing his lean body in his trunks, “is because you’re not getting enough. I’m off to the lido.”
He had an enormous tattoo of an eagle spreading its wings taking off from his groin. I assumed when he was naked, it would look like a nest and a worm.
“I’ve had my offers,” I said, only slightly lying because I hadn’t really had any offers, at least not in the style I really liked before I felt confident enough to go forward, i.e., very clearly stated, ideally in writing, and undertaken at a time of some intoxication.
“I’ll do you if you like,” said Sami perkily. “I’m not very fussy.”
“Someone not very fussy is exactly the top of my wish list, thank you, Sami. Consider me utterly entranced.”
He shrugged. “But you are French now, cherie. Don’t you want to live in Paris as the French do?”
“By having sex with an omnisexual giant wearing tiny pants?”
“By enjoying yourself. By enjoying sex and not worrying about whether your body is less than perfect.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, wondering if it were ever possible for an eight-toed person to have sex without worrying about being less than perfect. I still wasn’t entirely sure someone wouldn’t just throw up all over me.
“You have to get over your British hang-ups, you know? I slept with a British girl last month. Or was it a boy?”
I rolled my eyes. “Sami, put on some clothes. You have enough of them.”
“Cost me a fortune in fizz just to get him—yes, it was a him, definitely—in the mood. Then he’d had too much and passed out in the cab.”
“See, where I come from, you call that a jolly good night,” I murmured, briefly checking the clock. I needed to get a shimmy on. I quickly glanced at my old wind-up laptop on the corner from which occasionally, if you were lucky, you could occasionally steal Wi-Fi from someone in the building who called themselves “Francoisguitare.” And there it was, sitting there, from Claire. I didn’t even know she could write email. Personal letter seemed more her style.
Dear Anna,
I hope this finds you well.
I liked the fact that she was keeping to the general style of a formal letter.
I have made a decision; I would like very much to visit Paris one more time. I hope very much as I write that Thierry is recovering. I have no wish to see him, but I would like, while I am able, to visit my beloved Île de la Cité. I am sure it is much changed, but then so am I, so is everything. Alors, perhaps I shall even eat some chocolate. If you could help me organize this, I would be most grateful. Please don’t trouble Thierry with this news; I’m sure he wouldn’t be terribly interested.
Sending my warmest wishes to you. Your parents came to visit me by the way. It was very kind of them. Your mother told me not to tell you, but she worries about you a lot and how you might be coping. I told her in my experience, you coped with things very well.
With very warmest wishes,
Claire xxxxxxx
I stared at the screen.
“Good news?” said Sami. “Boyfriend coming over to shag you sideways?”
I cut him a look.
Good news or bad news, I had a funny feeling this was going to mean an enormous amount of work for me. And why had she told me not to tell Thierry? Surely she would only tell me not to tell Thierry if it actually meant something. I should probably tell Thierry. I wanted to visit him anyway.
And all this time I’d thought she was just my boring old married French teacher.
- - -
Nelson Eddy the dog had a cocky look to him as he marched down the rue Chanoinesse that morning. It was another stunning, heart-melting day, the sky a shady pink and blue in the cracks between the houses high overhead. I’d thrown on the lightest sundress I had and noticed right away that it was fitting more easily. Apart from the risotto, it occurred to me, I’d hardly eaten a meal in weeks. Maybe I should invent a diet that involved tasting tiny bits of chocolate all day long and nothing else at all. It would probably do quite well, now I thought about it. Cath had done that one with the pepper and the maple syrup, up until happy hour cocktailarama at Wenderspoons, where she’d fainted and knocked herself out on the bar rail. I had a sudden guilty attack at the amount of fruit and vegetables I wasn’t eating and resolved to go down to the market—it was Wednesday—and buy some of the melons they had, the ripe honeydews. They would put down fresh, ice-cold strips for tasting, and they were heaven. I wondered if there was some kind of a way of getting them into the chocolate. Laurent would know, I thought. Then I grimaced again, thinking of our awkward supper the night before. Well, I wasn’t some kind of handy comfort object to him during his dad being sick. That wasn’t it.