Loving Amélie (23 page)

“But you wanted me there
afterwards?”

“For her,” said Amélie. “I
needed you for her.”

Chris felt he had heard as much
as he had the courage to hear that day, and they paid the owner: who bid them a
dolorous farewell from deep in his throat, thick with nicotine and brandy, and
shuffled away into the rear of his establishment.

They headed back to the river
bank, where they promenaded up and down the displays of old books, prints and
postcards, while Amélie dozed in her chair.

“Perhaps one for Monsieur
Bénard’s collection,” said Amé, holding aloft an English tome entitled
The Book of Big
Breasts
next to her impish face. She turned and made her purchase from the
street seller with such beautiful insolence that Chris found himself
captivated, and transported back to the day he had first taken her in his arms,
and been prepared to sacrifice anything to keep her.

Chapter Twenty Four

Chris was disappointed that
they would not be joined by the inimitable sisters Sophie and Cécile, who had
made his last visit with his daughter such a delight: they were back at school,
and could not even be alerted to the fact that Amélie was staying again or they
would be inconsolable.

Paul Bénard’s friend, Lucille Lagarde,
however, was there to greet Chris and Amélie on their return from the Ile de la
Cité. She was less gregarious than her lover; but just as welcoming. She was
instructed by Paul to entertain Chris, briefly; while he took Amélie for an
early evening tour of the gardens. It occurred to Chris that he himself had not
seen the gardens; but thought better than challenging his host’s plan, which
was, Paul declared, for “Lucille to remind you of my charm and prowess” while
he
would
attend to convincing Amé of it in person.

Lucille had set a dinner table
in Paul’s sitting room-cum-kitchen, with tall red candles and a plate of bread
rolls. She had probably been quite a striking woman in her prime: her face
etched like a weathered travel bag with a myriad of wrinkles, but her eyes
bright and knowing, and her curly grey hair twinkling with silver earrings. She
was possibly older than Paul; and was what Chris’s father Roy would have
described as “an old hippy”, as she was dressed in a kaftan and beads, and
sported rings on all her fingers.

“He has spoken of you and your
family with such affection,” she declared, with an expressive lunge of her
body.

“Well, he made me feel very
much at home,” said Chris. “As did the children. It was a short visit; but it
did me a power of good.”

“Yes, he
does
that,” said Lucille, a little in
awe of her absent lover.

The atmosphere in the little
kitchen intensified with the aroma of beef casseroling in wine with shallots,
vying with the acidic accompaniment of Roquefort and Brie on a wooden board on
the dresser. Chris contemplated how insanely hungry you could feel –
despite a recent lunch and snack – when your life was a series of
emotional peaks and troughs: it was as though happier times afforded you the
appetite you needed to sustain you during misery, when you could hardly face
eating a mouthful. It must be a matter of survival. He was glad that Amé had at
least had the good sense to yield to the care of her mother, with her instinct
for nourishment; otherwise, with her naturally small frame, she would have
surely faded to nothing.

Paul Bénard returned from the
garden with the baby on his hip; and a mood that was disposed towards good
food, wine and conviviality.

He chatted in a generous
combination of both French and English, reminding Amélie that Chris had
“promised” to learn French in London: at which she turned her rounded eyes upon
him in merriment:

“
On va voir!
” she teased.

Chris knew the bewitching power
of candlelight, but could not help but acknowledge how it magnified her desirability;
her skin gleaming like a rare, creamy orchid against the simple lines of her
navy shift dress - he had watched her pack this outfit in tissue paper, under
the watchful and slightly critical eye of Adrienne. Around her neck she wore a
wire strung at intervals with tiny seed pearls that sprinkled themselves across
her collar bone like shining droplets of dew.

“Will you be returning to your
work in the law?” Lucille asked, innocently; as they deliberated sociably over
their supper.

“I don’t know,” said Amélie.
She looked at Chris, particularly, as she spoke. “My father is keen for me to.
He thinks it is not too late for me to train to be a legal executive; but I
have not made up my mind.”

“And so, Chris, will you
continue to look after the baby?”

“I don’t know, either,” said
Chris; at which point Paul Bénard made some interrupting sounds and, tapping
the side of his nose, said:

“Ah, Lucille, I think you are
poking in where you have no business…”

“I am sorry,” said his lover.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,”
said Amélie, quickly. “We have these things to sort out: it is no secret. We
are meeting my father here tomorrow morning. He is offering us some financial
support.” She ended her sentence with a little shrug, as though this were all
she knew of a message she was expected to pass on, regarding something that
didn’t concern her.

“As a mother who raised a child
with
no
support, that must be a good thing,” said Lucille, tilting her chin with an air
of admonishment in Bénard’s direction; willing him gently not to silence her.
“I do
not
mean to poke in my nose, but you must not let pride prevent you from missing
out on an opportunity that could be good for all of you.”

Paul Bénard drummed his fingers
on his table and said:

“This is most vexing. It is
I
who take on
the mantle of advisor in this kitchen.” He pulled the cork from the wine and
proceeded to top up everyone’s glass. “And I think, at this juncture, I advise
a toast to the great good fortune of this little family:
however
things work out!”

There was a clinking of glasses
and a muttering of spirited words:

“
However
they work out,” Lucille echoed,
with another of her dramatic lunges.

After the first portions of
cheese had been consumed, Amélie made her apologies and declared her need for
sleep: the baby was sure to wake up in the night; or, at least, to rise early.

Chris accompanied her to their
room.

“You must return to them,” she
said. “There is no need for you to miss out on the conversation.”

“I shall go and bid them a last
goodnight,” said Chris. “But I have every intention of spending my time here
with
you.
”

He drew down the blind next to
Amélie’s cot: she was laid on her side, with her shoulders thrown forward and
her little cheeks squashed together in a pose that indicated her afternoon of
sightseeing had worn her out. As he turned to leave, Amé took his hands:

“Please. Don’t expect too much
of me,” she said.

They both looked at the double
bed behind them; swathed in the type of eiderdown that was made of a heavy, waxed
fabric, with piped edges; which - guests generally hoped - would reveal softer,
fresher linen beneath.

“I have no expectations of
you,” said Chris, tenderly. “I actually booked
two
rooms when I spoke to Bénard, I’m
sure of it: but I think he made an innocent mistake. Would you like me to ask
him for another room?”

“No, no matter,” she replied.
“I will see you later.”

Chris returned to finish his
glass of wine; and to bid goodnight to his hosts. He found that Lucille, too,
was preparing to turn in:

“He is about to smoke one of
his cigars,” she said. She might have been announcing the weather forecast, or
the intentions of a deaf man. “Goodnight, Chris. It has been charming to meet
you.”

She gave him an enthusiastic
smile that creased her face into its wrinkled history of expression; kissed
Bénard; and left the men alone.

“She does not offend anyone,”
declared the Frenchman, with a dismissive waft of his hand, as he snipped the
end off a cigar.

“We were not offended,” Chris
assured him; if he needed it.

“Will you be tempted by the
Count of
Montecristo
?” he said, indicating the box on the table.

“I’m really not a smoker,” said
Chris. “And I don’t like the smell around the baby…”

Paul threw down his cigar in
what might have been construed as a fit of pique, had he not continued,
suddenly, with:

“There is
much
to be gained from a turn around the
gardens of the Hotel Bénard…”

“Do you think so?” said Chris,
arrested, although not entirely surprised by his friend’s motives for offering to
promenade with Amélie. “Do you think she may be suffering in the same way your
mother was?”

Bénard spread his fingers in
his beard and nodded:

“There are undoubtedly
similarities, my friend. The bringing forth of a child into the world can be an
immense strain, on even the most robust of vessels.”

Chris waited, like the
recipient of a vital report.

“And your Amélie: she has never
been such a vessel.”

Bénard made to continue, as
though he had spent more time in Amé’s company than just one afternoon, setting
his arms and hands in the style of someone performing visual art:

“Yes, she may
posture
and
wrestle
, like
a small bird that is fighting for the worm; and she may
get
the worm.” He looked intently at
Chris and struck his own breast. “But in
here
, she will always feel like the small
bird.”

“Nonetheless,” said Chris,
after a time. “She is a mother. And she has me to help her. Perhaps I can be
the bigger bird?”

The gentle humour was wasted on
Bénard, who was now sitting back in his chair, his cigar abandoned, arms
dangling:

“Regrettably, we must all grow
up. From being the adorable little piglet, like baby Amélie, to the exquisite
dragonfly
children, like Sophie and Cécile,” he punctuated each phase of childhood with
the unification of his fingertips, “and then become the fully fledged adult,
like you and me and the lovely ladies at our table…

We rely on our parents to
allow
us to
grow, and not to keep us as children. Otherwise, we do not
fly
so well, whether we are big birds or
small birds…

It is
hard
to give up the life we live as a
child. For the child
and
the parent.
But,
” Bénard sat up emphatically, “we must do it. We should walk
hand in hand with the child we once were, never forgetting he or she will
always be with us; but we
must
be the grown up. You love your Amélie. She is the mother of
your child. You must help her be a grown up at last.”

Chapter Twenty Five

Amélie was showering when Chris
returned to their room: he lay on the waxy coverlet, wondering how many other
people had done the same, and waited until he heard the water shut off and the
final drops trickle from the shower rose.

“I am back,” he said. “Would
you like some time to yourself?”

“No,” she said, appearing from the
bathroom, wrapped in a hotel robe, the ends of her dark hair drawn straight and
stained black with water.
 
“We
should talk.”

She sat with him on the bed:

“How do you feel about seeing
my father tomorrow?”

“Alright,” he replied. “He
can’t be any more imposing than your uncle Pierre. Or your cousin Jean-Luc.”

“Oh, Jean-Luc!” she giggled.
Her eyes softened: “You thought he was my lover.”

“I am glad it amuses you,” he
said, with a smile. “What was I supposed to think?”

“He is my cousin and he is
gay,” she announced, giving him a playful bat with a pillow. “Anyone can see
that!”

“He is French,” Chris teased in
return. “It can be hard to tell.”

“I am sad that you thought I
would have another man in my life. So soon. Particularly with Amélie.”

“Yes. I am sad I thought so,
too.”

She brought a small towel from
the bathroom and squeezed her hair:

“And you,” she said, demurely.
“Were you so angry with me that you turned to other women?”

“You’re a vixen,” said Chris,
rolling over and pulling the towel from her grasp. “Other
women
?
 
As if you didn’t know that my heart was, and is, entirely
yours.”

She eyed him with mock
petulance, then withdrew to the bathroom again to blast her hair and neck with
the somewhat ineffectual hairdryer. It blared like a faulty aircraft for a few
seconds; and then she was standing at the foot of the bed. She let the robe
fall from her shoulders to the floor. He took a breath in and allowed his eyes
to play over her naked body, for the first time in many months.