by Lynne Shelby
‘Anna! Bonjour. It’s so lovely to meet you at last.’ We also exchanged air-kisses.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, too,’ I said, speaking in French as she had. ‘Alex has told me so much about you in his letters.’
‘Knowing my little brother,’ Hélène said with a smile, ‘that is just a tiny bit worrying.’ Her gaze travelled around the apartment, lingering on the un-made bed, glancing back at Alex, standing there nonchalantly without a shirt, his hands hooked into the pockets of his jeans, his feet bare. I knew exactly what she was thinking. I tried to think of a way to let her know that Alex and I weren’t sleeping together – well, we were sleeping together, but not sleeping together – without saying it straight out, but decided that was a conversation best left until I knew her a little better.
Alex said, ‘Whereabouts are you thinking of going shopping?’
‘That rather depends on Anna.’ Hélène turned to me. ‘Paris has so many different shopping districts. There are the big department stores, of course, and I’d recommend the Left Bank if you’re after vintage. And for all the best European chains, the Rue du Commerce.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely a chain store girl,’ I said. ‘I’d love to buy a dress or shoes by a brand I couldn’t get in England.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Hélène said. ‘What time shall I return Anna to you, Alex?’
Alex thought for a moment. ‘I should be finished at the gallery by four. Why don’t you both come and meet me somewhere for a drink?’
‘As the Galerie Lécuyer is in the Marais,’ Hélène said, ‘let’s meet in front of the Pompidou Centre. If you’re delayed, Anna and I can watch the street performers in the piazza’
‘D’accord,’ Alex said. ‘You go and bond over the clothing rails and I’ll see you after I’ve seen my photos hung.’
Leaving Alex in the apartment, Hélène and I walked down the five flights of stairs to the street.
‘This really is so kind of you to volunteer to entertain me while Alex is working,’ I said, as we headed to the Metro.
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Hélène said. ‘There’s no way accompanying you to the Rue du Commerce can be considered an altruistic gesture on my part. I’m only too delighted to have an excuse to hit the shops. Oh – I meant to ask you if you’d prefer to speak in French or English. Your French is so good that I forgot.’
‘I’m happy speaking French,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to have the chance to practise.’
‘Then we’ll speak French,’ Hélène said. ‘Out of interest, which language do you speak when you’re with Alex?’
‘When he first came to England, we spoke English most of the time,’ I said, ‘but lately we seem to drift in and out of English and French.’
‘It was a bit like that in our house when Alex and I were children,’ Hélène said. ‘We and our parents talked to each other in both languages – although when our mother told us off it was always in English. Alex and I knew that was a sign that she was really angry. People tend to express strong emotion in their first language, I think.’
The Rue du Commerce was situated not far from the Champs du Mars, but at the opposite end to the Eiffel Tower. We got off the Metro at the La Motte-Picquet-Grenelle stop – Hélène told me there was an excellent farmers’ market there on Sundays – and she led me down a narrow, one-way street, much less crowded than any of other shopping streets I’d walked along in Paris. There were some fashion and make-up stores that had made the journey across the Channel from Europe to the British high street, but there were others whose brand names were unfamiliar to me, as well as small, quirky boutiques. Almost all the voices I heard were speaking French – the Rue du Commerce, it seemed, catered more for Parisians than tourists.
Hélène and I spent a very enjoyable morning flitting from shop to shop. Like her brother, she was very easy to get on with, and our talk – about the clothes we were trying on, the places Alex had taken me in Paris, my job, her job – never faltered. In one small shop, I found a pink shift dress that I simply couldn’t resist (‘What do you think, Hélène?’ ‘It was made for you, Anna, you look trés chic.’), and a little further along the street, I found the ideal pair of shoes to go with it. Hélène bought herself a silk shirt and two of the cutest dresses ever for her daughters. By then we were both in want of refreshment. As the Rue du Commerce was the site of numerous eateries, we had no trouble in finding a café with an empty table.
‘How old are your girls?’ I asked Hélène, as we ate our assiettes parisiennes.
‘Véronique is eight, and Élodie is six. I have a photo, if you would like to see them.’
Hélène fished in her bag and eventually extracted a wallet containing a photo of two extremely sweet little girls standing by a fountain.
‘They’re delightful. So pretty. And that’s a lovely photo. Did Alex take it?’
‘Yes. He’s the only photographer who’s ever managed to get Véronique to smile for the camera. She’s a very quiet, serious child, while Élodie is very talkative, and never sits still. Alex and I were also very different as children. I was the outgoing one – he was shy.’
‘I remember. He’s changed so much since he was a boy.’
‘You and Alex have become very close since he has been living with you in London, I think?’
Seizing the opportunity to correct any false impressions that Hélène may have received at Alex’s apartment, I said, ‘I’m not his girlfriend, but we are very close friends.’
Hélène regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Has he told you why he left Paris? Do you know about Cécile? What she did to him?’
I nodded.
‘Anna – I have to ask you – Do you think he’s still in love with her?’
‘He’s over her,’ I said. ‘He told me so himself only yesterday.’
‘Oh, I’m so relieved.’ Hélène sank back in her chair. ‘We – his whole family – have been so anxious about him. That bitch broke his heart.’
‘He was sad when he first came to London,’ I said. ‘But not all the time. And I really do think he’s fine now.’
‘I suspect much of that is down to you,’ Hélène said. ‘That night I rang him to tell him that Cécile was getting married, I felt so much better knowing that you were there and he wasn’t on his own.’
‘All I’ve done is listen when he needed to talk,’ I said, ‘as any friend would do.’
‘Well, I’m grateful – and I know my parents will be very reassured when I tell them that he’s over Cécile. I’m under strict orders to report back to my mother as soon as I get home. Alexandre may be a grown man, but he’s still her son, and she worries about his emotional well-being. And to me, he’s still my little brother who I feel I have to look out for – which is totally ridiculous, of course, but that’s families for you.’
Alex, I decided, was as fortunate in his family as I was in mine.
Hélène said, ‘I never liked Cécile. I tried to like her, really I did, particularly when it became obvious that Alex was serious about her, but she always gave me the impression that my conversation bored her. I’m sorry that my brother had to suffer all that pain, but I’m not sorry that Cécile is out of his life. Anyway, we’ve talked about her quite enough, I think.’ She drained her coffee. ‘We’ve another hour before we need to go to the Pompidou Centre – let’s shop.’
It was when we were making our way back along the Rue du Commerce to the Metro, that Hélène announced, ‘Last year, I bought a wonderful jacket in that little shop opposite – we must go in. If we’re late meeting Alexandre, I’ll tell him it was all my fault.’
I laughed. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind waiting.’
We went into the tiny boutique – there was barely room to move for all clothing-rails and the tables in the centre piled high with jumpers and shirts. Hélène immediately swooped on a sundress (‘This would be perfect for picnics in the Jardin du Luxembourg’) and went to try it on. I wasn’t intending to buy another outfit, but I couldn’
t resist leafing through the assorted dresses, every one unique, that were on a rail at the back of the shop. Amongst the bright primary colours and the pastels, I found one dress made of white cotton, with inch-wide shoulder straps, a tight bodice with tiny pearl buttons all down the front, and a calf-length skirt with deep tiers. There was something timeless about the design that really appealed to me. I was still looking at it when Hélène returned.
‘That would look lovely on you, Anna,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m not thinking of buying it. I never wear white – I’m too pale.’
‘At least try it on.’
‘D’accord.’ I went into the changing room, changed into the dress, and surveyed myself in the mirror. To my surprise, the dress really suited me. An image flashed before my eyes of me sitting in a garden, sunlight falling across my white skirts, just like the woman in the Monet painting that Alex liked so much, and of him taking my photograph. I pulled back the changing room curtain.
‘What do you think?’ I said to Hélène.
She smiled. ‘Charmant.’
‘Merci.’ I checked the price tag – the dress was very reasonably priced. And buying two dresses in the same day wasn’t so very extravagant. I was, after all, on my first trip to Paris.
‘You should definitely buy that dress,’ Hélène said.
‘I’m very tempted to buy it, but I’m not sure when I’d wear it.’
‘You could wear it to the gallery tomorrow,’ Hélène said. ‘You must buy it,’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I really think I must.’
‘It really is an extraordinary construction,’ I said, looking at the photo I’d taken of the Pompidou Centre, with its brightly coloured utility pipes and air ducts on its outside wall, and its external elevator.
‘Yes, it isn’t often that you see a building turned inside-out,’ Alex said.
Hélène and I had arrived at the Pompidou Centre half an hour after our appointed meeting time with Alex, but he’d been perfectly content watching the street performers entertaining the people gathered in the piazza. The three of us had wandered amongst the crowds, admiring the skill of the unicyclists, jugglers, mime artists, and contortionists, and had then gone for a drink at a nearby café. Hélène couldn’t stay long as she had to pick up her daughters from a friend’s house. Alex and I’d had a meal, and lingered over a second glass of wine, before going back to Montmartre.
‘I wish we had longer in Paris,’ Alex said, lying stretched out on his bed, his arms behind his head. ‘These last three days have gone so fast. There are so many things, so many parts of the city that I still want to show you. Not just the famous sites, but the places the tourists don’t see. Once I move back here in the summer, maybe you could come and stay for a couple of weeks.’
‘I’d like that.’ I didn’t want to think about the time Alex would no longer be living in my flat, when I wouldn’t see him all the time, and we’d go back to being penfriends, writing each other letters, telling each other about our lives, rather than doing things together. ‘This trip has gone very quickly, but we still have one more day before we go back to London.’
Alex nodded. ‘Tomorrow morning, I thought we’d go to the Musée du Montmartre. It focuses on the belle époque, and I think you’d find it interesting.’
‘And in the evening, we have your exhibition. I’m so looking forward to it.’
‘Me too,’ Alex said. ‘I’m very pleased with the way my photos have been hung. Edouard Geroux, the director, may have been running the gallery for only six months, but he certainly knows his job. The picture of you with the rose is placed exactly where the light is perfect for it.’ He added, ‘I’ve given it a title: Anna Awakening.’
‘I like that.’ I smiled. ‘It’s going to be strange seeing myself on the walls of an art gallery after looking at so many famous works of art in the last couple of days – Sorry, Alex, tomorrow isn’t about me, it’s about you.’
‘It does have something to do with you – you’re my favourite artist’s model.’
‘Do you think the artist who used to live in your apartment had a favourite model?’
‘I know he did. She was very beautiful.’
‘Did she come to this room to pose for him?’
‘Bien sûr. He was too poor to rent a studio, but the light up here was ideal for him to work by. His easel was in that corner, and she posed in front of that window. One day, I’ll be browsing in a flea market, and I’ll see an old oil-painting of a girl in an attic room with a view over the rooftops of Paris, and I’ll know it’s her.’
We both laughed.
‘What happened to them?’ I said. ‘The artist who used to live here and his model?’
Alex shrugged, and then he yawned.
‘Are you tired?’
‘Yeah. I know it’s not late, but would you mind if we called it a night?’
I was wide awake, my head full of the artist who used to live in Alex’s apartment and his beautiful muse, but I said, ‘Of course not. You need to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is an important day for you.’
‘It is. If this show goes well, I can see Edouard and I having a very successful creative partnership.’ He stood up, reaching behind his head, the way guys do to pull off his T-shirt. Then he took off his jeans. ‘Do you want to go first in the bathroom?’
‘Ye-es.’ I went to the bathroom, taking my baggy T-shirt with me. However irrational it might be, considering we were friends sharing a bed, I felt far too self-conscious to casually strip off in front of him, the way he’d just done in front of me. I told myself I was being ridiculous, that I wouldn’t think twice about getting changed in front of Beth, that Alex had already had an eyeful, but it didn’t make any difference.
Make-up removed, teeth cleaned, and wearing my T-shirt over my underwear, I went back into the living space, and slid under the duvet. Alex padded off to the bathroom. I was already drifting off, when he came and got into bed next to me.
‘Goodnight, Anna.’
‘Bonne nuit, mon ami,’ I said. And fell asleep.
Thirty
From outside the bathroom the next morning. Alex said, ‘I’m starving, and we’re completely out of anything remotely edible.’
‘Won’t they be feeding us at the reception?’
‘They only ever serve hors d’oeuvres at these events. I’m going to run down to the boulangerie. I won’t be long.’
‘D’accord.’ I finished blow drying my hair. Having by now memorised the layout of Alex’s neighbourhood, I knew that he wouldn’t be back for a least another ten minutes, so I felt able to leave the bathroom wearing only my lace-trimmed, ivory silk bra and thong. I fetched the two dresses I’d bought in the Rue du Commerce and the dress I’d brought from England from the cupboard in the vestibule, and laid them out on Alex’s bed. The deep blue wrap-around was one of my favourites, and I always felt good when I wore it. The pink shift was, as Hélène had said, very chic. But I knew immediately that it was the white dress, simple and summery, that I was going to wear to the photography exhibition. With my wide leather belt, and the ankle boots I’d rejected the day before, it would make me look just slightly bohemian, I thought. I’d even brought a bag and jacket with me that would match the rest of my ensemble. I stepped carefully into the dress, slid the straps onto my shoulders, and started to fasten the bodice. The buttons were tiny and the holes were very stiff, so I went and stood by the window to see them better in the bright, early afternoon light.
‘Anna, I’ve bought bread, and cheese to go with it –’
I looked up to see Alex standing just a few feet away, holding several large paper bags, his dark eyes staring at me intently. Instinctively, I clutched the dress closed over my bra.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ I said.
He said, ‘Anna, please don’t move. I – I have to take your photo.’
‘What? Now? But, I’m not wearing any make-up. I haven’t straightened my hair –’
‘That doesn’t matter. S’il te plait, just stay where you are by the window.’ Distractedly, he tossed the paper bags he was carrying in the general direction of the kitchen and picked up his camera. ‘Could you let go of your dress – put your hands the way they were, and look down – as though you’re doing up the buttons, as you were before.’
I did as he asked. I heard the now familiar click and whirr of his camera as he took shot after shot.
‘If only I had time, and the right equipment – and Lou to hold a reflector – to do this properly,’ he said. ‘There – that’ll have to do. The light’s changing already.’
I relaxed and let my hands fall. And then, realising that the open front of the dress was exposing not only ivory silk and lace, but a fair expanse of my breasts, I hastened to do it up.
Alex sat down on the bed. ‘Anna, you have to see these photos.’
I sat beside him, and looked at the screen on his camera. I saw myself caught in the act of fastening the bodice of my white dress, my hair uncombed, my feet bare, light streaming in through the open window, the rooftops of Paris behind me.
‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘It’s the picture you talked about last night – the oil-panting of the artist’s model.’
‘Mais oui,’ Alex said. ‘When I walked in and saw you standing by the window in a ray of sunlight, dressed in white, it was uncanny. I felt as though I’d stepped back in time.’ He showed me the rest of the photos. Naturally, the images were much smaller and therefore had much less impact than if they were on a computer screen, but I was still impressed. He zoomed in so that I could see my face more clearly.
‘You’ve made me look amazing – again,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘As I have told you before, you are extremely photogenic.’
‘Thank you. But it’s your skill that creates a picture.’
‘Thank you. These shots are nowhere near as technically proficient as if I’d taken them in a studio – I could never exhibit them – but sometimes, you just have to seize the moment. And I hope I never become so pretentious about my art that I stop taking photos for pleasure.’ He pointed at my dress. ‘You’ve missed a button – actually, you’ve missed several. Here, let me.’