The Paris Connection

by Lorraine Brown

  * * *

  • • •

  The waiter came bustling over to take our order. I went for the posh croque, and Léo chose some sort of brioche and goat cheese combo involving several ingredients I’d never heard of, at least not in French.

  “Six months is very fast,” said Léo, once the waiter had whirled off to the kitchen. “Why were you in such a rush?”

  I looked down at my nails, inspecting them for more chipped varnish. “When you know, you know.”

  He gave me a cynical look, picking up his beer. “Right.”

  I was sure I saw him shaking his head to himself. Who was he to question the relationship Si and I had? It was right, I knew it was. And I certainly didn’t need Léo putting doubt in my mind. Because the only thing was, I felt a little as though things had shifted between us lately. Si hadn’t seemed himself for a few weeks now and had been especially snappy whenever the topic of his job came up, although of course he refused to talk about it. He’d even done it in front of John and Ellie the week before we left for Venice.

  “How’s work?” John had asked.

  He and Ellie had been round at ours, leaning on the counter, watching Si cook, like they always did.

  “Same as ever,” said Si breezily, tipping a tin of tomatoes into the pan.

  “What’s happened to that arsehole new boss of yours?” asked John.

  Si flinched. “Still an arsehole.”

  “He’s awful,” I said to John. “Si’s been working late almost every night this week, haven’t you, Si, because of his ridiculous demands? Comes home exhausted half the time,” I said to Ellie.

  “Yeah, all right, Hannah,” said Si, glaring round at me. “You don’t need to keep going on about it.”

  I looked at Ellie, who raised her eyebrows.

  Si stopped stirring the pan and took the Prosecco out of the fridge, topping up each of our glasses, although we’d only had a couple of sips each. He spilled some over the top of mine, sending creamy bubbles cascading all over the table.

  “Fucking hell,” he groaned, grabbing a paper towel and mopping it up.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said John, who was not the most intuitive person I’d ever met and was therefore apparently oblivious to the change in atmosphere. “I reckon I’ll take your advice and call your HR department about that head of marketing position you told me about. I might not have enough experience. They might laugh me out of the interview room. But if I don’t try, I’ll never know, right?”

  Si turned back to the chopping board, slicing some black olives into quarters.

  “You know what, mate? I’m not sure that job is going after all,” he said, flipping a tea towel over his shoulder and catching John’s eye. “I hate to have given you the wrong idea, but I reckon the guy’s staying put.”

  “Really?” said John, looking surprised. “Because you said—”

  “If I were you, I’d sack that one off and look for something else,” said Si, well and truly killing the conversation. Even John gave me a funny look that time.

  * * *

  • • •

  The waiter brought our food, which in my case was a deliciously chunky piece of toasted bread topped with a layer each of ham and bubbling, squidgy cheese, with a side of fresh mixed salad drizzled with olive oil. My mouth immediately began to water.

  “This looks great,” I said.

  Léo picked up his fork. “Perhaps you do not like me saying that I find it too quick to live together.”

  “It’s fine, I’m used to people being judgmental about it,” I said, digging into my lunch. “Pretty much everyone thought it was too soon. I got all the: Why don’t you wait? What’s the hurry? Enjoy the fun of dating each other while you still can! Everyone except my mum, that was, who was positively ecstatic.”

  “Why is your mother so happy about this?” asked Léo, lifting a huge forkful of avocado and arugula into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically.

  “She thinks I’m a bit of a failure,” I said, taking a slug of my coffee. “My career has never really taken off, for example. The boyfriends I’ve had up until now have all been useless. I think she’d given up on the idea that I could make something of myself.”

  Léo put his fork down on the side of his plate, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “How is moving in with your boyfriend making something of yourself?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.

  Wasn’t it obvious?

  “Well, it’s about becoming an adult, isn’t it? That’s what you do. You find someone and you fall in love and you start making plans for the future. That’s what people expect, isn’t it?”

  Léo looked skeptical. “So we must all conform to what society expects of us, is that what you mean?”

  God, this was coming out all wrong.

  “Si has a good job,” I said, feeling like I needed to justify myself but having the sneaking suspicion I was making things ten times worse. “He earns three times as much as I do. The reality is that without him, I’d still be renting a bedsit in a shabby house share at the dodgy end of Green Lanes.”

  Léo rubbed at his temple as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You consider yourself a success or a failure based on what kind of job your boyfriend has?”

  Seriously, this guy was unbelievable. For some reason he seemed to think he was well within his rights to comment on every single decision I’d ever made.

  “I didn’t say that,” I said.

  Admittedly, though, I had sort of said that and now I felt stupid, because it wasn’t what I really thought at all. I didn’t care about Si’s money. It was just that I knew my mum did.

  We sat in silence for a minute or two, the first real one we’d had. It was busy in the café now, full of locals coming in for coffee and respite, and Parisian yummy mummies. They looked so happy and relaxed, with their gorgeous, gap-toothed kids, feeding them mushed-up butternut squash out of glass jars and wiping their mouths with pristine white muslin cloths. It was another world, all of that, one that I still didn’t feel quite ready for. Should I be, now I’d turned thirty? If I heeded what I’d read in the press about fertility dropping dramatically after the age of thirty-five, I should by rights be feeling broody by now, or at least be getting used to the idea, even if I wasn’t quite yet.

  It was something Si talked about a lot. All his mates at work were married with kids, he said, and it was what he wanted, too, and soon. He said he’d like three children, two boys and a girl. I’d laughed at this idyllic, middle-class fantasy of his. Where would we put three kids in a one-bedroom rented flat? And more to the point, did I really want to spend the next twenty-five years raising children when there was still so much I wanted to do myself? He never pushed the point, and I was sure I’d feel differently in the future, but right now, it was one more thing that we weren’t on the same page about: he was ready to start a family and I wasn’t. And sitting in a café in Paris, miles away from him, it felt like a major thing to disagree over.

  Léo nudged my foot under the table. “You are quiet, Hannah. I have said too much?”

  “You noticed,” I said, making light of the fact that he’d really hit a nerve.

  “Sometimes I say what is in my head and I do not think about whether it is right to say it out loud. Whether I might upset somebody with my opinions.”

  I looked him right in the eye. “Is that an apology?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, swirling brioche around his plate to soak up the oil. “Because I believe it is better to be truthful, even when it is difficult. Even when somebody does not want to hear it.”

  I put my arms on the table, leaning forward. “So you’re telling me you’ve never pretended that you like something when you don’t? Or lied to spare someone’s feelings? Or because you’re scared of the consequences?”

  “Never. Have you?�
�

  “Yes. I do it all the time,” I said, laughing softly.

  “You do?”

  I took another mouthful of coffee.

  “I take it you don’t mind people being honest with you, either, then?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Of course not. I like it.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Do you, though?”

  He smiled at me. “Let us try.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you still think I am rude, Hannah?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. And then I smiled, too. “Did you see that? I just told you exactly what I thought of you.”

  He nodded. “See? It really is not that difficult.”

  I watched other customers coming in and out, one holding a tiny fluffy dog under her arm, and a ridiculously gorgeous couple draped all over each other as though they’d actually morphed into one exceptionally esthetically pleasing human.

  “What is it like, then, this place you have together that you could not wait to move into?” asked Léo, pressing remnants of goat cheese onto his fork.

  “We’ve got a one-bedroom flat,” I said, pleased to be back on familiar territory. “Small, but it has a little balcony, which I love. Any outdoor space in London is a massive bonus, by the way.”

  We had the best view over other people’s back gardens and of high-rises, and the shops across the road that never seemed to close, their colorful stripy awnings permanently extended out onto the street. I loved sitting out there, watching the world go by, listening to the sounds of the city, the honking and the police sirens and the jumbo jets coming in to land at Heathrow; the odd fight outside the dodgy pub a couple of blocks away.

  “I sit out there sometimes and I drink tea and watch people down on street level. Try to work out where they’re going, or who they might be meeting. You can see all sorts from up there.”

  “Like what?”

  “People chatting with their neighbors. Drunk blokes staggering home from the pub. Arguments.”

  “What are they arguing about?” he asked.

  “I can’t really make it out. There’s a load of shouting and finger-pointing and then the next minute someone’s crying and they’re hugging it out. Occasionally there’s a really bad one, though. I hate that, seeing people screaming at each other, saying things they don’t mean.”

  “Perhaps they do mean it,” he said.

  He took a mouthful of beer, leaving a trail of froth on his upper lip. I watched him lick it off.

  “I don’t know. When I say things in anger, I always regret it,” I said.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “I suppose I’m worried I’ve pushed them too far. That they’ll give up on me altogether. Walk away.”

  Léo pushed his plate to the side, looking around for the waiter to clear our table.

  “What makes you think that people will walk away?” he asked.

  “Well, my dad did.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “He left us, me and my mum.”

  “When you were how old?”

  “Seven.”

  “That is tough,” he said. “But it was your mother he left, Hannah, not you.”

  I still remembered little details about the day he’d gone. My dad had been packing his tatty old suitcase and I’d run into his room and jumped on his back, wrapping my arms around his neck; my legs around his waist. I’d begged him not to go. I’ll be good, I’d told him. I won’t be naughty again. And when I’d looked up, panicked, Mum had been crying quietly in the corner, blowing her nose into a soggy tissue.

  “So your parents divorced?” he said.

  “Yeah. Eventually.”

  “You are close to your mother?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. We don’t talk much. Not about anything important, anyway.”

  “It was difficult, for the two of you, when your father left?”

  I nodded. Talking about Dad was usually something I avoided at all costs. But oddly, with Léo sitting across from me, the words didn’t get stuck in my throat the way they usually did. “Once a month he’d arrange to take me out somewhere. For lunch, or to the park or whatever. I’d be there at the window, waiting for him, all dressed up. Every time a man turned the corner into our street my heart would thump hard in my chest. I’d watch as they got closer and closer, crossing my fingers, standing on tiptoes, straining my neck to get a better view, but it would never be him.”

  Léo finished his drink, tipping his head back to reach the last dregs. He placed his glass back on the table. “He did not show up?”

  “Never. Not once. I’d be there for hours sometimes, hovering about like an idiot. Eventually my mum would tell me to forget it, to go and do something else. She took great delight in it, actually, as though she’d got one up on him. As though she was delighted that he’d finally exposed himself for what he really was.”

  “You really think that is what she thought?” asked Léo, looking dubious.

  I traced a fingernail over a swirly floral logo on the front of the menu. “I think so, yeah.”

  A waiter came to clear our plates, gathering up crumbs and sweeping them efficiently into his free hand.

  “Do you want more to eat, Hannah?” asked Léo. “A glass of wine?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you find it hard to talk about your dad?” asked Léo once the waiter had gone.

  I shrugged. “There’s not much to say, is there? I haven’t seen him for years.”

  “You never tried to contact him?”

  I inspected a strand of my hair, pulling it taut across my face. “Once.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  He had lovely eyes, I thought, almond-shaped and so dark that I couldn’t make out his pupils in this light.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, though.”

  I rubbed my arms, trying to warm them through, listening to the melodic beat of the music.

  “Anyway, it’s your turn now,” I said.

  He sat back, crossing his arms. “My turn for what?”

  “To tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  He laughed dismissively. “That is not so interesting.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, ramping up the drama, drumming my fingertips on my chin. “Now . . . what do I want to know . . . ?”

  He shifted in his seat.

  “You know what? I’m just going to go for the jugular,” I said.

  “This sounds ominous,” he said, asking a passing waiter for the bill. “L’addition, s’il vous plaît?”

  “We’ve talked about my relationships, but what about yours?”

  He shook his head. “What about them?”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I asked.

  He pushed his hand through his hair, ruffling the back of his head.

  “Not at this moment, no,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “Because I am busy with my work. My friends. I have no time for a relationship.”

  I laughed. “Living up to the Parisian stereotype, then, I see.”

  “That is not it, Hannah.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It is more complicated than you think.”

  I slurped the last of my coffee, bashing the cup on the saucer as I put it down. “Well, I don’t know what to think, do I?”

  “It is just how things are, Hannah,” he said. “To me, there are more important things in life than being in the ‘perfect’ relationship.”

  He used imaginary quote marks to make his point.

  “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?” I said, searching his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on. “You said we were strangers. That it doesn’t
matter what we say to each other because we’ll only know each other for this one morning. So why don’t you try me?”

  “I do not get close to people like that,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table and getting up. “It is easier that way.”

  I watched him walk through the restaurant in the direction of the bathrooms, weaving between tables, his T-shirt riding up to show a strip of brown skin on his back. For all his gruffness and bad attitude, I was beginning to think that there was more to him than met the eye.

  13

  By the time we’d made it back to the bike my clothes had dried out a little, but I still felt grimy and damp all over. I missed my clothes, I missed my makeup, and even though I’d spruced my hair up the best I could in the loos at the café, I felt far from my best. I’d caught a couple of people glancing at me as we’d walked along and I’d convinced myself it was because they were wondering what somebody who looked as good as Léo was doing with someone who looked like me. I’d rationalized it in my head, told myself they probably weren’t thinking any such thing, but the feeling had stuck with me.

  He’d suggested we call in to see a friend of his, a girl called Sylvie, who had an apartment right on the Canal Saint-Martin. It was her boyfriend’s bike he’d borrowed, apparently, and he needed to drop it back. I’d insisted that I needed to get to the station, that I was perfectly capable of finding my own way to Gare du Nord, but as always, he’d known just the right thing to say to talk me into it. He said we could dry off before getting on the train, that I could borrow some of his friend’s clothes. The offer had been too tempting to refuse, given I was currently wearing wet denim that smelled like a dog who’d been swimming in a stagnant pond, and he’d promised we’d only stay a few minutes. I wondered, though, whether his friends were all as generous as him, whether she, too, would be prepared to hand over her possessions to a complete stranger. I thought she might not be.

  The door to Sylvie’s apartment was sandwiched between a ceramics shop and a fromagerie. She buzzed us in and we climbed the stairs to the second floor. When we reached the landing she was standing in the doorway, the epitome of esthetic perfection, a Clémence Poésy lookalike dressed in skinny jeans and an expensive-looking pale gray sweater, wearing no makeup, her hair scraped up into a messy bun, like an off-duty ballet dancer. She was everything I wished I was.