Journey to the Centre of Myself (13 page)

‘No, I didn’t.’ Though it crosses my mind that I wouldn’t have remembered anyway. I left myself very vulnerable that evening.

Jo interrupts. ‘I’ve decided to have a dinner party. Would you two come?’

Mirelle looks at me from behind her screen and pulls a face.

‘When?’ I ask.

‘A week on Friday, the twenty-first of December. Please say yes. I need some youth and vitality present.’

I consider my empty diary. ‘Yes, we’d love to—wouldn’t we, Mirelle?’

She pulls a finger gun trigger at me from behind her screen. ‘Yes, of course, that’d be great.’

‘Excellent,’ says Jo. ‘I can start planning it. I want it to be a night to remember.’

Personally, I can’t see a boring dinner party being anything spectacular, but it beats another night in on my own. At least, I can get dressed up, and I might allow myself a small amount of alcohol. I find I’m actually looking forward to it.

‘You can both be plus one if need be.’

‘You can bring the Troll,’ says Mirelle.

I look at her and wink. ‘I may have someone else to bring…’

She sits upright. ‘What? Tell all, you better not be keeping things from me.’

‘I may have started your little challenge.’

I see Jo shaking her head. She puts in her earphones and types.

‘So?’

‘So I sent him a text. We need to arrange where to meet.’

‘Fabulous. Listen,’ she sits back in her chair and drums a red nail against her lip. ‘Don’t rush this part. It needs to be a slow tease. I’m glad you’ve not made the arrangements yet.’

‘I’ve told him we need to go somewhere private and intimate.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘See, you should have consulted me first. You should start off somewhere public and busy where he can’t get his hands on you.’

‘But isn’t small and intimate sexier?’

‘You’re more likely to be unable to resist.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Hmm, okay, well I’ll let you arrange the venue. I’ll think of the outfit.’

‘I was just going to wear my black dress.’

‘No, no, no.’ She puts her hand to her forehead. ‘Dear me, Amber, you have so much to learn in the art of seduction.’

‘Well, Dita Von Teese, please tell me what I need to know.’

She puts a hand on her chest. ‘A simple blouse is what you need. But one where when you lean over, you can see your tits spilling out of a brand new, uplift bra.
Not
a white gone grey old wreck.’

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling sorry for my faithful old bra. I feel like she has X-ray eyes.

She runs a hand down her hip. ‘Then some capri pants, showing off your ankles and peep toe sandals. Paint your toes red, to hint at a little of minx in you. Put your hair up like mine.’ She points to her neck, ‘make sure he can see all this expanse of skin near your throat. Keep touching it with your fingers so his eyes are drawn there.’

‘When you presented me with this challenge, I didn’t realise I was getting step-by-step instructions.’

‘You are my puppet, Amber,’ Mirelle mimes pulling strings.

‘Yes Master,’ I salute her.

I walk into my house at ten to six and pace. I need Will to get here so we can get this over with.

He arrives at six p.m. on the dot. I bet he was born on his due date. He knocks on the door which seems so weird.

I open it.

He shrugs. ‘It didn’t seem right, letting myself in.’

‘No, I don’t think it’s appropriate anymore. Come through.’

We walk into the lounge. I see Will’s eyes glance at the suitcases at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Can you come through to the dining room, please?’ There’s no way he’s sitting on my sofa.

He walks past his own sofa with the broken knife stuck in it. ‘I guess I had a lucky escape.’

I don’t respond and point to a dining room chair. ‘This seems to be where we talk about big things these days,’ I say.

He nods his head slowly, biting his bottom lip. ‘So, how’ve you been?’

I lift an eyebrow in his direction.

‘Sorry, Amber. I don’t know what to say.’ He looks at me, pain in his eyes. I turn my gaze away. I can’t take the intensity of it.

My hands curl into fists and I look up and glare at him. ‘I want to hurt you, Will.
Physically
hurt you. I want you to feel like I feel.’ I bang my fist on the table.

He slumps over the table. ‘I am so, so sorry.’ His chin trembles and his voice breaks.

My shoulders droop and I start to cry. ‘H-how could you?’

‘I don’t know. I… I don’t know.’ He breaks down himself.

I put the kettle on, needing something to do. ‘I’ve packed your clothes for you.’

He presses a fist to his lips and chokes out, ‘Thank you.’

‘I want to sell the house. I can’t stay here, it’s too hard. I’ve been thinking of renting an apartment in the city centre. It’d be better for work.’

‘I could buy you out. It’d be weird, but—’

‘You and Sam?’

He nods and swallows. ‘And Alfie and… and the baby.’

I imagine a family running around the space and rub my palm. ‘Fine.’

Will frowns. ‘Don’t you want to throw a plate at my head, or something?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘I need some time to get a new place so I’ll be here at least another month.’

‘Of course, no rush. It’s your home.’

I look around. ‘No, it’s not, I’m not sure it ever was. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. This part of my life is over.’

‘And don’t you dare bring Sam here until I’ve left. She must
never
sit on that sofa, do you understand? That is mine.’

‘We’ll buy a new sofa.’

I slam the kettle back down on the worktop. ‘Jesus, Will, is everything so easily replaceable? My wife won’t have a kid, oh, I know, I’ll get someone else pregnant and move them into my house. Old sofa destroyed by ex-wife? Never mind, I’ll buy another.’

Will shakes his head slowly, as if in disbelief. ‘Christ, it seems so strange hearing you say that—ex-wife.’

‘Get used to it. I’ll file for divorce soon.’

‘There’s no rush, Amber,’ he whispers.

‘Don’t you want to make an honest woman of Sam?’

‘No,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t.’

After he’s left, I take refuge on my sofa with a throw around my shoulders. Now what? I’m not drinking and I’m so bored. I reach for my mobile phone and text Adrian. ‘Fancy a chat?’

The reply comes quickly. ‘Sure. What about?’

‘Anything. You choose.’

‘Hmmm, I’ll have a think.’

There’s nothing for ten minutes. I start to fidget on the sofa. Has he gone out or changed his mind?

Finally, a beep. ‘Okay, let’s chat about life.’

‘Okay…’

‘What do you want from life?’

I think for a second or two and then type back, ‘Fun.’

I add a further text, ‘What about you?’

‘Right now? Lust. Sex.’

‘Wow,’ I type. ‘Direct.’

‘Why mess about? Why are you really texting me, Amber? Why now, when Friday you said no? What changed?’

‘My marriage broke up.’

‘Ah. Am I revenge then? Rebound?’

‘Could be, or perhaps now I can do what I wanted to do on Friday?’

‘Fun?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about lust? Sex?’

‘Maybe lust. Not ready for the other yet.’

‘To be expected.’

‘You still up for meeting me then?’

‘Oh, I’m very
up
for it.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Lust, remember?’

I recall darkness, shivers on my neck and tongues.

‘Yes, lust.’

‘So let’s meet. Tomorrow. Luisa’s at seven.’

Luisa’s is a small Italian restaurant in Sale. Small. Intimate. He must have done his homework. I think about what Mirelle said about popular and busy.

‘I’d rather go somewhere hip in Manchester City Centre.’

‘No. Luisa’s. Undercover.’

I hesitate. Oh, forget Mirelle, I think. I’ll tell her we’re meeting somewhere else. What will she know?

‘Sure,’ I text. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Expect lust,’ he replies.

‘Message received and understood,’ I send back.

Chapter 15

Karen

I drink a couple of glasses of wine, a Merlot, which leaves a delicious aftertaste of blackcurrants. I make small talk with Mark and a few of the others sitting nearby. Everyone feels the need to tell me the story of why they’re on the trip. What is it about people that makes them explain everything to perfect strangers? Why do they think they have to justify, for example, taking a holiday after retirement? So they finally have some money in the bank? Good for them. Then there’s Tricia and Luke. Luke is so obviously going to propose. He can’t stop looking at his girlfriend, and he keeps feeling around in his top jacket pocket. I told people I was here because I’d been told it was beautiful and wanted to see for myself. One of the group asks me if I’m single. How it is any of their business I cannot work out. I want to tell her to keep her bloody nose out. Instead, I tell her that I’m married, but unfortunately, my husband had work commitments. I see her check my hand as if she doubts me.

I grab my coat and stand up. ‘Well thanks, everyone, I’ll see you around the apartments.’

‘What are you up to now?’ asks Mark.

‘I’m off to flirt with Paris and start my love affair with it.’

‘Surely after today, you have a little crush on it at least?’

‘I take a little more convincing than queues and cold air, though the mussels and crepes brought me round a little.’

‘Well enjoy, Ma Cherie. We look forward to hearing your exploits.’

I turn the corner from the Cafe and see place signs pointing me toward the l’hotel de Invalides and set off walking. I cut through the most gorgeous park and note that I must come back and see Paris again when it’s warmer. Then I can buy a huge baguette, bring it to the park and sit amongst the chic Parisians. It’s like I’m breathing the city in, as if it’s invading my pores. My fingers tingle and I’m not sure if it’s the cold or excitement.

The l’hotel de Invalides is vast. There’s only a small queue for tickets and then I’m pointed toward a small courtyard. All the war museum exhibits are signposted from here. I look at different military weapons—guns with knives attached or four barrels; uniforms from around the World; land mines; swords. The glass cases go on and on until finally there’s a section celebrating freedom and I see a beautiful tea dress with a French flag print.

I nip to the restroom and then call into the small restaurant for a coffee. Refreshed, I make my way to the building holding Napoleon’s tomb. The tomb reminds me of a Belgian chocolate. It looks brown and shiny though it’s sculptured from red quartzite. It is surrounded by statues. I am spellbound, captured by the beauty of it and I take out my camera and snap several pictures.

I hadn’t anticipated how long it would take me to explore the museum and it is now early evening. Feeling hungry, I decide to find somewhere to eat and catch a cab to the L’arc de Triumph. As this monument looks out over the Champs Elysee, I get the chance to take in another sight and snap some more stunning pictures before wandering down to find another restaurant. I take a few sneaky pictures of people milling around the area—a family holding hands; a chic lady who is wearing a scarf draped in an elegance that would never work on me; the traffic police who descend on a row of parked cars on the street, along with a tow truck and start to move them all away. I am enjoying myself.

When I was younger, I’d thought about studying photography but my parents told me it wasn’t a career, it was a dream. I can afford to dream now, I think. I could go back to college and study. It doesn’t have to be a career. It can be a hobby that I enjoy, that I’m good at. I begin to walk down the avenue, holding myself straighter, and feeling more confident. Here in Paris, alone, I’m enjoying my hobby and I don’t have to answer to anyone or anything right now. I absolutely love it. Then I see it, Laduree, the macaron shop the hairdresser told me about. There are people queueing out of the door. Oh my goodness, another queue, but I reckon they must be wondrous if people will wait for them. So I join the end.

I fall in love the minute I’m inside. There’s an old-fashioned looking restaurant with an elegant stairway, and the counter is filled with maracons of every conceivable colour and flavour. I queue next to a display case showing tiny macarons as wedding favours. I even love the boxes, vintage looking and a pale green. There is a bar at the back, decorated in art déco tones. I can imagine myself sitting at the bar, with a chic bob. Then I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the cabinet, hair damp and limp around my face, no trace of the light makeup I applied this morning. The bar is not for me today, I’m not worthy, but again I vow to come back in the sunshine and perch on one of those seats.