Vanity

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Skol.’

  Lars had never said the word so quietly. Partly because he was so worried about Damian, but partly as his hangover was threatening to kill him. He had pains all around his back (liver and kidneys, he assumed) and would have gladly gone home to lick his wounds had his friend not needed him so badly.

  Damian got up to go to the bar again.

  ‘Same again?’

  Lars nodded, resigned to his alcoholic fate. His phone rang, and as he picked it up, he saw that it was Poppy. Glancing over at Damian, who was ineptly trying to chat up the barmaid, he walked outside, gesturing that he was going to have a fag.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lars? Are you with Damian? I can’t get hold of him, and I think he thinks I’ve done something awful, but I haven’t … I haven’t …’ She sounded as if she was crying, and Lars, ever the gentleman, felt his loyalties dividing again.

  ‘He’s not happy about the photos, Poppy. Why did you go with that dickhead you broke his heart with last year? Whatever happened, you cannot deny the photos …’

  ‘Oh, fuck, I know. Oh, Lars, I can’t explain. I thought Ben had saved me from being killed, then I realized it was only a fucking crucifix, and then I won the award, and it was all so exciting, and Marty told me I had to go to the party, and then Ben told me he was in love with a mutual friend of ours, and I-I suppose I just didn’t think …’ Her voice trailed off miserably. ‘But I love my husband so much. Pleeeease tell him? I didn’t do anything wrong, I promise …’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Lars marched back into the bar, full of goodwill, holding his phone up to Damian. ‘It’s your wife, and she needs to talk to you.’

  Damian – maddened by anger, hurt, jealousy, booze, the idea of being cuckolded, yet again, and pretty much everything else that a man can be maddened by – grabbed Lars’s phone and shouted into it.

  ‘Just fuck off, you whore. I never want to see you again.’ Then he smashed the phone onto the bar, smashing and smashing the device to smithereens.

  ‘That was my phone, asshole.’

  ‘Oh, fuck, Lars, mate. Oh, I’m so sorry.’ And Damian started weeping copiously once more, sobbing and sobbing against the bar. People around were looking on with some interest, but not as much as one might imagine – after all the recent job losses, scenes like this had become pretty commonplace in these parts.

  ‘Luckily for you, I have a back-up phone, and insurance,’ said Lars, steering Damian back towards their table. ‘I think we need another drink, yes? For tomorrow is another day, my friend.’

  And the good-natured, big-hearted giant steeled himself to feel even worse the following day.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Well, this is a bit more like it.’ Bella smiled across the white-linen-clad, ice-bucketed table and raised her wine glass at Andy. ‘Cheers, my darling!’

  ‘Cheers, my darling too. In fact, I should probably say, salut, santé and bonnes vacances!’

  Andy’s brilliant scoop being published had coincided with Bella finishing the painting she had been working on for the last couple of months: a portrait of a very rich socialite’s very spoilt cat, sitting on a pink velvet cushion. Bella had loved the cat – an adorable tabby whose parentage had to have been all over the place – and had done justice both to her tawny colours, she’d thought, and to her exceptionally pretty and equally tawny eyes. The socialite (a charming man of a certain age who dabbled in antiques and would have been called a confirmed bachelor in different times) had loved the painting so much that he had given Bella a couple of grand extra, just for ‘seeing the real Mimi’.

  Never terribly practical when it came to money, Bella had made a spontaneous decision to blow it on a dirty weekend in Paris to celebrate Andy’s scoop. So here they were, sitting outside a bustling bistro on the rue Soufflot, just south of the Panthéon, in the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank. (Left Bank, or Rive Gauche, always made Bella think of the perfume her mother used to wear in the seventies.)

  Paris was enjoying an Indian summer, so she was able to wear one of her favourite frocks – a sixties-inspired pale pink sleeveless A-line minidress that showed off her legs and skimmed over her tummy. Which was just as well, as she was planning to make the most of all the yummy French food over the next couple of days. The diet could start again on Monday.

  ‘Oh, this weather is so gorgeous,’ she said happily, feeling the sun hot on her bare arms. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a misery guts all summer – I think this is what I’ve been missing!’

  ‘You can stop apologizing now.’ Andy smiled. ‘Yes, you’ve been a complete pain in the arse, but I did neglect you, so we’re probably quits …’

  ‘It was certainly worth you neglecting me to expose that repulsive Lubanov character. I’m so proud of you, my darling – you are going to get so many awards for that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Andy smiled. ‘But the main thing is that no one else can suffer at his hands now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bella shuddered. ‘It’s quite horrific to think about what all those girls had to go through.’

  ‘Well, let’s not think about it at the moment. I don’t want anything to intrude on our romantic weekend. In fact, Belles, how about we both switch our phones off for the next twenty-four hours? No Facebook updates, no emails, no BBC News, just us? In the city of lovers.’ Bella could hear him putting quotation marks around the last phrase, as he tilted his head to one side and smiled at her through his geeky specs.

  ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea. Oh, I love you so much.’ She leant across the table to kiss him and at that moment the waiter arrived with their food: duck confit, served on a little wooden board, for Andy, carpaccio for Bella, with a bowl of frites and a green salad to share.

  ‘Oh, pardon, pardon.’ Bella grinned up at the waiter as she sat back down.

  ‘Non, non, you are in Paris.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Enjoy!’ Why did they always have to reply in English when you were trying to do your best French?

  ‘God, I love French food,’ said Bella, after the waiter had gone. ‘Not terribly original, I know, but I just do!’

  ‘Sweet, enthusiastic thing you are,’ said Andy, thinking of the cycling holidays he and Alison had taken in Brittany, when she’d had a habit of complaining about pretty much everything.

  They finished their lunch, and the ice-cold bottle of Sancerre, at a leisurely pace, then wandered hand-in-hand down to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The trees that lined the graceful paths were just starting to turn golden, and elegant Parisians were sitting on chairs and benches in shirtsleeves and shift dresses, soaking up the sun.

  ‘So different to London,’ said Bella. ‘In Hyde Park, people would be lying on the grass in bikinis, showing off their horrible pink and white bodies.’

  ‘Vive la difference!’ said Andy, and Bella laughed.

  They walked on through the park, past the beautiful Medici fountain, with its deep rectangular basin lined with spectacular bronze-and-marble Italianate statues. They walked along the neat gravel pathways, past colourful formal gardens that reflected the French love of order and harmony; past the magnificent Palais du Luxembourg with its Tricolore waving proudly in the light breeze; past games of boules and exquisite sculptures and the octagonal lake teeming with toy sailing boats – all overlooked by those beautiful green and golden trees.

  ‘Did you know that Hemingway used to shoot pigeons here, when he was a starving writer in the twenties?’ said Bella. ‘He used to hide their poor, dead bodies in a pram.’

  ‘What a fantastic story. Where on earth did you hear it?’

  ‘I think Mum told me and Max, when we came here as kids.’

  ‘Should have guessed,’ Andy said affectionately, kissing the top of her head. ‘You and your absurdly spoilt childhood …’

  ‘We weren’t spoilt.’ Bella’s tone was mock-cross. ‘Half the time, Mum was trying to make up for the fact that Dad wasn’t there. We stayed in a really horrible pension near Montmartre, and I can still remember
being woken up in the middle of the night by a cockroach climbing over my face …’

  ‘Oh, my poor love.’ Andy knew how squeamish Bella could be about certain things. She was fine with mice, for example, or even snakes, but insects gave her the heebie-jeebies. ‘How did you react?’

  ‘I tried to get the revolting creature off, of course, but it was clinging onto my eyelashes, so I screamed.’

  ‘Waking up both your mother and Max?’

  ‘Yup.’ Bella was laughing again now. ‘Poor Mum. We must have been a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘On the other hand, you could say she brought it on herself, to take two children— how old were you?’

  ‘I was five and Max was seven.’

  ‘OK, then, two very young children to some fleapit in Montmartre.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad. Character building. Mum did the best she could, which was bloody brilliant under the circumstances.’ Bella was always staunchly loyal to those she loved. ‘And she did prise the cockroach off my eyelashes with her fingernails.’

  ‘It was actually hanging off your eyelashes?’

  ‘That’s why I screamed, you bugger. I’m not that pathetic.’

  ‘I think I’m starting to realize that.’

  They walked out of the park, meandering through grand Napoleonic boulevards and kicking up the first fallen leaves. Before long, they hit Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in all its bohemian, Art Nouveau splendour.

  ‘Oooh, Les Deux Magots,’ said Bella. ‘Perfect timing. I was just starting to feel a bit thirsty. Time for a pit stop?’

  Andy laughed.

  ‘We’re on holiday, we can do whatever we want.’

  On such a lovely sunny Saturday, the legendary café was heaving, but luckily for Bella and Andy a couple was just leaving as they approached, so they sat down at a little round table under a green-and-gold umbrella, and ordered another bottle of Sancerre.

  All around, people were smoking, sharing carafes of wine or sipping from thimbles of strong black coffee, arguing passionately about things that Bella assumed were terribly intellectual.

  ‘Can’t you just feel the spirit of Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir …’

  ‘… and Hemingway, with his pram-full of festering dead birds.’

  This time the waiter brought their wine not in an ice bucket, but an ice bag – a clear plastic bag the same size and shape as the bags you get for gift-wrapping bottles, but filled with ice and water.

  ‘Oooh, what a great idea,’ said Bella. ‘We’ll have to get some to take home with us – they’d be brilliant for summer picnics. Though it’s unlikely to be picnic weather when we get back, of course.’

  ‘They’d still be handy for keeping the wine cold at home.’

  ‘True. It’s such a distance from the sitting room to the fridge, after all.’

  They both laughed, and Bella gave another happy sigh, looking up at the poplar tree overhead, the cloudless blue sky, and around at all the well-groomed, chattering people surrounding them – though you could spot the tourists a mile off, of course. It was just so – well, so Parisian.

  The tables were squeezed pretty tightly together on the pavement, and Bella smiled at the woman sitting at the one to their left, reading Paris Match on her own. Probably in her mid-forties, slim and very chic in black capri pants, a boat-necked white T-shirt and enormous tortoiseshell shades, she looked utterly content in her own company.

  She smiled politely back at Bella, then did a double take, lifting her shades up to inspect her more closely.

  ‘Mais vous êtes très jolie, mademoiselle. Très, très jolie. Vous comprenez? Belle …’

  Bella understood, sure enough, but could barely believe it. Was she really being complimented by a supremely chic Frenchwoman? This was the sort of thing that only happened once in a lifetime.

  ‘C’est vrai, n’est-ce pas?’ The woman was now talking to Andy, who had a broad smile on his face. ‘Très, très jolie.’

  ‘Oui, oui, c’est vrai. Je suis un homme très heureux!’

  Bella also had a broad smile on her face. Could life actually get any better?

  ‘Et je suis très heureuse, aussi! Merci, madame, merci!’ she chimed in, and Andy and the nice woman laughed at her obvious delight in the compliment.

  By the time they left Les Deux Magots, making their way down to the Seine in the late-afternoon sunshine, they were pleasantly mellow with wine. They had intended to visit the Musée d’Orsay, but realized they’d left it too late to do it proper justice.

  ‘Ooops.’ Bella giggled. ‘Well, we can always be cultural tomorrow. Let’s just wander along the river instead.’

  As they ambled in the direction of Notre Dame, they passed a group of young boys and girls, probably students, dressed in jeans, stripy tops and a variety of quirky headwear, playing classic jazz on brass instruments. They were quite brilliant, so Bella and Andy sat down on a bench in the shade of a gold-tinged horse chestnut tree, to watch and listen for a few minutes.

  ‘I’m having such a lovely time,’ said Bella, taking Andy’s hand and smiling at him. ‘Thank you for being you.’

  ‘Thank you for being you, too. I love you.’

  And, putting his glasses down on the bench beside them, Andy took Bella in his arms and kissed her. Bella could feel herself melting into his strong frame, one hand entwined in his thick dark brown hair, the other roaming across his broad back, tracing the muscles underneath his navy-blue T-shirt.

  She moaned softly into his mouth and Andy reluctantly pulled away from her, laughing slightly.

  ‘Sorry, Belles, I think I got a bit carried away there.’

  ‘You and me both.’ Bella was looking into his dark eyes again. ‘Do you think we’ll have time … back at the hotel … before dinner?’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ said Andy, looking at his watch. ‘It’s only five o’clock.’ They had a reservation at a restaurant the hotel had recommended to them, for eight p.m. ‘How about we start heading back, maybe stopping at one more place en route to make the most of Paris in the sunshine …’

  ‘… and heighten the anticipation.’ Bella laughed. ‘God, you tease. OK, sounds like a lovely plan.’

  So they carried on walking hand-in-hand along the cobbled, tree-lined riverbank, taking in the Bateaux Mouches gliding past them, up and down the glittering sage-green water. There were plenty of other couples doing just the same as them, and occasionally they caught their eyes and smiled complicitly.

  ‘Are we being really, really cheesy?’ asked Bella.

  ‘Probably, but I don’t care. This is the happiest I’ve felt for ages.’

  ‘You look it.’ The furrow between Andy’s eyes had all but disappeared, and he looked carefree, elated, boyish even. ‘I know how much of a strain the last few months have been for you. I’m so sorry I haven’t been more supportive.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Belles, you can stop apologizing.’ He leant over to kiss her again.

  Notre Dame was coming into view now, on the Île de la Cité, in the middle of the river.

  ‘We should really go and have a look,’ said Bella. As soon as the words had left her mouth, they both shook their heads, laughing.

  ‘Noooo. Let’s leave all the cultural stuff till tomorrow,’ said Andy.

  ‘But we could stop there,’ said Bella, pointing with delight at an exquisitely pretty, colourfully painted boat, whose flower-strewn deck was dotted with little round wooden tables. Hanging plants trailed down the boat’s side, over the rails. ‘It’s got a bar on it!’

  ‘Now you’re talking!’

  And with almost indecent haste they raced up the gangplank.

  The view from the deck, directly over to Notre Dame on its leafy island, was stunning; in the other direction you could see hordes of people swarming over the bridge that led to it. The sun was just starting to set and the river taking on hues of pinky gold.

  The trendy, friendly waitress brought them cocktail menus, and they looked at each other and laughed.
r />   ‘Cocktails?’

  ‘I suppose it is nearly cocktail hour,’ said Andy. ‘We should probably have a snack of some sort though, or we’ll be absolutely paralytic even before we get to dinner.’

  ‘Plate of charcuterie?’

  ‘Perfect. Margaritas?’

  ‘I think we may be starting to read each other’s minds.’

  The boat, which, due to its location, could easily be a tourist-trap hellhole, actually seemed to be a hang-out for bohemian, very Left Bank-looking Parisians.

  ‘Looks like we’ve stumbled on a hidden gem,’ said Bella. ‘Shame there’s nothing like this on the Thames.’

  ‘Yes, it’s hardly the Tattershall Castle.’ Andy was referring to the huge pub-on-a-boat located between Embankment and Temple Tube stations that became almost unbearably crowded with beer-swilling office workers the very moment the sun shone its weakest light on London.

  One of the Bateaux Mouches motored past them and all its passengers waved cheerfully at Bella and Andy. They waved back, raising their drinks at them, beaming from ear to ear.

  Bella, mindful of how ‘très, très jolie’ she was looking, and not feeling fat for the first time in months, felt as though she were starring in her own romantic movie.

  ‘Right, darling, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and this seems as good a time as any,’ said Andy.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Bella asked, panicking. Surely this wasn’t the time to be breaking some horrible news to her?

  ‘Don’t look so worried. I think you may actually be quite pleased, but it will affect us both, so I want to run it past you before I go ahead with it.’

  ‘Right.’ Bella took a large gulp of her margarita, her imagination running wild. ‘Fire away, then.’

  ‘I want to resign from the paper. After the last few months, I don’t think I can take much more exposure to life’s seedy underbelly …’

  It took a moment or so to register. It had briefly crossed Bella’s mind that he might have wanted to propose. But this news was probably second best. ‘I … I think that’s a bloody brilliant idea! What will you do instead though? Have you had any other offers?’