3
Light filtered through the glass roof of Gare de Lyon in misty strips of silver. I put my camera to my right eye and took a sequence of photos. I wasn’t really in the mood and I couldn’t remember a thing I’d learned from my beginners’ photography book about composition, about framing, but it was too lovely not to try. It was the first beautiful thing I’d ever noticed about Paris; it felt right to capture it.
I followed the other passengers along the platform. The air was spiked with fumes, the way it always was in these gigantic stations, and a cool breeze made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I folded my arms around myself, my shoulder bag bobbing up and down under my arm. It was easy to spot who was French and who was not, I thought. The local women looked chic and unruffled, even after the long and uncomfortable journey we’d had. They wore light jackets over expensive-looking fine knits, and had filmy scarves wrapped nonchalantly around their shoulders. I, on the other hand, was still clad in a wafer-thin camisole and skinny jeans that had gone all saggy at the knee.
Because I was lagging behind the rest of the crowd, it was eerily quiet, except for the turning over of a train’s engine on a distant platform and the odd squeak of a suitcase wheel. I moved hesitantly toward the ticket barriers, knowing I was going to have to brazen this out. Hooking stray hairs behind my ears, I fixed on a smile and made a beeline for the less aggressive-looking of the two male ticket inspectors. I attempted to exude confidence by doing all the things I thought confident people probably did: I made eye contact, I relaxed my shoulders and, inexplicably, I casually hummed a Hamilton show tune under my breath.
He held out his hand as I approached.
“I haven’t got my ticket, I’m afraid,” I told him, keeping my expression apologetic yet assured, hoping he’d believe me when I told him that I wasn’t an actual fare dodger.
“Quoi?” he said, groaning when a woman ran her massive suitcase over his foot.
“I didn’t realize the train separated in Geneva,” I explained, my voice coming out all singsongy in my rush to make my excuses. “And the thing is, I’ve got a wedding to get to in Amsterdam. Today, in a few hours’ time. Can you tell me what I need to do?”
He laughed, throwing back his head, his mouth open so wide that I could see his tonsils.
“Why do you not keep your ticket with you? It is yours, non?” he said.
“My boyfriend has it,” I said, struggling to keep my cool. “And he’s currently on his way to Amsterdam. Where I should be going.”
Seriously, what was it with ticket inspectors and their attitudes? Everyone made mistakes. Some more than others, as Si would say.
He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Un moment, madame.”
I watched him shuffle off to speak to another—presumably more senior—inspector.
It was raining, of course, just to add insult to injury; I could hear it clattering on the roof of the station in violent, tinny bursts. Typical Paris with its grim, depressing weather. I’d get soaked at this rate, just what I didn’t need with another long train journey ahead. If I made it that far, that was. The worst-case scenario would be that they’d make me pay a massive fine for not having a ticket. And I’d have to try my credit card and it wouldn’t go through because I was probably over my limit. And then what would they do with me? Send me back to London? Detain me? I’d never make the wedding then, which, given how the day was already panning out, was looking more and more likely.
Another train snaked through the tunnel toward the platform, its windscreen wiper flicking back and forth across the front window. I watched as it squealed to a stop and the doors opened and about a thousand people cascaded off. What were they all doing here? I could never understand the appeal of Paris; I could think of a million better places to go. In a moment of rebellion, I thought I might be able to lose myself in the crowd, barge through the barrier behind one of them, like people sometimes did on the Tube. There was a name for it, an actual word, but I couldn’t remember what it was. It was on the tip of my tongue. Piggybacking? Anyway, the younger, more defiant me might have tried it, but, well . . . I wasn’t brave enough to do stuff like that anymore.
The inspector came back. “We will let you through,” he said, opening the barrier with a fob. “You are lucky we will allow it, you understand?”
I nodded obediently.
“You must go directly to Gare du Nord, where you can buy a ticket for the train to Amsterdam. D’accord?”
I nodded again, whisking through before he changed his mind, calling a thank-you over my shoulder.
The clock on the departures board said 6:37. I needed coffee, but there was no time or money for that. I’d had nowhere near enough sleep and felt as though I was either deeply jet-lagged or coming round from an anesthetic. I began to walk, heading over to a pod of garish orange-and-green ticket machines, figuring there must be a train or a Metro I could catch. I stood in front of one, staring at the screen for a few seconds, prodding at all the buttons before working out that I needed to twiddle a dial to move the cursor. Eventually I found Gare du Nord, but I couldn’t figure out which ticket to get, or which route I’d need to take to get there.
I whirled round, looking for some sort of information desk, catching sight of the French guy from the train disappearing down the escalator into the Metro with his too-big bag on his shoulder. I bet he’d have absolutely no problem swanning across Paris like he owned the place. Just as I resigned myself to the fact I was going to have to actually approach somebody and ask, I saw a sign for taxis and thought how much easier that would be. I felt around in the bottom of my bag, pulling out the twenty-euro note I’d seen earlier. It was a risk using up most of my cash so early on, but surely the most important thing was that I caught the next train to Amsterdam, even if it meant spending every last penny I had. I could go without food for a few hours, it wouldn’t be the end of the world; I could stuff my face at the wedding instead.
I ran outside into the rain, holding my open book above my head.
Miraculously, because it was too early for the tourists, I supposed, there was only a short queue at the taxi rank. I watched the cars pulling up, one after the other, each one sporty and black with a flashy green logo on the side. When my turn came, I opened the rear door and flung myself inside, sliding my bottom across the slippery leather seat.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” I said, reaching back to slam the door behind me. “Do you speak English?”
“A little,” he said, looking at me suspiciously in his rearview mirror. Was I going to be too much trouble for him, he might be wondering; was the fare worth the hassle?
“I need to get to the Gare du Nord, but I only have twenty euros. Will that be enough?”
He shrugged.
Well, that was helpful. Anyway, I was here now, I would have to risk it.
“If the meter gets up to twenty, I’ll have to get out and walk the rest of the way. Okay?”
“Oui, madame,” he said, screeching away from the curb, his elbow hanging out the window, a cheesy French pop tune on the radio.
The rain had eased up and I wound down my own window, hoping the fresh air would perk me up. I could hear a siren, a creepy wailing sound, like something you might hear on one of those gritty French crime dramas. An undercover police car careered round the corner toward us, an old beige Citroën with a blue light stuck on its roof. In the passenger seat was a woman who looked like an actress playing the role of a detective; she was effortlessly beautiful, with long dark hair and a cigarette between her fingers, which she draped casually out of the window, as though chasing criminals around Paris on a Thursday morning was nothing out of the ordinary.
I sat back in my seat, combing my fingers through my hair, easing out a knot and then winding it back up into a bun. We were pulling out onto the roundabout at Place de la Bastille; I recognized its column with the golden angel perched o
n top. I got out my phone and googled directions from there to the Gare du Nord, bringing up a map and feeling better and more in control instead of at the mercy of this driver, who had a soccer emblem tattooed onto his neck and kept accelerating and braking so sharply that I was beginning to feel carsick. I checked the meter: nearly ten euros already.
I texted Si, wondering if he’d listened to my voice mail yet. I’d been so caught up in getting to the station that I hadn’t really considered what it would be like for him to wake up and discover I wasn’t sitting next to him. What would he do when he worked out that the train had uncoupled in the night and that his girlfriend was not in fact in the loo or the buffet car, but was hundreds of miles away, in a country she had absolutely no desire to be in?
Hey. I left you a voice mail earlier, which you probably haven’t heard yet. I’m fine, so don’t worry. I’m in a taxi on my way to Gare du Nord. Call you when I know what’s happening with the trains xx
I knew he would worry no matter what I said, it was what he was programmed to do. Not only would he feel like a failure for not getting me safely from A to B, he’d assume that I would fall apart without him. And he had a point—it was what I’d always loved about him, the fact that he was so capable and together, and that from the very beginning he had made me feel more cared for and looked after than anyone I’d ever met. For the first time in my life I didn’t have to try to work everything out for myself—he did it for me, and much more successfully than I’d ever managed. So I’d let him, happily taking a back seat when it came to anything vaguely organizational. According to Ellie, he was one of life’s “fixers,” which I’d suspected she hadn’t meant as a compliment.
I checked the meter again: seventeen euros and ten cents.
“Um, are we nearly there?” I asked the driver, leaning forward, projecting my voice through the Perspex hatch.
“Two kilometers,” he mumbled.
Seventeen euros and eighty cents. And the traffic was terrible.
“Remember I only have a twenty,” I said, in what I hoped was an authoritative manner.
“I remember.”
I looked out the window, drumming my fingers on my knee, begrudgingly noticing how pretty the buildings were with their wrought-iron balconies and their window boxes bursting with color and the French windows thrown open behind them. I tried to follow the journey on my phone, twisting it this way and that, wondering where we were in relation to the Seine. That was what I remembered most from the last time I was here: walking alongside the churning water, angry at every single one of the smug, camera-wielding tourists chugging past on their sightseeing boats, and internally railing against the unfairness of life in general. Killing time before my return train, although since I’d been too miserable to enjoy the city anyway, in hindsight I might as well have sat brooding on a bench in the Eurostar terminal.
We turned onto one of those busy boulevards you see on TV whenever there’s some sort of transport strike, which even at the best of times appears to be permanently loaded with cars and funny-colored buses and crazy cyclists weaving their way through it all. It was so vast, Paris, and even more hectic than London, although perhaps it was me who felt all over the place in this city I didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to know. It was disconcerting to think that only one person in the world—in fact, perhaps not even him, yet—knew I was here at all.
“It is at twenty, madame,” said the driver.
Fuck.
“Stop, s’il vous plaît.”
He pulled over. I thrust my sweaty note at him and climbed out of the taxi, spinning around full circle, struggling to get my bearings. The taxi driver beeped his horn and waved at me, trying to help, pointing straight ahead. I gave him a relieved half wave back and began to run. Paris was at its rush-hour worst, with horns beeping relentlessly and bus fumes muddying the air. Because the road sloped uphill, I was out of breath within minutes and had to revert to power-walking, my ballet pumps slapping and sliding on the pavement. The sky was a dark ominous gray, with clouds so low it felt as though they were skimming the tops of the buildings. Sure enough, I felt a big splat of rain on my forehead, and then another and then of course it poured down. It would have to rain on me now, when I was completely exposed and didn’t have time to stop and find shelter.
I broke into a jog, swearing loudly when I plunged straight into a puddle that was deeper than it looked, soaking my shoes. I squelched on, up the same never-ending road with its identikit restaurants and their drab scarlet awnings, until at last I saw a sign for the Gare du Nord. Keeping my head down to protect my face from the now near-horizontal rain, I swung off the main road into the station forecourt, darting between cars with their trunks flung open, sprinting through the nearest entrance.
4
The Gare du Nord was ridiculously busy, like Waterloo at its worst. It was a stunning building, I had to give it that, all peaked roofs and arched windows, but not quite beautiful enough to make up for the crowds and the noise and the slippery floors and the irate drivers outside in the taxi rank. And the fact that I was freezing cold, soaked through and wearing what I suspected was now a completely see-through camisole.
I joined a cluster of people huddled around a departures and arrivals screen, my lungs burning with the exertion of charging uphill, my eyes scanning through a list of places I’d never heard of. I needed there to be a very fast train to Amsterdam leaving pretty much immediately, which, given that I couldn’t seem to catch a break today, was possibly asking a bit much. I spotted one, though, halfway down: the 07:20, calling first at Brussels, then at Antwerp, Rotterdam, Schiphol (which I thought was the airport) and finally Centraal. I had no idea how long all this was going to take, although Holland sounded far away, and I would have passed through two other countries to get there. It was 7:09. I had eleven minutes to buy a ticket and board the train, and then at least I would be on my way. There would be some good news to report to Si when he called me back.
I spotted a sign for Billets at the back of the building, although it was the most stylish ticket office I’d ever seen and looked more like the open-plan office of some sort of creative start-up, with wooden desks and computer screens and huge pewter lampshades numbered 1 to 13 hanging over the pods. I ran to join the back of the queue. People were grumbling to each other and looking at watches and nobody seemed to be moving and even when they did, they fussed and dithered about which desk to approach. There were two guys standing at the front dressed in black: I had no idea whether they were security guards there to control the crowds or ticket officers strategically placed to help. I stood on tiptoe, struggling to gauge what the situation actually was. There were at least fifteen people in front of me and although there were several kiosks open, each transaction seemed to be taking forever, with people taking out maps and pointing at things, then fumbling around in their backpacks. I was pretty sure that whatever it was they needed, they could have got it ready while they were waiting in the queue. I felt like shouting: Just buy your ticket and fucking well go!
From the depths of my bag I heard a ringing sound. It must be Si. Finally.
“Hello?” I said, pressing my finger to my ear.
“Hannah? It’s me.”
“Oh Si, thank God.”
“What’s happened? Are you seriously in Paris?”
“You got my messages, then,” I said, cringing. I could just imagine his face, the way his eyes turned from green to slate-gray when he was annoyed about something.
“Eventually,” he said, “but only after I’d walked up and down the length of the train about five times wondering what the fuck was going on. I’ve been out of my mind with worry here, Han.”
The queue moved forward by about an inch. If I’d had the guts I would have waltzed straight to the front, begged someone to take pity on me, charmed them into letting me cut the queue.
“I can imagine, Si, honestly, I can. I shou
ld never have moved seats. I couldn’t sleep and I panicked.”
“Since when do trains just split like that, anyway?” he said, sounding out of breath, like he’d just come back from one of his runs. “I’ll be calling the train company the minute we get home. They absolutely did not make their instructions clear.”
“I know,” I said, relieved that it wasn’t me he was blaming, at least not entirely.
He sighed. “Look, the main thing is that you’re all right. You are, aren’t you?”
“ ’Course,” I reassured him.
“Jesus, Han. Are you even going to make it in time for the wedding?”
There was a sudden surge of activity and I moved about five places forward.
“There’s a train in nine minutes,” I told him, glancing back up at the screen. “I’m nearly at the front of the queue.”
“Call me back, then, when you know what’s happening.”
The Paris Connection Page 4