While covering this vast distance, he was surprised to notice how much she had changed in the eight weeks since he had last seen her, the two months since everything had happened. Her hair had been cut very short, a fringe brushed across her forehead, and she had more colour in her face; the summer face that he remembered. Better dressed too: high shoes, a smart dark skirt, a pale grey shirt unbuttoned a touch too far, showing brown skin and a triangle of dark freckles below her neck. She still didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands or where to look, and he was starting to feel self-conscious too. Ten metres. What would he say, and how would he say it? Was it a yes or no?
He quickened his pace towards her, and then finally they were embracing.
‘You didn’t have to meet me.’
‘Of course I had to meet you. Tourist.’
‘I like this.’ He brushed his thumb across her short fringe. ‘There’s a word for it, isn’t there?’
‘Butch?’
‘Gamine. You look gamine.’
‘Not butch?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘You should have seen it two weeks ago. I looked like a collaborator!’ His face didn’t move. ‘I went to a Parisian hairdresser for the first time. Terrifying! I sat in the chair, thinking Arrêtez-vous, Arrêtez-vous! The funny thing is even in Paris they ask you about your holidays. You think they’re going to talk about contemporary dance or can-man-ever-truly-be-free? but it’s “ Que faites-vous de beau pour les vacances? Vous sortez ce soir?”’ Still his face was fixed. She was talking too much, trying too hard. Calm down. Don’t riff. Arrêtez-vous.
His hand touched the short hair at the back of her neck. ‘Well I think it suits you.’
‘Not sure I’ve got the features for it.’
‘Really, you’ve got the features for it.’ He held her at the top of her arms, taking her all in. ‘It’s like there’s a fancy-dress party and you’ve come as Sophisticated Parisienne.’
‘Or a Call Girl.’
‘But a High-Class Call Girl.’
‘Well even better.’ She touched his chin with her knuckle, the stubble there. ‘So what have you come as then?’
‘I’ve come as Fucked-up Suicidal Divorcee.’ The remark was glib and he regretted it immediately. Barely off the platform, and he was spoiling things.
‘Well at least you’re not bitter,’ she said, reaching for the nearest off-the-shelf remark.
‘Do you want me to get back on the train?’
‘Not just yet.’ She took him by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s go, shall we?’
They stepped outside the Gare du Nord into the stifling fume-filled air; a typical Parisian summer day, muggy, with thick grey clouds threatening rain. ‘I thought we’d go for a coffee first, near the canal. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, is that alright? Then another fifteen minutes to my flat. I have to warn you though, it’s nothing special. In case you’re imagining parquet floors and big windows with fluttering curtains or something. It’s just two rooms over a courtyard.’
‘A garret.’
‘Exactly. A garret.’
‘A writer’s garret.’
In anticipation of this journey, Emma had memorised a scenic walk, or as scenic as possible in the dust and traffic of the north-east. I’m moving to Paris for the summer, to write.Back in April, the idea had seemed almost embarrassingly precious and fey, but she was so bored with married couples telling her that she could go to Paris at any time that she had decided actually to do it. London had turned into one enormous crèche, so why not get away from other people’s children for a while, have an adventure? The city of Sartre and De Beauvoir, Beckett and Proust, and here she was too, writing teenage fiction, albeit with considerable commercial success. The only way she could make the idea seem less hokey was to settle as far away as she could from tourist Paris, in the working-class 19th arrondissement on the border of Belleville and Ménilmontant. No tourist attractions, few landmarks. .
‘—but it’s really lively, and cheap, and multi-cultural and. . God, I was about to say it’s very “real”.’
‘Meaning what, violent?’
‘No, just, I don’t know, realParis. I sound like a student, don’t I? Thirty-five years old, living in a little two-room flat like I’m on a gap year.’
‘I think Paris suits you.’
‘It does.’
‘You look fantastic.’
‘Do I?’
‘You’ve changed.’
‘I haven’t. Not really.’
‘No, really. You look beautiful.’
Emma frowned and kept her eyes ahead, and they walked a little further, trotting down stone steps to the Canal St Martin, and a little bar by the water’s edge.
‘Looks like Amsterdam,’ he said blandly, pulling out a chair.
‘Actually it’s the old industrial link to the Seine.’ Good God, I sound like some tour guide. ‘Flows under the Place de la République, under the Bastille, then out into the river.’ Just calm down. He’s an old friend, remember? Just an old friend. They sat for a moment and stared at the water and she immediately regretted the self-consciously scenic choice of venue. This was terrible, like a blind date. She fumbled for something to say.
‘So, shall we have wine, or—?’
‘Better not. I’m sort of off it.’
‘Oh. Really? For how long?’
‘Month or so. It’s not an AA thing. Just trying to avoid it.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing good ever came of it, that’s all. Not a big deal.’
‘Oh. O-kay. Coffee then?’
‘Just a coffee.’
The waitress arrived, dark, pretty and long-legged, but Dexter didn’t even look up. There must be something seriously wrong, Emma thought, if he’s not even ogling the waitress. She ordered in ostentatiously colloquial French, then smiled awkwardly at Dexter’s raised eyebrow. ‘I’ve been taking lessons.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Course she didn’t understand a word. She’ll probably bring us out a roast chicken!’
Nothing. Instead he sat grinding grains of sugar against the metal table with his thumbnail. She tried again, something innocuous.
‘When were you last in Paris?’
‘About three years ago. My wifeand I came here on one of our famous mini-breaks. Four nights in the George Cinq.’ He flicked a sugar-cube into the canal. ‘So thatwas a waste of fucking money.’
Emma opened her mouth and closed it again. There was nothing to say. She had already made her ‘at least you’re not bitter’ remark.
But Dexter blinked hard, shook his head then nudged her hand with his. ‘So what I thought we’d do for the next couple of days is, you can show me the sights, and I’ll just mope about and make stupid remarks.’
She smiled and nudged his hand back. ‘It’s hardly surprising, what you’ve been through, are going through,’ and she covered his hand with her own. After a moment he covered her hand with his, she followed, covering his with hers, faster and faster, a children’s game. But it was a piece of actors’ business too, strained and self-conscious, and in her embarrassment she decided to pretend to need the bathroom.
In the small, stale room she glowered in the mirror and tugged at her fringe as if trying to pull more from her head. She sighed and told herself to calm down. The thing that happened, the event, it was just a one-off, not a big deal, he’s just an old, old friend. She flushed the toilet for veracity’s sake and stepped back out into the warm grey afternoon. On the table in front of Dexter was a copy of her novel. Warily, she sat back down, and poked it with her finger.
‘Where did this come from then?’
‘I bought it at the train station. Great piles of it, there were. It’s everywhere, Em.’
‘Have you read it yet?’
‘Can’t get past page three.’
‘Not funny, Dex.’
‘Emma, I thought it was wonderful.’
‘Well it’s just a silly kid’s book.’
‘No, really, I’m so proud of you. I mean I’m not a teenage girl or anything, but it really made me laugh. I read it straight through in one go. And I speak as someone who’s been reading Howard’s Wayfor the last fifteen years.’
