This was near where the taxi had dropped me off this morning, I remembered, and it seemed as though everyone had had the same idea because I counted at least fifteen cabs, their doors opening and shutting, luggage being dragged out of trunks, horns beeping, wheels sloshing through puddles the size of small ponds. I took a couple of grainy photos of the building opposite: five stories of traditional Parisian apartments stacked on top of a row of red-canopied restaurants. I was particularly drawn to an attic room where somebody was, very ineffectively given the weather, putting their washing out to dry, hanging wet towels out a window carved into the gray zinc roof. Then I people-watched for a bit and read road signs and billboards to test my French. I realized that, for the first time in ages, I was doing fine on my own. I couldn’t get hold of Si and therefore there was no point in waiting around for him to save me, which was the dynamic we appeared to have fallen into. As though we were living out our own version of a fairy tale, with Si cast as the handsome prince galloping around on his trusty white steed. I loved having someone there to take care of things. Whatever I needed, Si would find a way to provide, I only had to ask. But we were living together now and contemplating spending the rest of our lives together and I couldn’t help wondering whether Si had come along and rescued me before I’d had the chance to work out if I could do it for myself.
After watching at least a hundred more passengers file through the entrance to the terminal, I spotted a row of pay phones against the far wall. A twitchy-looking homeless man skulked around near the curb, rather worryingly holding a white rope tied into a noose. Keeping him in my peripheral vision, I put my coffee on the ground next to me and picked up the closest handset, polishing it with the last wipe from my travel pack. Pointless really, as it had zero germ-eradicating properties as far as I knew, but still . . . it made me feel marginally less squeamish.
I thought I’d try Mum first. This was a risky strategy; she was going to have a fit when I told her what had happened. But I needed someone to know where I was, that I was safe and well. And I knew what Si was like; he’d probably end up calling them anyway, particularly if he was in a panic. I’d rather they heard it from me and for it to be delivered in a calm and matter-of-fact manner, which I’d learned was the best way to break any kind of news—good or bad—to Mum. Anyway, she might surprise me: we’d been in touch more than usual over the past few days. I’d sent her tons of photos and she’d loved hearing what we’d been up to. She’d always wanted to come to Venice herself but had never been able to afford to, and I felt faintly guilty that I’d essentially taken her dream and lived it out for myself.
I dialed Mum’s home number. It was 7:55 in Paris, so an hour earlier in Enfield. I imagined Mum, all rolled up under the duvet in the same bedroom she’d slept in for the past thirty-something years. I couldn’t imagine her ever leaving Thirlmere Drive, a street which, to me, had always had a sort of bleak and hopeless quality about it. Every flat-fronted house was identical to the next, for a start, except for those whose inhabitants had splashed out on a porch or a loft extension. It was as though the street had a uniform. I wondered why nobody had broken free of the mold. Why somebody hadn’t thought to paint their magnolia-colored house a different, brighter shade, or even to dispense with net curtains.
I was prepared for Mum to sound all groggy, and to quickly become near hysterical as her mind ran away with her, jumping ahead to whatever terrible fate she thought might have befallen her disaster-prone daughter now. You’d have thought that at my age I’d have stopped caring what she thought, but somehow, because she was the only parent I had, I supposed, it hurt that she always assumed the worst of me. That I had to work extra hard to prove her wrong. To show her that I wasn’t the complete fuck-up she seemed to think I was. Although that wasn’t easy when I had—as was the case on this occasion—actually fucked up.
It rang seven times before she picked up.
“Hello?”
Her voice was vague, as though she thought she might be dreaming.
“Mum, it’s me.”
Silence.
“Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“What’s happened?”
She breathed heavily into the mouthpiece.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster.
“Thank God,” said Mum. “You’re not in any trouble, then?”
“ ’Course not,” I said casually. “Nothing terrible, anyway. It’s just that I’ve lost Si.”
More silence. And then, “What do you mean, lost him?”
I knew she’d be fighting the urge to go all dramatic. I tried to explain.
“The train from Venice divided into two in the middle of the night and we didn’t realize and now I’ve ended up in Paris and Si’s on his way to Amsterdam.”
“Oh God, Hannah!”
“And he’s got all my stuff. My suitcase. My purse, although luckily I’ve got a couple of cards with me,” I said in a rush. “Oh yeah, and my phone’s been stolen.”
Might as well get it all out there.
“What about Catherine’s wedding?” she screeched. “You’ll miss it, Hannah! Honestly, trust you. Why do things like this always happen to you?”
Mum was going to be mad about this turn of events because she’d been much more invested in Catherine’s wedding than I’d ever been. She’d made me relay every little detail of the day and was particularly obsessed with Pauline’s outfit, which I’d avoided telling her probably cost more than Mum’s entire wardrobe put together.
“I don’t know, Mum, why do they?” I replied, exhaustion creeping up on me.
Our relationship had always been more on the volatile end of the spectrum. There had been bickering, door-slamming and ignoring each other for days on end when I was a teenager. Even now, she had the ability to wind me up within seconds, as though she knew exactly what my insecurities were and made a conscious (or, perhaps, to give her the benefit of the doubt, unconscious) effort to go ahead and play on them anyway.
“Tony!” I heard her shriek. “Wake up. It’s Hannah, she’s got herself in a right mess.”
I closed my eyes for a second or two. I would have called Ellie if I’d known her number by heart.
“Mum, don’t panic. I’ll sort it out. I’ve got a ticket for the next train to Amsterdam. If it runs on time, I should just about make it in time for the ceremony. It’s not until 5:30.”
“And Paris. Is it even safe? You’ve never even been to France before, Hannah!”
“Hmm.”
This was hardly the time to tell her about that one ill-fated trip.
Tony groaned in the background—he could sleep through anything, Tony—and I heard Mum telling him in a high-pitched, garbled voice what had happened. She made it sound much worse than it was.
“Tony said give us the number of the phone you’re using and we’ll ring you back. You need to save your money, Hannah. Have you had anything to eat? Are you warm enough?”
There she went, going off on one as usual, talking to me as though I had the common sense of a four-year-old. I gave her the number, replaced the receiver and waited. It rang a minute or so later.
“Hannah?”
“Non, pardon, you must ’ave the wrong number,” I said, putting on a French accent in an attempt to lighten the mood and also because I knew it would piss her off.
“Who is this, please? I’m looking for my daughter, Hannah.”
I laughed lightly. “It’s me, Mum. I’m joking.”
“For God’s sake. I’m worried sick now and so is Tony.”
“He hasn’t gone back to sleep, then?”
A pause. “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Never mind.”
I imagined Tony with his rapidly receding hairline, the beige Bermuda shorts he insisted on wearing no matter the weather hanging neat
ly over the back of the chair next to his bed. He told me it was because he was a postman and he’d built up an immunity to the cold over the years. As stepfathers went, he was actually pretty cool. He liked the Rolling Stones and soccer and watching documentaries about real-life crime. And he’d never taken sides, even in the early days, when he and Mum had first met. I’d been fifteen then and had fallen out with a group of friends at school and hated Mum (and everyone else) and he’d been very patient with me, very gentle, and had let our relationship develop slowly, over time. He’d never been a replacement for Dad, I think we both knew that, but I suspected that if I ever needed him, he would be there in a heartbeat. Not that I’d ever really tested the theory, but still. It was nice to know.
“Look, I’m guessing Si hasn’t been in touch yet, but if he calls, tell him I’m fine and that I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said to Mum.
I heard a sigh and a rustle of sheets. She’d be getting back into bed. Eight o’clock was when she got up and not a moment before.
“Poor Si, he’ll be going up the wall,” she said.
Of course Si would be the one she felt sorry for. He was like the son she’d never had. Lately, when she called the house phone, I’d noticed she sounded disappointed when it was me who answered and not him.
“He’s lovely, Hannah,” she’d said with a rare burst of excitement when I’d taken him home for the first time. We’d been out in the kitchen making tea for everyone.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I’d said, reaching into the cupboard to get out four mugs.
“He’s very good-looking,” she whispered conspiratorially.
I laughed softly. “He is, isn’t he?”
Mum arranged four paper napkins in the shape of a fan on the tray. “I hate to say it, but I’d almost given up on you finding someone.”
I concentrated on rearranging the mugs, spacing them out evenly.
“Really? Didn’t realize you’d written me off so quickly.”
Mum cleared her throat. “It’s not that. It’s just, well . . . when you think about the other boyfriends you’ve brought home.”
She was right, of course, they’d all been awful, but it wasn’t for her to say.
“That’s what being in your twenties is all about, though, isn’t it?” I said flippantly, wanting to keep things light. “Trying things out. Having relationships that don’t work. Making mistakes.”
Mum got the milk out of the fridge and poured it into her best white china jug, which she put on the tray alongside a plate of chocolate digestives.
“We’ve all made our fair share of those,” she said.
I filled the teapot with water from the kettle, adding it to the tray.
“Are you talking about Dad?” I asked quietly.
We rarely mentioned his name, hadn’t done so for years. I’d learned not to. I’d been seven when he’d left and hadn’t had a clue what was going on, except that he wasn’t there anymore and I missed him. Whenever I’d asked Mum about it, she’d disappear upstairs and come down ten minutes or so later with red-rimmed eyes and then I’d feel bad. As though I’d been solely responsible for upsetting her.
“Don’t waste your time wondering about him, Hannah. Because I can guarantee that wherever he is in the world, he won’t be thinking about you.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, defensive, even after all this time.
She sighed. “If that’s what you want to believe, Hannah. If it’s easier for you that way.”
I put the tea bags away in the cupboard, shutting it carefully.
“Come on, let’s take these in, shall we?” said Mum, picking up the tray and giving me a tight smile. I knew what that look meant. It was her way of letting me know that the conversation was over, that now wasn’t the time. It wasn’t, of course, with Si sitting next door, but the thing was, it was never the time.
* * *
• • •
I hung up on Mum, resting my forehead against the keypad and promptly vaulting off it again, remembering how many fingers touched those buttons on a daily basis, not all of them clean. I shoved in a few more coins and dialed Si’s number. I supposed I’d better tell him about the missed train. Reassure him that I was still doing my best to get there. It felt strange for us to be so out of touch, because I could usually get hold of him instantly, whenever I needed him. He was very dependable like that, not like other guys I’d dated. On the odd occasion he went out with friends—he preferred to stay at home with me these days, he said—he always, always gave me a blow-by-blow account of where he was and what he was drinking and what time he’d be back, and so I’d end up feeling part of it, almost as though I was there with him.
After a few rings it went straight to voice mail again. I pushed the heel of my hand into my eye socket and left another message. Surely he’d worked out it was on silent by now. I didn’t want to be the one to mention it because then I’d have to explain how I knew that in the first place. It would be much better if he assumed he’d mistakenly changed the settings himself.
“Hey, Si. It’s me. There’s a delay my end, I’m afraid. Engineering works, apparently. Don’t reckon I’ll get to Amsterdam until gone five now, so it’ll be very tight, but I’ll make it. Tell Catherine I’m sorry. Oh, and my phone’s been stolen. Gare du Nord is notoriously bad for that, apparently. Nothing’s going right for me today, is it? Anyway. Not sure how you’ll get hold of me from now on. I guess I’ll have to call you. Bye, then.”
I stood still for a bit, letting my heartbeat return to its normal, resting rate, filling my lungs with cool, damp air. I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him the truth, about missing the train. Or about Léo’s bag and my ankle. It was funny how relationships changed over time. How some of the things you loved about each other to begin with now irritated you beyond belief. And vice versa. Of course vice versa. And because Si and I were very different, in terms of the things we liked and disliked, in the childhoods we’d had, there was lots to get used to about each other.
In a way, it was a miracle we’d met in the first place. I remembered that day vividly: the scent of honeysuckle and beer in the air, how it had been one of those balmy summer London evenings. I’d been on my way to Ellie’s, coming up the escalator at Highgate Tube, rooting for my sunglasses in my bag, which I’d found, put on and then promptly pulled back off my face because I really didn’t need shades underground. I’d turned to check out a poster for a new theater production starring someone I was sure I’d seen in a Channel 4 drama about a missing girl and then, distracted, I went to put my hair up into a bun, knocking off my sunglasses in the process, wincing as I heard them land on the step below.
“Shit,” I said, turning to look. I’d paid twenty-five pounds in Zara for those and now they were probably smashed to pieces.
The person behind me bent down to pick them up.
“These yours?” he’d said, stretching his arm out to reach me.
“Yes. Thanks.” I held out my hand, taking them from him, my fingers knocking clumsily against his. I met his eyes and smiled, caught off guard by how attractive he was. He was blond, looked like he worked out and was very tall and slightly tanned. His face was completely symmetrical, with everything from his nose to his jawline perfectly aligned. He reminded me of an Irish boy-band member, or a kids’ TV presenter. I was so caught up with examining his bone structure that I didn’t realize the top of the escalator was behind me until my heels banged against the metal teeth and I stumbled onto the concourse. Flustered, I attempted to regain my composure by whipping my Oyster card out of my bag in a brusque and businesslike manner, as though I was in a terrible hurry.
“Do you live around here, then?” he called from behind as I bustled through the ticket barriers.
I looked over my shoulder at him, shaking my head. “No. My friend does, though. She’s just round the corner, off the Archway Road.”
“Oh, me too,” he said.
I wondered whether he had a girlfriend. A wife, even. Probably. He wasn’t my type, mind you. I much preferred guys who were flawed and a bit messed up like me, to whom I wouldn’t feel eternally inferior.
“Well, it was nice to meet you. Briefly,” he said, buzzing through behind me.
He had a big, wide smile that was perfectly symmetrical, just like the rest of him. And he must have had highlights; nobody’s hair was that color. I made a mental note of his features so that I could describe him to Ellie later.
“You too,” I said. I liked the way he had his suit jacket slung casually over his arm, the way he’d undone the top two buttons of his shirt.
I turned and walked away, toward the exit for Archway Road. Just before I started up the steps I heard footsteps behind me.
“Excuse me?”
It was him again, one hand in his pocket, a shimmer of sweat on his top lip.
“Hi,” I said, moving to the side so that people could get past.
“Um, I know this is weird and feel free to say no,” he said, “but would you fancy going for a drink sometime?”
I remembered trying to play it cool, to look as though getting asked out on the Tube was a regular occurrence. Not only did he look as though he’d walked off a movie set, but he was creating a scene straight out of a Richard Curtis rom-com. Perhaps the sequel to Notting Hill. Highgate Village had a nice ring to it. When I’d described it to Ellie later, she’d said it sounded like something that would happen to Jennifer Aniston, which I’d thought summed it up perfectly. I’d presumed I’d never see him again, anyway, because I could count on one hand the number of times a guy had taken my number and had actually called. I’d worked out over the years that it was something they (men) did to avoid awkwardness; a cowardly get-out clause when they decided that they didn’t fancy you enough to bother after all.
7
The Paris Connection Page 7