The Paris Connection

Home > Other > The Paris Connection > Page 6
The Paris Connection Page 6

by Lorraine Brown


  “Okay?” asked the French guy after a while, standing in front of me with his arms crossed, completely blocking my view of the concourse.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “What is it you must do in Amsterdam?” he asked.

  “I’m supposed to be at a wedding.”

  He shrugged. “Not such a disaster, then.”

  I squinted up at him. “You don’t think missing someone’s wedding, the day they’ve spent months planning, that you’re supposed to be helping set up, whose family are expecting you, is a disaster?”

  “I do not,” he insisted, doing an annoying pouty thing with his mouth.

  “And what world-changing event are you required at this afternoon?” I asked.

  “Work,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and expelling air through pursed lips. “A meeting that can change everything for me.”

  “You’re right, that does sound much more important,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “And I do not care what that guard on the train said, the announcements were not loud enough. How are we supposed to listen when we are all asleep? It was the middle of the night,” he grumbled.

  “I know,” I said, reluctantly agreeing with him. “I didn’t hear a thing, either.”

  “I wish, now, that I had stayed where I was,” he said. “I moved because there were some guys laughing and shouting in my carriage and I could hear them all the time, even with my music on at maximum volume.”

  “That’s why you had your music on that loud, then, was it?”

  He sighed and flicked his eyes to mine. “You still try to blame me?”

  “It’s as clear as day: if your terrible dance music hadn’t been booming out of your headphones, I wouldn’t have had to put my earplugs in.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Terrible music?”

  “In my opinion.”

  “And now we find ourselves here,” he said, looking enigmatically around the concourse.

  “But you’re French, right?”

  He nodded. “I live here, in Paris.”

  I tutted. “Hardly a disaster for you, then, either, is it?”

  He bent down to retrieve his bag.

  “You always think you have things much worse than everybody else?” he asked.

  “Only when I actually do,” I said, although his comment stung. It was something Mum used to say, that I was always feeling sorry for myself.

  “So,” he said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. “I go.”

  “Bye, then.”

  He hesitated. “You need anything?”

  “Can you conjure up a train?” And then a thought occurred to me. “Actually, if you’re serious, could I borrow your phone?”

  I didn’t particularly want to give him the satisfaction of helping me, but while he was standing there, with his phone in his hand, it seemed foolish not to ask. Besides, I very much wanted to avoid having to use one of the Gare du Nord’s disgusting, rancid pay phones.

  “Here,” I said, delving into my bag, “I’ve got some change somewhere. I can give you some money for the call.”

  I tried to pass him a handful of coins, which he waved away.

  “Why do you not have a phone?” he asked.

  “I lost it. Left it on the counter at the ticket office.”

  He looked doubtful. “I do not think that is what happened.”

  “It must be.”

  He shook his head. “Non. The Gare du Nord has a problem with pickpockets. Very bad. They snatch things from you so quickly that you do not even notice.”

  “I reckon I just lost it. I’m always losing stuff.”

  “Why would somebody not hand it in, if you left it on the counter, with the cashiers right there?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, irritated now, suspecting he was one of those guys who always had to be right.

  Admittedly, the idea that I might have been pickpocketed hadn’t even occurred to me, but then I was a bit slow on the uptake with things like that. It was the same with films: Si would guess the plotline before it had barely begun, and I’d constantly need clarification about what was going on. Problem-solving was not something I was proficient at.

  “Oh well. Either way, I’ve lost it. Doesn’t really matter how, does it?”

  He handed me his phone. “I think it does matter. Because one way it is your mistake, and the other way, it is not.”

  I shook my head. The sooner I could use his phone and give it back to him, the sooner he’d go. Annoyingly, when the teenage girl sloped off, her handset now clamped to her ear, he took a seat next to me, spreading out his legs at an acute angle, locking his hands behind his head as though he was watching TV on the sofa at home.

  The call to Si went straight to voice mail again; I was planning to leave a message, but then I got stage fright with this nosy stranger sitting next to me, listening to every word I said. I noticed that the hems of his jeans had risen up, revealing black ribbed socks and well-worn white Converse trainers. Si would not have been seen dead in trainers that tatty.

  I handed back the phone.

  “There is no answer?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  Because he was now at eye level, it was the first time I’d noticed how good-looking he was, which probably explained the swagger and the attitude. He was slightly younger than me, I’d have said, late twenties perhaps. His tanned skin was sparkling and golden, as though he spent his summers frolicking naked on the beaches of the French Riviera (which he probably did). He clocked me staring and I pretended to look for something in my bag, emerging with my trusty lip balm. I slicked some on, pressing my lips together, attempting to give him the impression I was completely fascinated by a poster advertising day trips to Versailles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smirk to himself. He probably thought I fancied him or something. Frenchmen thought they were God’s gift to women, didn’t they?

  “Your ankle is still sore?” he asked.

  I tentatively twiddled it around. “Not really.”

  He looked at me as though he didn’t believe me. “You need to get an X-ray.”

  “I don’t want an X-ray.”

  “I can direct you to the nearest hospital.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why do you not want to check?” he asked, swiveling in his seat.

  Seriously, what was it with this guy and his probing questions?

  “Because I already told you, it’s not that bad. And because I’d rather wait here. I need to make sure I don’t miss the next train as well.”

  “So you will sit in one place and be miserable?” he asked.

  “Precisely,” I said, picking at the chipped red nail polish on my thumbnail, wondering if I’d have time to repaint it at the hotel. Catherine was bound to have something to say about me turning up in such a state as it was.

  The other reason I didn’t want to go to the hospital was because I didn’t have any travel insurance and there was no way I could afford an expensive doctor’s bill. I hadn’t given insurance a thought until we were already on the plane to Venice, and strangely, neither had Si, who was usually very on the ball about such things. Even he had reassured me that nothing could go wrong in the space of a few days. That was a laugh. If my ankle had been broken, I would have been in real trouble.

  “There is a long time to wait,” said French Guy.

  “Thank you for pointing that out.”

  He squinted at me, as though he couldn’t quite decide what I was about. Because he looked the way he did, he was probably used to women fawning all over him. Hanging on his every word. Well, not me, absolutely not.

  “You do not have a suitcase!” he announced, having only just noticed. He leaped up to do a sort of mock scan of the area around my feet.

  “I travel light,” I snapped back
, hoping he’d get the hint and go.

  “I do not, as you can see,” he said, nudging his bag with his foot as he sat back down and turned to me.

  “Clearly.”

  He almost smiled. “Too much?”

  “What have you got in there? You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

  “I suppose you are blaming my bag, now, for your injured ankle.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Nothing to do with you running too fast?”

  “Nothing at all,” I said. I had my story and I was sticking to it. “So are you going to tell me what you’ve got in there, or not? I’m going to start suspecting it’s something illegal otherwise. A dead body, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so sinister. It is vinyl. Records. I buy them wherever I go.”

  “And lug them around everywhere?”

  “I suppose. Do you like music?”

  “ ’Course I do,” I said, immediately on the defensive. My knowledge was very, very limited.

  “What kind of music do you like?”

  “All sorts,” I said.

  I looked up. The rain had got heavier and was now hammering on the roof. Perfect. Now I couldn’t even go outside for some fresh air.

  “You like dance music?” he prompted me. “Wait, I know you do not like it, since you referred to it as ‘terrible.’ ”

  “To each their own.”

  “Rock, then? Classique?”

  “Anything, really,” I said, being deliberately vague.

  My musical tastes were dodgy, even I admitted that. I owned an Olly Murs album, for example, although in my defense it had been a Christmas present from Mum and my stepdad, Tony. Also, Ellie and I had gone to the Take That reunion concert at the O2, which I wasn’t totally ashamed to admit, but there was no way I was going to mention it to this guy. Because whatever edgy, alternative bands he was into, I could pretty much guarantee I wouldn’t have heard of any them. He was probably only asking me so that he could make a pretentious comment about it afterward to make himself look good and boost his already massive ego.

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Six hours to wait, eh? Not good.”

  He offered me the packet, but I shook my head, even though I badly, badly wanted one. I hadn’t smoked for nearly a month. Si had nagged me about giving up from the moment we’d met. Obviously I’d tried to stop before, for years, but the timing had never been right; I’d enjoyed it too much and I had terrible willpower. But once Si and I had moved in together and I was spending most of my time with him, I began to cut down, eventually managing to go without altogether. I didn’t even really crave them anymore. Except at times like this. Then I missed it.

  He took a cigarette out of the packet for himself and slipped it behind his ear.

  “Do you know anybody in Paris?” he asked.

  His voice was low and scratchy, as if he had a sore throat, or he’d had too many late nights. Probably the latter.

  “No. No one.”

  I shivered, longing for something warm to slip over my shoulders. Stupid of me to leave my cardigan on my seat. Ridiculous of me to waltz around moving carriages in the middle of the night in the first place. What had I been thinking? I suppose I hadn’t been, that was the problem.

  “Here,” he said, throwing his bag to the ground and combing through the insides of it. He pulled out a red hoodie. “I suppose you could have this.”

  I held my hand out to stop him, horrified. “No. No way.”

  “Take it,” he said. “I have many clothes in here. And it is raining. You cannot walk around Paris in your camisole.”

  He threw it at me, not quite meeting my eye, and I caught it clumsily, suddenly self-conscious about the lack of clothes I was wearing.

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling it on, wrapping it around myself like a dressing gown. I wouldn’t usually wear clothes belonging to someone I’d only set eyes on an hour ago; in fact, I’d likely be grossed out by the thought of it. But nobody would be happy if I turned up at the wedding with hypothermia. I noticed his top smelled like he did, of tobacco and leather and vinyl.

  “You are a photographer?” he asked, pointing at my camera before zipping up his bag.

  “Not really,” I said, running my thumb and middle finger up and down the strap. “It’s just a hobby.”

  He took the cigarette from behind his ear and hesitated, leaving it hovering a centimeter from his bottom lip.

  “Alors, I am going to walk,” he said. “All this time in the Gare du Nord? It is not possible.”

  I thought it sounded like a nightmare, too, but I couldn’t risk leaving the station, just in case, by some miracle, an earlier train was announced.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  Once he was gone and I was alone again, I’d be able to think more clearly. Make a proper plan.

  “You can come if you want,” he said gruffly, as though there was nothing he would like less.

  I laughed. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Too risky for you?”

  I fiddled with the sleeves of his hoodie. “It’s called being sensible.”

  “Ah. You think I am a criminal. A murderer. That I will kidnap you and make you stay in Paris forever.”

  “Very funny.”

  As if I was going to go off God knows where with a man I barely knew. No, I was going to stay at the station and drink the cheapest coffee I could find and read my book and probably get very bored, but still. It was the mature thing to do.

  “You will not see any of the city?” he asked, sounding disappointed. I had no idea why he cared whether I saw it or not. Was he an ambassador for the French tourist board or something?

  “Well, there’s the problem of my ankle,” I pointed out.

  He did up his jacket and slipped both hands into his pockets, his thumbs hanging over the edges.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, giving me a look that suggested he thought a slightly sprained ankle was a feeble excuse for not dashing out to sightsee around his precious hometown.

  “My name is Léo, by the way. Et vous?” he asked, the cigarette now dangling from his lips.

  “Hannah,” I told him hesitantly.

  He nodded, adjusted the strap of his bag for a second or two, and then he was off, merging seamlessly with the crowds, zigzagging across the concourse. He was tall and lean, like a long-distance runner or one of those insane Parisian guys who leap about from building to building. I shook my head at the way his bag sat on his back like a turtle’s shell, so big it took up as much space as an actual other person. There was nothing spectacular about his clothes: a biker’s jacket and black jeans slung so low I could see a flash of the white waistband of his boxers, but against the backdrop of the Gare du Nord, with hundreds of commuters blurring into insignificance around him, he managed to make the scene look like an editorial spread in a fashion magazine.

  I watched until he almost disappeared. At the last second, he swiveled his head to look back at me, dragged his hair out of his eyes and raised his hand in a sort of dismissive wave. I resisted the urge to wave back, and then he was gone.

  6

  Standing up to test my foot, I limped over to the nearest café, thinking how the Gare du Nord was marginally less dingy than I remembered. This time I couldn’t help but notice the warm, buttery lighting, and the delicious-looking pastries sparkling in glass cabinets. I joined the queue, looking longingly at the stacks of baguettes jam-packed with colorful fillings and the rainbow-hued display of macarons. Exercising great restraint, I bought a pain au chocolat and a small cappuccino instead, crossing my fingers that my credit card went through.

  This was a familiar feeling. Ellie joked that I was old before my time, with the kind of lackluster social life you might expect from someone in their sixties, not their twenties. But that’s how it was when you wer
e broke. One day I was determined to be debt-free. To have a better job and a bit of disposable income. I’d go to the theater in the West End and out for nice dinners and for weekends away in the kind of trendy, boutique hotels I read about in Stylist magazine. And yet here I was, thirty and still stuck, living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, unable to fully appreciate it because I was permanently overdrawn.

  I walked across to the Office de Tourisme, which was closed until 9 heures, according to the timings etched on the door. I leaned back against the glass and stuffed sweet, comforting pastry into my mouth, gulped down the coffee, and felt warmed from the inside out. Then I headed to the main concourse, turning a full circle, looking for the sign for telephones. It was a strange sensation being phoneless and uncontactable. There was something liberating about it, but also, what if something terrible happened and nobody could get hold of me?

  This was exactly the kind of irrational thought my mum would have, I realized. She had a habit of coming up with the worst, most unlikely scenario and convincing herself that it was guaranteed to happen to her/me/someone she knew. Another thought occurred to me: What if I missed out on an amazing job opportunity (I couldn’t imagine what) because I’d not seen an e-mail in time? This, I told myself, was even more unlikely than the medical emergency I’d been worrying about a second ago.

  I watched a train pull in; it was painted red, with a pointed front, like a rocket. They were very fast, these European trains; I’d read about them somewhere. In which case, surely there was still a chance I could make it to the wedding if there were no more delays. I wasn’t giving up on the idea just yet. I watched a Eurostar come in on another platform, feeling a pang of longing for home. I was probably closer to London than I was to Amsterdam. I could be sitting on my sofa with my feet up in three hours’ time.

  Looking for a pay phone—didn’t they exist anymore?—I walked carefully out the nearest exit, taking it easy on my ankle. The paved area outside the station was shiny and wet, with giant raindrops bouncing off it in vicious little splashes. I watched people run from the bus to the station entrance with jackets and newspapers held over their heads. Zipping Léo’s hoodie up so tightly that I would only be visible from the nose up, I ventured out into the rain.

 

‹ Prev