One Minute to Midnight (19 page)

I dial her number but it goes straight to voicemail. She’s probably on the way back from the airport. Feeling slightly deflated, eager to begin the process of sorting my life out, I decide to contact Aidan instead. I open the secret Hotmail account and draft a new message.

‘Dear Aidan,’ I write, ‘it was so lovely to hear your voice again’ and then I stop writing because I realise, without turning around, that Dom is standing behind me. I didn’t hear him coming down the stairs, because the radio was on, but now I can tell, by the way that the dogs are looking past me and wagging their tails, that he’s right behind me, reading over my shoulder.

Chapter Ten

New Year’s Eve, 2001

Paris

Resolutions:

1. Send copies of
A British Tragedy
, plus CV, to BBC, Channel 4 and major production companies

2. Move house! Go east again? Hackney/ Dalston?

3. Backpack across Cambodia/Vietnam

4. Lose half a stone

5. Learn to speak French

‘UNE SOIRÉE SUR une peniche! Nous sommes invités a une soirée sur une peniche! Une peniche sur la Seine! C’est formidable!’

Julian found it unbelievably hilarious to repeat this little phrase (A party on a houseboat! We have been invited to a party on a houseboat! A houseboat on the Seine! It’s wonderful!). The rest of us had begun to find it tiresome before we left Waterloo. Us: Alex and Mike (the professional rugby player), Julian and Karl (the naked German), Aidan and I. The six of us had boarded the Eurostar for Paris that morning, bound for
une soirée sur une peniche
, thrown by Bertrand et Laure, friends of Aidan’s. Subjects of Aidan’s in fact: they had featured in a film his production company made about the work of Médecins Sans Frontières in west Africa.

Aidan was a bit nervous about it – so nervous he’d actually tried to get out of the whole trip claiming that he didn’t feel very well, but there was no force on this earth that was going to deny Julian a New Year’s Eve party
sur une peniche sur la Seine
, so there we were.

I understood Aidan’s nerves. He’d been invited to this party by people he knew from work. They had insisted that he bring friends, but five ‘might be pushing it’, he’d said to me the previous night. Plus, he just wasn’t sure how we were all going to get along. Or, more accurately, how we were all going to get along with Mike, who was taciturn to the point of rudeness. And, by his own admission, he didn’t ‘think much of the French’.

I was nervous, too. For months now I’d been hearing about Bertrand and Laure: Aidan talked incessantly about the fantastic (and dangerous) work they’d been doing in Cote d’Ivoire and Sierra Leone, about their passionate commitment to improving the lives of people in Africa, about their radical politics, their fantastic relationship.

‘It must be so amazing,’ he’d said, ‘to be able to work with your other half like that, to travel together, to do everything together, to have a real partnership’. I loved it when he talked like that, because that’s what I wanted, too, and that’s exactly what I saw developing between us. As soon as I managed to establish myself as a director of serious work, he and I could take off around the world to film together. In my fantasies I even had us establishing our own production company: Blake Symonds Films. Or Symonds Blake Films. Or something.

Back in the real world, I was nervous. Bertrand and Laure sounded like a lot to live up to, and I was desperate to make a good impression. I’d been trying to improve my schoolgirl French in the weeks before the trip – it would be nice to be able to hold the most basic of conversations with them. At least then they wouldn’t be able to see me as the typical lazy English person who couldn’t be bothered to even try speaking a foreign language (although that was precisely what I was). It would make me look so parochial.

We’d all checked in to a fairly ropey guest house just off the Boulevard St Germain. Mike, in particular, was not impressed.

‘We can afford better than this,’ he complained as we trudged up four flights of stairs (the lift was
hors service
) to our dingy rooms.

‘We’re not going to be here long,’ Alex said, ‘we’ll just be crashing here for a few hours after the party. Then we’ll go for breakfast and get back on the train. It would be a bit ridiculous to get rooms at the Georges Cinq for a few hours’ kip, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m not asking for the Georges Cinq, Alex,’ he replied grumpily, ‘but I’d settle for clean.’

Mike may have had an annoying habit of refusing to look on the bright side, but in this case, he had a point, as we discovered when Aidan and I took a quick look around our room. The windows, which looked out onto a rather drab courtyard at the back of the building, were filthy. The carpet was threadbare, the bathroom smelled odd.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I said, unconvincingly.

Aidan shrugged. ‘Seen worse,’ he said, but it wasn’t an auspicious start to our trip.

Not wanting to linger too long in the hotel, the six of us dumped our bags and met downstairs in the lobby. Mike wanted to go for a drink. Alex wanted to go shopping at Galeries Lafayette. Julian and Karl fancied the Musée Rodin.

‘What do you feel like doing?’ I asked Aidan.

He shrugged. ‘I’m easy,’ he said, but he didn’t seem it. Quite the opposite: uneasy summed him up perfectly. I slipped my hand into his.

‘Well,’ I said, consulting my map, ‘why don’t the arty boys go to the Musée Rodin, Alex and I will go on a brief shopping spree and we can all meet up afterwards for a drink?’

‘Sounds good,’ Julian said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘How about the Marais?’ Karl suggested. ‘Lots of good bars there.’

‘Isn’t that the gay bit?’ Mike asked. Julian flinched, but didn’t say anything.

‘It’s a bit out of the way,’ I said diplomatically, ‘given that we’re going to have to come back here afterwards to change for the party.’

‘Look, there’s a bar on the corner there, just down the road,’ Mike pointed out. ‘That’ll do.’ We all looked over at a rather sorry-looking café tabac with a tatty red awning.

‘Oh hell no,’ Julian said. Mike gave a sigh of irritation. Aidan yawned.

‘Buddha Bar, Place de la Concorde,’ Alex said decisively. ‘Look,’ she went on, pointing at the map. ‘It’s about twenty minutes’ walk from the Rodin place and five minutes’ walk from Hermès. Perfect. We’ll see you there at six.’

Alex, Julian, Karl and I headed off towards the metro station, leaving Aidan and Mike standing awkwardly on the pavement, unsure of what to do next. It was perfectly obvious to me that Aidan would have preferred to go to the art gallery with Jules than spend the afternoon drinking with Mike. He was being weirdly polite. It really wasn’t like him.

And, as Alex and I discussed as we tried on dresses at Galeries Lafayette, it wasn’t a very good idea.

‘They’re going to be pissed by the time we leave for the party,’ Alex said. ‘God, I hope Mike’s not going to start up on the cheese-eating surrender-monkey business. He’s not really all that keen on the French, you know.’

‘So I’ve gathered.’

‘And what’s up with Aidan, anyway? He was so quiet on the way over. Not his usual self at all.’

‘He’s just nervous, I think.’

‘Thinks we’re going to show him up in front of the great Laure and Bertrand?’

‘Something like that.’

Drinks at the Buddha Bar were subdued. Thankfully, Aidan and Mike had not had too much to drink (they’d spent a couple of hours ‘wandering aimlessly’, according to Aidan). Karl chatted enthusiastically about the Rodin Museum; Julian was quiet. Still annoyed about the ‘gay bit’ comment from Mike, probably. All in all, the trip was not shaping up to be the carefree funfest I’d been hoping for.

Still, there was the main event to come, and I was delighted with my purchase from Galeries Lafayette for the purpose: a pretty sixties print dress and Mary Janes.
Très chic
, I thought. Back at the hotel, Aidan watched me getting dressed.

‘You look very cute,’ he said, when I was done, coming up behind me and slipping his hands around my waist. I’d been aiming for drop-dead gorgeous, but cute was okay. He kissed me on the top of the head. ‘You look lovely.’ That was better, only when he said it he looked sad, almost mournful.

‘Are you all right, Aidan?’ I asked, turning to face him, kissing his neck.

‘I’m fine, Nic.’ He didn’t sound it.

We set off for the party. Alex looked ravishing in a very short black dress that showed the tops of her stockings when she bent over.

‘You may as well not bother with a skirt at all,’ Mike grumbled.

‘I think she looks hot,’ Julian said.

‘Yeah, well, it’s not you I’m worried about,’ Mike replied, casting menacing glances at any passing Frenchman who looked in Alex’s direction.

Julian opened his mouth to say something but Karl squeezed his hand, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. We descended into the metro in silence.

We took the train from Saint Michel-Notre Dame to Champ de Mars-Tour Eiffel, emerging into the chilly night in the shadow of the Tower itself, illuminated by thousands of white lights. The unease, the awkwardness which had settled over us all dissipated, and we stood and gawped, excited at last, thrilled by the beauty of Paris at night.

We walked along the river to the Quai de Grenelle where Laure and Bertrand docked their houseboat. As we approached we could see the lanterns strung up on the deck at the rear of the boat, we could hear the chatter of French voices in the night. I gripped Aidan’s hand, my nerves all of a sudden in overdrive. Aidan led us across the gangway onto the boat; as I stepped down onto the deck, I slipped. He caught me.

‘Steady on,’ he said with a smile. Good start.

We descended into the cabin of the boat, a long, narrow room with a low ceiling, a fireplace at one end, low slung benches on either side, bright African prints adorning the walls.

‘Christ, you can barely stand up in here,’ Mike muttered, stooping to avoid smacking his head on a beam as we entered.

The cabin was hot and crowded, a thick fug of smoke hanging over the heads of the guests, most of whom seemed casually attired in jeans and tailored jackets or crisp, sheath-like dresses. By contrast I felt garish, overdressed.

‘Salut
, Aidan!’ a voice called out from the crowd. A stocky, deeply tanned man with a shock of wiry dark hair emerged from the throng, holding his hands out in greeting.

‘Bonsoir
, Bertrand!’ They embraced, Bertrand kissing Aidan on both cheeks.

He turned to me. ‘And this is Nicole?’ he asked, turning to kiss me, too. Dishevelled, unkempt and friendly, he wasn’t the suave, stand-offish Frenchman I’d been expecting. I felt incredibly relieved.

The six of us lost ourselves in the party. Julian and Karl were talking property with a couple of goatee-bearded hipsters in one corner (Paris, London or Berlin – where was the best place to buy?); Alex and I found ourselves chatting to a couple of incredibly charming French theatre actors; Mike skulked in a corner, drinking a beer. Aidan disappeared into the crowd.

It was only when I realised that I hadn’t seen him for well over an hour that I decided to go looking. I weaved my way through the party guests, from one end of the boat to the other, but there was no sign of him. Back I went, all the way to front to aft. I found him outside on the deck, talking to a small, slight woman wearing jeans and a black vest with a silver chain around her neck and large silver rings on her delicate fingers. They were sharing a joint. When Aidan spotted me, he waved me over.

‘Hi, Nic, come and meet Laure,’ he said.

The woman turned. Her dark hair was cropped close to her head, she had enormous dark eyes and elfin features. The skin on her shoulders and breastbone was lightly freckled.

‘Hello,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Nicole? It’s nice to meet you.’ She looked me up and down, turned to Aidan, raised an eyebrow and smiled.
‘Elle est mignonne
,’ she said. She’s cute. My French wasn’t great, but I understood that much. There was something in the way she said it I didn’t like. Aidan grinned a little sheepishly and looked away. We chatted for a minute about the programme Aidan had been making about them, which was due to air in a few weeks. We talked about her next posting – there was a possibility she and her husband might go to Afghanistan, though she was desperate to avoid that, not wanting anything to do with the Americans’ ‘dirty war’. Then she asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was freelancing as an assistant producer, though I really wanted to direct.

‘You follow in Aidan’s footsteps?’ she said with a laugh.

‘Not exactly,’ I replied, ‘he was a cameraman.’

She turned to Aidan. ‘And is she any good?’

Aidan looked embarrassed. My hackles were rising.

‘She’s great, actually.’ He put his arm around my shoulders, steering me back towards the cabin. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘there’s someone here you should meet. Simon Carver, the head of programming at Breakthrough. You remember I mentioned him before? Well, I sent him the film you made, the one on the British relatives of 9/11 victims, the
British Tragedy
thing …’