Work in Progress

by Paul Thomas

  So we fell back into the old routine and I revived my Samantha fantasies.

  Patricia’s parents came over for a weekend and took us out to a restaurant near Place du Chatelet that they’d been going to since the Liberation. From the outside it looked derelict, awaiting the arsonist’s torch, but her father confidently pushed the door open and beckoned us in. We followed him up a perilous spiral staircase to two plainly furnished connecting rooms where sleek bureaucrats and their exquisite wives looked us up and down. They were obliged to revise their opinion when a leathery old bird, a near-midget in a chef’s uniform, scuttled out from the kitchen to lionise us. This remains the only occasion on which I’ve been accorded respect in a Parisian restaurant. Madame was a national treasure, an esteemed exponent of traditional provincial cuisine and a canny operator who announced each January that this would be her last year in the kitchen, thus ensuring the restaurant was immediately booked out for months to come.

  Patricia’s father was a senior civil servant in the Home Office, a keeper of secrets. Being a well-bred, well-educated Englishman, he was scrupulously polite and effortlessly patronising. Her mother was a countrywoman and, I felt, had spent rather too much time talking to the animals to qualify as stimulating company. We worked our way through stuffed cabbage and foie gras and beef and carrot daube in near silence, taking our lead from Patricia’s father, who ate and drank with the reverence of a communicant. After an array of sublime cheeses, Madame reappeared with a juggernaut of a dessert trolley.

  I suspect that over the years Patricia, who was loquacious by nature, had grown impatient with the solemnity that attended this ritual. There was a certain amount of eye-rolling and she drank more than usual. The moment her father pushed back his chair and removed the napkin from his collar, she intruded brashly on his replete introspection: ‘So, Papa, what’s happening in the real world?’

  And he, for his part, was obviously experienced at deflecting these darts. He gave his mouth a fastidious once-over with the napkin. ‘Oh, I think you could say it’s business as usual.’

  ‘Father’s a decorated veteran of the Cold War,’ said Patricia who, while nowhere near as doctrinaire as Jill, took the modish left-wing line on most issues. ‘Combating the red menace has been his life’s work.’

  Ronald Reagan was in the White House, working the airwaves like the old hand he was, dispensing one-liners about the Evil Empire and hard-selling a missile defence system that would have driven a laser-guided bus through the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty.

  Surely any bona fide bohemian, any serious artist, would join the chorus condemning this terrifying simpleton and those who fuelled his Armageddon complex? But if all sane people agreed that the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction was, in fact, mad, why did we regard as sacrosanct the ABM Treaty under which the contending superpowers undertook not to devise and deploy defence systems against nuclear missiles and which was, therefore, a sine qua non of MAD? And if the Soviet Union, with its centrally planned famines and Gulag Archipelago and twenty million and counting exterminated enemies of the state and social engineering through the barrel of a gun blueprint for the Maoists and the Khmer Rouge wasn’t evil, then hadn’t we might as well retire the word?

  Perhaps wanting to get it over with, her father said, ‘I imagine that strikes you as the height of futility, Max?’

  Whether she sensed my quandary or feared I was crass enough to agree with this proposition, his wife interceded. ‘You’re putting the poor boy on the spot, Charles. He’s probably not the least bit interested in all that carry-on.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re mistaken, Mummy,’ said Patricia, who was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘Max is something of a student of world affairs.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I read Time from cover to cover.’

  Mother looked impressed; Father’s nose twitched enigmatically.

  ‘Actually I’m not sure he would see it as the height of futility,’ said Patricia. ‘In his own bob-each-way way, our Max is a bit of a cold warrior himself.’

  ‘Well, he’s a writer, isn’t he?’ said her father. ‘Perhaps he’s noticed how the communists treat their writers.’

  ‘Is that it, Max?’ asked Patricia.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Writers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your one-way tickets to Siberia.’

  Patricia said, ‘Seriously …’

  ‘In the real world,’ said her father, the conviction in his voice all but obscured by his upper-crust drawl, ‘and there is such a place, even if you two are keeping it at arm’s length, it boils down to whether you believe there’s nothing much to choose between us and them or you don’t. And if you do, you obviously don’t give much of a fig for freedom and democracy.’

  ‘Well, Max?’ said Patricia.

  ‘I don’t believe in moral equivalence.’

  ‘There,’ said Patricia with a tinkle in her voice. ‘I knew you two would get along.’

  ‘Well, keep it quiet,’ said her father. ‘We’ve got reputations to protect.’

  Thankful that a scene had been averted, her mother asked what our plans were.

  ‘Max would like to live in Toulouse,’ said Patricia, giving me a curious sideways glance.

  ‘Nothing wrong with Toulouse,’ said her father.

  ‘It was just a thought,’ I said.

  ‘So you don’t want to now?’ said Patricia.

  ‘You don’t,’ I replied. ‘You made that very clear.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I know a lost cause when I see one.’

  She reached for my hand. ‘Well, there you are, Mummy — it looks like we’ll be staying right where we are.’

  That night Patricia went to bed happy, as if the cloud that had been hanging over her had been whisked away.

  Three months had gone by since I’d been in Toulouse and I’d had no contact with Samantha. I thought about her less and less; the yearning was waning and in another month would simply peter out. Little by little, I’d recommitted to Paris and Patricia. It wasn’t that hard: we liked the same things and spoke the same language. We wrote, we exchanged, we praised each other’s work. We sat out on our tiny balcony above Boulevard Saint Germain and watched la vie Parisienne go by. We wandered the Left Bank, window-shopping in the boutiques and antique shops. We took our books to smoky student cafés. We dined out in reasonably grand style when her allowance arrived. I was earning some good reviews but precious little money so it kept us afloat.

  I was still in bed when she got back with the pastries — plain croissant for her, chocolate brioche for me — and a day-old copy of the Guardian. She made coffee and came in with a tray and sat on the end of the bed with the paper spread out in front of her.

  ‘I was trying to think when we last used the farmhouse,’ she said, without lifting her eyes from the page. ‘Seems like ages ago.’ Now she raised her head. ‘Shall we go down next week?’

  I shrugged. ‘Fine by me.’

  Her smile seemed like an afterthought. ‘Serge and Sam could come out for a night.’ When I didn’t respond she added, ‘We don’t have to do that.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I thought you quite liked them.’

  I shrugged again. ‘I do quite like them.’

  ‘Okay,’ she nodded, ‘I’ll give them a ring.’ She finished her coffee, dropped the paper on the floor and began to undress. ‘But first things first.’

  There was a third person in our bed. It was as if she’d never gone away.

  It was overcoat time in Paris but down south an Indian summer held benign sway. Patricia and I were poolside in our swimming togs — or half of them in her case — with our books and a jug of kir when our guests came bouncing up the drive in a 2CV. I shook hands with Serge, who grinned like a pirate, and kissed Samantha’s cheeks with middle-aged formality.

  They hadn’t brought swimming gear but Serge didn’t have to be persuaded to strip down to his briefs. S
amantha followed suit with some diffidence, perhaps because her stylish lingerie was never intended for public display. She made herself comfortable on a recliner, looking more than ever like a pin-up girl from the age of comparative innocence, before spread legs and clinical close-ups became the way to a wanker’s wallet. When Serge used the when-in-Rome argument to try to talk her out of her bra she poked her tongue out at him and rolled onto her stomach.

  I awoke from a doze to the sound of Patricia fretting about dinner. Serge was quick to volunteer to drive her to the nearest hypermarket, an hour’s round trip, and quick to dissuade Samantha from going along for the ride.

  As soon as the 2CV was out of earshot I walked around to the other side of the pool and sat on the recliner Serge had vacated. Samantha looked up with a restrained smile. Thus far, our communication had been limited to a few snatches of half-hearted small-talk. When I was observing her from under the cover of my sunglasses I’d noticed Serge smirking at me, signalling that he knew what I was up to even if she didn’t. She’d abandoned herself to the sun, regularly changing positions to give it access to every patch and pocket of her sumptuous flesh.

  I said, ‘So he came back and you worked it out?’

  She shrugged. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘What changed his mind?’

  ‘You should be able to figure that out, Max,’ she said with a lazy smile. ‘You of all people.’

  Her complacency disappointed me. Did she really believe it was that cut and dried? One of the things I’d liked most about her was that she didn’t seem to revel in her sex appeal or use it calculatingly, but perhaps she’d concluded that the lesson in all of this was that if you act like you’re nothing special, you’ll get treated that way.

  ‘Ditto you and Patricia, huh?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘The same as Serge, I suppose,’ I said. ‘I went back to appreciating what I already had.’

  ‘So we’re all back to square one.’

  For me, square one meant being with Patricia but wanting to be with Samantha, whereas there was no place for me in her brimming status quo. She lay back, closing her eyes. Now that the boys had got over their brainstorms, everything was back on track.

  ‘Happily ever after,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Max, put some expression into it,’ she said, and rolled onto her front.

  It hadn’t taken long to run out of things to say. I went back to my book and was still there when the others returned. Serge brought out a couple of beers. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I introduce you?’

  Patricia appeared. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Look at these two,’ he said. ‘Like perfect strangers around a hotel pool.’

  Samantha put down her magazine. ‘How close would you like us to be, Serge?’

  ‘The same side of the pool would be normal.’

  ‘We’re within shouting range,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Samantha would’ve saved me if I’d got into difficulties.’

  Serge guffawed. ‘So this is the New Zealand mentality: a Frenchman would see a beautiful woman in her lingerie; he sees a lifeguard.’

  Patricia draped an arm around my shoulders. ‘I think he sees your girlfriend, Serge.’

  I looked up at her, feeling the others’ eyes on me. Serge would have been fighting back the urge to laugh his head off and surely Samantha would have seen the funny side of it too. The only one who didn’t get the joke was Patricia, but then the fall-guy never does.

  The women went inside to shower and nap and do things in the kitchen. Serge fetched a bowl of ice, a jug of water and a bottle of Pastis 51. He sat on the next recliner, one eye closed to shut out the smoke curling from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, mixing the drinks. After we’d clicked glasses he said, ‘So you and Patricia …?’

  ‘I’ve already had this conversation.’

  ‘No doubt — and no doubt you didn’t shout across the pool — but I was doing the shopping, remember?’

  ‘Did you push the trolley like a good little fellow?’

  ‘Of course. Patricia was saying her parents are very fond of you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far; I’d say I managed to exceed their low expectations.’

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you? The fact that she even mentioned it?’

  I sat up to help myself to his cigarettes. ‘You know her parents, Serge — do you really think they’re delighted that she’s shacked up with me?’

  ‘I’m not talking about her parents, I’m talking about her. To me, she looks and sounds like a woman who can hear wedding bells.’

  I laughed at him. ‘You’ve got us mixed up, Serge. It’s your girlfriend who wants to get married, not mine. Mine doesn’t even believe in it.’

  He gestured dismissively. ‘People say those things. They don’t mean anything.’

  ‘What about Samantha? Where does she stand on the subject now?’

  ‘She doesn’t talk about it — for the time being. It’s as I said.’

  ‘And as Sam said,’ I said. ‘She predicted that you’d come back and the two of you would work things out.’

  ‘I came back and she was still there. She was in pain and I was the only person who could make it go away.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t have the heart not to.’

  ‘In other words nothing’s changed?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think Sam’s changed a little.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You said she was madly in love with me; well, maybe not madly any more.’

  ‘You could hardly blame her.’

  ‘I don’t, not at all,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s better this way.’

  ‘Why, because it makes it easier next time?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re a fucking charmer, you are. And by the way, I don’t think I ever thanked you for telling Samantha I was in love with her.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you didn’t.’

  Serge did a good line in straight-faced irony but not that good. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What exactly should I have been grateful for?’

  ‘Because, my friend, if you want to grow something, first you must plant a seed.’

  ‘Oh, I see, you were playing Cupid? Well, I have to tell you it backfired. The reason I was on this side of the pool was that Sam pretty much gave me the cold shoulder.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did Sam tell you?’

  I stared at him, fog-brained.

  ‘When you talked about it in Toulouse, what did she tell you to do?’

  ‘She told me to go back to Paris,’ I said, ‘and sort things out with Patricia.’

  ‘And four months later you’re still there, and still with Patricia. How’s she meant to interpret that?’

  He got up to go to the toilet. ‘I know you Anglo-Saxons find women mysterious,’ he said with a cruel grin, ‘but when they spell it out for you and you still don’t get it, merde alors.’

  I sat there, staring into my glass, listening to him laugh all the way inside.

  When it came to entertaining, Patricia preferred to err on the side of overkill. There was melon and Bayonne ham, onion tart, langoustines, duck breasts with cherries, salad, cheese, crème caramel and fruit. The secret to feasting is to pace yourself and it was well past midnight before we were done. Another half hour or so, another splash of Armagnac and a last cigarette, and we would have congratulated the hostess, cleared the table and waddled off to bed. In the course of the drawn-out leave-taking the next day we would have vowed to do it again soon but soon was a matter of months and by then I would have gone cold turkey on Samantha.

  That’s how close we were. This is how quickly it can all unravel.

  We got onto the subject of racism. Not heavily; in fact it began as one of those giddy late-night riffs, half the fun of which comes from not takin
g a serious subject too seriously. There was some raucous dispute over who were the most racist — the English, the Americans or the French. (New Zealanders were yellow-carded for their obsession with playing rugby with South Africa but the panel accepted my plea that it reflected unworldly priorities rather than ideological kinship.)

  Patricia had the French in the dock, citing the recent police shooting in Marseille of an unarmed and apparently blameless Arab youth, which had inspired some lively rioting. Serge was having none of it: the whole affair was a media beat-up; the dead guy belonged to a street gang that ran a protection racket in the Arab quarter and moved a lot of dope; and, as for the riot, that was just a cover for some well-organised looting. When Patricia chastised him for recycling right-wing misinformation, Serge said he’d actually seen the so-called rioters back vans up to shop windows and clean them out.

  Patricia raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? You make a great witness for a man who wasn’t there.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Serge was puzzled — understandably so, since he obviously wasn’t making it up.

  She plonked her elbows on the table. ‘Because I happen to know you weren’t in Marseille at the time, that’s why.’ The booze was talking and it came across as childish point-scoring.

  Serge gave her a look of studied bemusement, which he then directed at Samantha and me. ‘She knows where I was better than I do?’

  ‘It happened when I was in London,’ said Patricia, reverting to a near-normal voice. ‘I remember because I was watching the news with my father and he said much the same as you. I believe it’s called racial stereotyping.’

  Perhaps if I hadn’t been stupefied by food and wine and mentally halfway to the bedroom, I might have seen the danger in this little joust and tried to change the subject. Whether I would have succeeded is another matter.