Rebound (16 page)

The cab takes me along Euston Road towards St Pancras. We pass by the uninspiring new building of the British Library and then the grand facade of the St Pancras Renaissance
Hotel, one of the most romantic and stylish buildings in London. The architectural brilliance of the hotel contrasts with the Victorian functionality of the train station, but somehow the two
facades work well together.

‘Thank goodness they’ve finished renovating it at last,’ I say to the cab driver and he turns out to be an expert on everything London, telling me the story of George Gilbert
Scott’s architectural masterpiece.

‘They had to close the Midland Grand fifty-nine years after it opened in 1876. And you know why? Because it had only eight bathrooms for three hundred rooms. Imagine dealing with that, if
you’re in a bit of a hurry. They only invented the toilet six years after it was finished, so the hotel was, pardon my French, in deep shit from the start.’ But he reassures me the
bathrooms are plentiful there now, all marble and glass, raving about the new place as if he owned it himself.

I check in at the entry gate with my iPhone and have enough time to grab a quick coffee and a croissant in the Business Lounge. The train boards on time and soon I’m in my Club 2 seat,
spreading the
Guardian
. A train journey puts me straight away in a holiday mood and although this is far from being a holiday trip, I can’t resist indulging in the leisurely activity
of reading a newspaper from start to finish. But the news in the paper quickly spoils my holiday mood. A woman politician received a deluge of hostile tweets, including threats to rape and kill
her, simply because she tweeted something the trolls didn’t like. I find a series of articles on Twitter abuse of women by cyberbullies and the devastating effect it can have on the victims.
A psychologist explains the term ‘disinhibition’, the anonymity of the web that tempts people to behave in a way they wouldn’t face-to-face. I’m not on Twitter, but the
articles make me think of my recent experiences. Would a visit from Tom’s wife classify as some form of stalking? Could her request to leave her husband alone classify as the normal behaviour
of a worried wife, or was it excessive jealousy, straight from the
Jeremy Kyle Show
? Then I remember that Samantha is privy to my secret, one that may make me look reckless or predatory in
her eyes. Then another possible version of events occurs to me: perhaps she’s told Tom about my visit to the clinic and now she’s worried he’ll develop an interest in me as a
result of her indiscretion?

The clinking of the breakfast trolley interrupts my chain of thoughts and I have my second coffee and croissant of the day. As we enter the tunnel I amuse myself by watching my fellow
passengers. They are mostly British businessmen, going to Paris for the day, catching up on their emails and polishing spreadsheets on their laptops. I’m sure the morning train from Paris is
full of their French counterparts. The man sitting opposite me, whose incessant phone calls in French have been mercifully interrupted by our entry to the tunnel, stares at my legs appreciatively.
But there is something so insistent about his look that it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not a compliment any more, it’s an intrusion. But we are in the civilized and safe environment of
the Eurostar and I ignore it, closing my eyes and instantly falling asleep. I wake up just in time to see the stunning skyline of Paris on my left, and then we enter graffiti-covered suburbia and
the train manager announces first in French, then in English that still sounds like French, that we’ll be arriving in Gare du Nord in a few minutes.

The noise and smell of the station hit me as soon as I leave the train. There is a handful of people waiting for passengers at the exit from the platform. A few young guys mill around looking
for punters for their Moto Taxis. I spot my driver holding up a card with my name. He grabs my suitcase and leads me to the car. He sets off, fast and efficient, and I enjoy the ride along the
straight, wide boulevards with their cafes and shops, the Haussmann buildings flanking them gracefully. Soon we’re in the heart of Paris, on tree-lined Avenue Montaigne, the driver is passing
on my suitcase to the hotel porter and I’m welcomed inside like a long-lost friend. My deluxe room at the Plaza Athénée is an Art Deco-style extravagance overlooking Avenue
Montaigne. It’s so huge you could get lost on the way to the bathroom.

I have a business lunch with other participants of the meeting in the courtyard restaurant. I know most of them from various company gatherings I’ve attended over the years. The loud
Americans, laid-back Scandinavians, precise Germans, hyperactive Italians, irritable French and solemn Slavs. In the afternoon I manage to negotiate a couple of hours to myself and head to
Institute Dior for a massage. The irony of my choice doesn’t escape me. A full hour of bliss and then the official dinner at the overindulgent Alain Ducasse Michelin-starred restaurant, which
lasts past midnight. I think I’m doing a good job preparing the ground for the presentation of Julian’s vision tomorrow morning. I get back to my room, check the time, and as it’s
one hour behind in the UK I decide it’s not too late to ring Bell. Her voicemail kicks in and I leave her a message, asking how she’s settled in my house and how Wispa’s paw is. I
tell her briefly about the extravagant hotel I’m staying at, promising the whole story when I get back.

The meeting, which starts at 9 a.m. sharp, is a nerve-wracking affair. I’m no stranger to being a speaker at that level, but being someone else’s envoy is a
different matter. Part of me suspects some hidden agenda on Julian’s part, some Machiavellian twist I’m not aware of, and it’s making me nervous. But my presentation goes well and
the response to Julian’s vision is positive on the whole. I’m relieved once my solo performance is over and I’m able to take the back seat. Others take over and the subject of
restructuring resurfaces at the top of the agenda. It seems it causes similar problems in most of the EMEA countries. Acronyms abound as we learn that restructuring is proceeding well in all the
other regions. After the French-wine-fuelled lunch the meeting rambles on for a couple more hours and wraps up well before dinner. To clear my head I decide to go to my favourite part of Paris,
Montmartre. I quickly change into casual clothes and leave the hotel.

The hotel taxi drops me off, at my request, at the bottom of the hill, on Boulevard de Clichy, where the tourist village meets the real world with all its bars, peep shows and kebab shops. I
walk up the hill towards the Sacré-Coeur and the serene beauty of the basilica standing out against the clear sky moves me, despite its commercial packaging. I ignore the hordes of Maghreb
boys trying to sell me key rings in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, sets of postcards and garish T-shirts, and climb the steps up. Once I reach the basilica I turn round and the stunning panorama of
Paris spreads before me like a gigantic tourist poster. The view feels familiar and yet it surprises me with its richness and intricacy every time I come to this city. For a while I watch a young
guy cheered by the crowds as he climbs a lamp post and does death-defying stunts with a football, and then I move towards the Place du Tertre. The real starving artists moved on from here a long
time ago because they couldn’t afford it any more and now the place is filled with commercial portrait sketchers and caricaturists who woo tourists with their pieces of
prêt-à-porter art. I can’t resist an overpriced crêpe with chestnut filling and then escape the crowds and start walking down a set of steep steps. As I stop and stare at
the beautiful roofs in the early evening light, something, or someone, catches my eye at the bottom of the steps. It’s the silhouette of a man, partially obscured by a big acacia bush, who
looks just like the man I saw on Kate’s photo in Norfolk. His back is turned to me, but he seems familiar. The broad shoulders I know, the dark curls escaping a navy baseball cap. What is he
doing here? I rush down the steps, just as he starts walking away. I nearly trip and fall, the steps suddenly seem steep and precarious, and by the time I reach the bottom, he’s disappeared
round the corner. I sprint to the street junction and see him again, the navy baseball cap bobbing in the distance. I run, ignoring the reproachful stares of passers-by, and before he reaches the
next corner I’m right behind him. I grab his shoulder.

‘Hey!’ I shout, perhaps a bit too loud.

He turns and I see a handsome Arabic guy staring at me with a mixture of surprise and apprehension in his eyes. I don’t know him.

‘
Je suis désolée de vous déranger
,’ I mumble in my school French, ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

The guy’s face lights up in a smile.

‘No problem, mademoiselle, what is it that you want?’ His English is better than my French.

‘No, nothing, it’s a mistake . . . I made a mistake . . . I thought you were someone else . . .’

‘You are looking for someone? Are you lost?’

‘No, no, I’m fine, I thought you were a friend . . .’

‘I could be your friend.’ He flashes another charming smile.

‘No, thank you!’ I say, perhaps too abruptly, and waffle on, not to offend him. ‘I mean, you are very nice, but I have to go – I’m meeting my husband, you
see.’

‘Ah, your husband . . .’ He seems genuinely disappointed.

‘Yes, my husband, he’s waiting for me.’

‘OK,’ he says, raising his arms in a surrender gesture. ‘Maybe next time?’

‘Yes, next time . . .’

‘It’s shame.
Bon bah
,
salut
,
ma jolie
.’ He turns away, shaking his head.

As he walks away, I take in his baseball cap with a glitter skull logo, hip-hop jeans and electric green and orange Nike trainers. I feel mortified. Am I going insane? Accosting some strange guy
in a foreign city? What am I doing?

I look around and realize I’m lost. It’s much quieter and dirtier here than in Montmartre, the smell of urine wafting from the pavement. I know vaguely I should be heading east. I
pass a few brasseries, buzzing with local life, some ethnic restaurants that look shut, a handful of shops filled with bric-a-brac. And then the vibe changes and I’m in a Maghreb village,
with groups of Arab men standing on street corners, talking loudly, as if arguing. It’s Barbès–Rochechouart and something tells me I shouldn’t be walking here on my own at
this hour, but I persist, my sense of danger anaesthetized by the adrenaline from my earlier encounter. I cross the main street, looking for the Métro sign or a free taxi, but can’t
see any. I turn off into what seems like a street leading to somewhere and continue, trying to look confident and walking purposefully. Suddenly a group of teenagers surrounds me, having a fight,
pushing and shoving each other. One of them staggers and bumps into me, the others crowd round, I feel a tug and they run off as quickly as they appeared. My small travel bag, which I carried on a
strap on my shoulder, is gone. I stand in the middle of the pavement, pushed by people squeezing by, trying to understand what has happened. I’ve been robbed. It’s never happened to me
before. I try to remember what was in my bag. My iPhone, my sunglasses and my wallet. Luckily, I have a habit of keeping a selection of wallets, designated for different currencies. This was my
Euros wallet, with no cards or IDs inside. My proper UK wallet with all my cards is locked, together with my passport, in the hotel safe. The thieves made off with about a hundred Euros, no big
deal. My hotel card key is in the back pocket of my jeans. But the real problem is the loss of my iPhone. Although I have all the contacts backed up on my Mac, it’s the hassle of having to
report it stolen, then getting it blocked and replaced that I dread. It also means I’ll be phoneless until I get back to the UK tomorrow. I return to the main street, looking for a taxi, and
quickly realize it’s simply impossible to hail one here. My best bet is finding the nearest Métro station. And there it is, on a busy and dirty junction a few hundred metres along the
street, Barbès–Rochechouart. I cling to the wall map of the Métro and plan the route: line number 2 to Charles de Gaulle–Étoile and change for number 1 to Franklin
D. Roosevelt. This, I hope, will take me more or less back to the hotel. I’m sure there’s a faster way of getting there, but my nerves are frayed and I opt for the route that looks the
simplest on the map. I have enough change from the Montmartre crêpe in my pocket to buy a single ticket. Both trains are hot and smelly, but they get me to the hotel at last. I speak to the
concierge about the incident. As nice and apologetic as he is about my ‘
expérience terrible
’, all he suggests is going with my passport to the
commissariat de
police
of the arrondissement in which the theft took place and filling out a
constat de vol
. This means going back to Barbès– Rochechouart, which is the last thing I want to
do. I thank the concierge and go to my room. I’m upset and tired. I’ll deal with the whole issue when I’m back in London, I decide. I open my laptop and see a solid block of
unread emails. I can’t be bothered with them right now. I just email Claire, letting her know my phone got stolen in case she tries to get in touch with me tomorrow morning before I get to
the office, and close my laptop. I lie down on the bed, thinking of my unfortunate escapade. I chased a guy because I thought he was someone I knew. I’m not even sure who I thought he was.
Andrew? James? Someone from work? Tom? Now I see how stupid the whole thing was, imagining that a young guy in his hip-hop gear was some kind of a stalker. I realize I’ve been seeing glimpses
of ‘the guys I know’ all over the place. Now I know they’ve all been figments of my imagination. I can sort of understand my brain trying to trick me into believing James was
close by. Perhaps subconsciously I still haven’t separated from him. Or maybe I want him back? I must admit that in moments like this it would be comforting to have him around, full of his
masculine protectiveness, making sure ‘his lady’ was all right. But seeing Andrew who, as far as I know, is four thousand miles away in New York? Or Tom, most probably tucked up in bed
with Samantha as we speak? Well, lady, you wanted your freedom, and now you have it: you’re on your own. With a flick of a switch I turn off all the lights in my deluxe room and fall
asleep.