The Train to Paris (10 page)

‘You should come and join me, darling,' she called.

I ignored her and put on a dressing-gown. In the main room I reclined on the sofa and ran a hand through my wet hair. Sophie was on my mind again, even as I told myself not to think of her until the morning. None of this would have happened if I had done what she wanted in Madrid. Now I was forever tainted, and I would not see her again for months. What was I going to tell her? Could I tell her anything? It felt as though I had betrayed her twice.

Élodie had left her handbag on the sofa. I wondered if it would be wrong to give in to my curiosity. The handbag was, I knew, any woman's nerve centre. But I felt the allure of it. She must have left it there deliberately. Perhaps it would shed some light on her true self. Or perhaps this was wishful thinking. The shower was still running, so I opened the bag.

A white leather wallet contained cash, Marcel's card, and a few business cards. One was for a limousine service in Paris. Another was for a restaurant in the Fourth that I had never heard of. Somebody had scrawled a telephone number on it. Perhaps because of a simple possessive desire, or perhaps for no good reason at all, I copied the number onto a scrap of paper and pocketed it. The rest was bottles of perfume, make-up, mirrors, and cigarettes. It shed no light whatsoever.

I returned the bag to the sofa. It did not pay to pry, and I had succumbed to yet another temptation. One of many that day. And there was one left. I wrote
Lawrence Williams
and my number on a different scrap of paper and slipped this into her handbag.

My vision was beginning to blur. I tried to walk in a straight line out to the terrace. The air was heavy, but when the wind came in I felt the sea on my cheeks. I tried to remember how we had stood in this very place a few hours ago. It was already a distant memory, when everything had been so much simpler.

‘What are you doing out there?' Élodie said from the main room. She was wearing that beautiful dressing-gown, with a sash pulled tight beneath her breasts. I went over to her and wrapped my arms around her waist. She drew in close to me. I could smell her just-washed hair.

‘Thank you,' I said. But it was not my voice. She drew back.

‘Oh Lawrence. Get yourself to bed. I'll join you in a few minutes.'

I clambered into bed and tried to remember the morning. I had woken at six and not stopped moving. Sophie and I had breakfasted before taking a taxi together to the north station in Madrid. We had waited around on the platform, wondering how to say goodbye—whether to kiss or hug or wave. In the end I had bent over awkwardly to hug her, and she had cried. I had forgotten about the crying. And I had forgotten that she had walked away without replying to my goodbye.

I drew the sheets up around my head. Élodie was in the next room. I heard the clasp of her handbag, and another snap that could have been her pocket mirror. I rolled over and tried not to think about what the next day would hold.

My vision grew dim. I had to sleep, even though I wanted to wait for her. I could smell her in the linen, her clean and understated perfume, along with something that smelt of lavender. Even as I pushed my nose into her pillow I could sense the sweet odours were fading.

10

When I woke the
sun was already high and the curtains were shaking in a breeze from the open window. There was no sign of Élodie. My mouth was parched and tasted of smoke and rotting tannins. My lips were swollen.

I staggered into the bathroom. In the mirror my eyelids drooped, even as I tried to open them. I ran the basin full of cold water and kept my head beneath the surface for as long as I could.

The bedroom was a mess. My clothes were strewn over the floor. Élodie had left her dress behind, and it lay on the carpet in a damp purple mound. I put a corner of the fabric to my nose. It smelt of nothing but chlorine. I let it slump into the puddle of water. She had taken all of her luggage. Had she paid for the suite? If not, it would make for an uncomfortable encounter with the concierge.

There was a pile of cash on the side table. She had left a note on top, which said,
For the train
. I turned it over, and then I tried to find another note, or any other reminder of her presence. There was nothing. I counted the money. One hundred euros. It was generous, on top of everything else. The train would cost less. Or was she saying that I was only worth one hundred euros?

I decided to order in breakfast. It would be worth taking advantage, if this was to be my last experience of total luxury. I checked the time as I put the telephone down. Ten o'clock. She had said that her train was to leave in the morning. She must have already gone. She had spent the rest of the night elsewhere, presumably with someone else. The note was a paltry reminder of our day together. Her script was perfectly formed and italic, written with a sharp nib. She must have used her own pen.

The cooked breakfast and pitchers of coffee and orange juice were delivered as per my request. The steward laid them on the terrace, which was bathed in heat. I drank the coffee fast, although it did little to cure the headache. I shielded my eyes behind sunglasses.

I was now charged with the task of finding my own way home. The rail strike would not have ended. Perhaps Biarritz had an airport; I considered asking the concierge. A good concierge found ways to achieve the impossible. He could find me a train ticket, given how much I was paying to be in the hotel. But then I remembered that I was not paying for it. It was imperative to avoid the concierge and keep what remained of my cool as I left.

So I packed and left in good time. I had to get out of the suite. Its air was heavy and putrid. I decided to assume that Élodie had paid the bill. After all, it was not my responsibility. The hotel had neither my name nor my contact details. I might as well not have been there.

The concierge was on the telephone when I came down the grand staircase. Keeping my pace brisk, I followed a straight line to the revolving door. But just as I was about to walk through I saw Vanessa out of the corner of my eye. She was alone in one of the gilded chairs with a suitcase between her legs. She was crying. I was about to stop and talk to her, but there was resentment in her eyes. That was last night's world. I had to leave it there.

Outside I followed the road west towards the beachfront, only breathing again when I felt safe that the concierge was not pursuing me with a bill trailing behind him. A taxi drove by and I waved it down. There was nothing left to do in this town, which looked different under today's sun. It was windy, and the morning cloud cover was rolling away fast, replaced by thinner and thinner masses. The sunlight seeped in and out. The old buildings cast shadows that were gone again the next minute.

The taxi took a considerable chunk of my bequeathed euros. There was to be no return trip. I would sleep on the concourse if I had to. The Biarritz station was more welcoming than its Hendayan counterpart. The pavement outside was lined with trees and shrubs, and its elegance was well preserved. I joined the queue to buy tickets.

I was finding it difficult to separate what had really happened the previous day from what felt like a dream. I had been dragged along on an adventure to Biarritz with a woman for whom I had never been prepared. I had gone to dinner with her in a grand hotel, dressed like a playboy. Those were the irrefutable facts. And Élodie had certainly jumped into the swimming pool…

That was the last clear image. After that, the memories became hazy and dislocated. It was undeniable that we had made love. We had
made love
. I wanted to say the words aloud, to shout them from the rooftop, because it was true. I was no longer the boy who could never muster the courage to follow his desires. I was the man who slept with beautiful women and drank champagne with them and wore a navy blue jacket and white trousers. Nobody would believe me. Ethan would dismiss it as a joke. He might have loved talking to girls, but he had never done anything like this.

On the other hand, I also wished that none of it had happened. Or that she had at least stayed the night. Clearly I was nothing but another toy. She would much rather play with Ed Selvin. Would Selvin have jumped into the swimming pool after her? No, I thought: only I could ever be that foolish.

I reached the end of the queue. The ticket hall was echoic. It felt as though I was standing on a stage before those lined up behind me. The ticket officer was a woman this time, and I thought she would be helpful.

‘Hello,' I said in French. ‘I need to get up to Paris today, urgently. Is there anything?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but there is nothing. All booked out.'

‘Okay,' I continued. ‘Well, its essential that I get up to Paris today. I have an important meeting.'

‘But if you did not book there is nothing to be done.'

‘Please,' I said. I sounded unpleasant to my own ear. ‘This is very important. There has to be something.'

She stared at her screen and typed while I waited, rapping my fingers on the desk.

‘All right, I do have something here,' she said. ‘It is the last seat. First class. One hundred and thirty euros.'

I was aware of the queue growing behind me. I presented her with the remaining eighty euros from Élodie's contribution, and twenty that I had withdrawn in Madrid. I counted my coins and found that they amounted to a mere three euros. My hand shook as I laid them on the counter.

‘Can I get a discount on the rail pass?'

‘Give it here.'

I reached into the front pocket of my suitcase. There was nothing in it. I fossicked, wondering if this were a tasteless joke the gods of travel were playing on me. In desperation I placed the case out on the floor and searched through all of my clothes and toiletries. I returned to the officer's desk without the pass, and now she was neither friendly nor helpful.

‘I must have left it somewhere,' I said. ‘Can I go and search for it?'

‘You may, but I will probably sell this seat if you leave the queue.'

I had tumbled headfirst into a Fuseli canvas, with carnal fantasy replaced by a lady trying to do her job. I turned to the young man behind me, and asked in English if he could lend me thirty euros. He appeared to be an experienced traveller, with his backpack and hiking boots, and I hoped that my distress would attract his sympathy.

‘Please,' I begged. ‘I will pay you back. But I need this now, very badly.'

The young man took the notes out of his wallet with some reluctance. I gushed a stream of thanks and apologies and sorted out the ticket with the officer. No doubt she and everybody else in the queue were planning my execution.

Shocked by how comprehensively I had lost my dignity before a group of strangers, I found a seat on the main concourse. The train that I had booked was the last of the day, and it seemed likely that I had indeed procured the last ticket. I would not be in Paris until at least seven o'clock, meaning I would be stuck with tortuous thoughts of Élodie Lavelle until then.

Images of her were playing through my mind. I could still see her dancing on the terrace, with the darkened cityscape as her backdrop. And I could still feel her wet body beneath my fingers, responding to my touch. It felt impossible that such a thing could have happened. And the thought of the truth making its way to Sophie was paralysing. I would have to talk to her that evening, when I made it back to Paris. I could try and tell her the truth, even though it was still indecipherable to me. Or I could lie about why it took me so long to get back from Madrid. I could tell her that I slept in the station in Hendaye. But she would not believe me, because I would not believe myself. I had read somewhere that true liars have full faith and conviction in their narratives.

The young backpacker emerged from the ticket hall. I waved at him as he walked past, and he returned it. He seemed gentle enough. His skin was pale and veiny, and he wore round, wire-framed spectacles.

‘Sorry,' the man said in a Birmingham accent. ‘I didn't realise you spoke English. I hardly know any French.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Neither did I. Sorry.'

‘Not at all. I'm Marcus.'

‘Lawrence.'

I got up to shake his hand, and I admired his railroad watch and his beard, which was thick and untended.

‘So I take it you booked your tickets in advance?' I said.

‘Yes. Good thing I booked it for the two o'clock, otherwise I'd be in trouble. Did you book for one of the cancelled trains?'

‘No. It's a long story.'

‘Why didn't you go to the airport?'

‘There's an airport?'

‘It's around the corner. I would have gone there if I hadn't already bought a return. It would have cost less, and they wouldn't have given you an unassigned seat.'

He was right. The seat number on my ticket was blank.

‘Damn,' I said. ‘So I can't sit down?'

‘Not unless there's a free seat in the first-class carriage. I doubt there will be. This isn't the best time to travel.'

‘And they charged me a full fare for it. How bloody typical. You know, I don't care anymore. I just want to get to Paris. Where have you been?'

‘Went hiking in the Pyrenées. I wanted to follow in Hemingway's footsteps and go fishing in Burguete. And the bullfighting was something else.'

‘You went to Pamplona?'

‘Yes,' Marcus said, as though he had been itching to talk about it. ‘Have you ever been? It is the greatest thing.'

He went on to explain it in detail. It was relaxing to listen without really taking it in. He sat down next to me, slinging his backpack to the ground with strong arms.

‘So after all that I was keen to have some time off before returning to the real world. And I thought that I should finish off the Hemingway tour by visiting another of his haunts. You know he gambled in that casino down by the beachfront? I went in and drank whisky and soda in his honour.'