by Joan Carter
“Fabulous,” Ned enthused. “I’d love to come.”
Imogen resisted the urge to kick his shins again, although she would have loved to throttle him. Sophie was such a flirt and, somehow, Ned could never see it.
“She’s really charming,” said Ned, watching as Sophie disappeared round the corner in the direction of her apartment. “Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, yes,” said Imogen. “She’s charming, alright. What bad luck. I really would have preferred not to bump into her.”
“Why?” said Ned.
“Because I’d rather she didn’t know that I am going to Sabine’s reading. I want it to look as if I’ve left the events of the summer behind me. I don’t know. It just would have been better keeping it quiet. She might think I’m probing – and she’s bound to tell Frédéric.”
“She’ll only be suspicious if she’s got something to hide,” said Ned. “Anyway, surely it’s natural that you would want to go to Sabine’s reading if you have interviewed her.”
“Maybe,” said Imogen. “It’s just that Sophie’s so sharp, and I know she’ll go and tell Frédéric.” She gave a great sigh.
“Just forget it for now,” said Ned. “Let’s not spoil a lovely trip to Paris over that.”
“I suppose we don’t have to go to Sabine’s reading,” said Imogen. “We could just have dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ned. “That’s why we’re here and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“You’re right,” said Imogen. “Let’s get back and change. There’s not a lot of time.”
*****
Ned’s friend, James, was staying not far from the hotel in which Sabine’s reading was to take place, so Imogen and Ned were able to stroll there just before it was due to start.
“You never know, they may be serving drinks at the reading,” said Imogen, when Ned moaned for a second time about not having stopped for an apéritif on the way. “It says the equivalent of ‘light refreshments’ on the ticket I printed off the internet.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Ned. “Here we are. I say, it’s very grand. What fun.”
Ned and Imogen made their way into the imposing hotel, which was in the opera district of Paris. A flunkey (as Ned put it) was waiting in the lobby and quickly directed them to the room where the reading was to take place. They mounted a richly carpeted staircase. The whole lobby was decorated in very ornate style, with huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was quite overwhelming.
“Wow,” said Ned. “Sabine likes to do things in style.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said Imogen. “I must say, I’m glad you ditched the countryside rambler outfit.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ned. “It can be good to stand out from the crowd.”
“Shh,” said Imogen. “Here we are.”
A room at the top of the stairs had a sign indicating the reading. Ned and Imogen were met at the door by a glamorous young woman, wearing a smart black suit and pearls. Seeing her, Imogen was glad that she had gone for one of her “Grade A” outfits, as she liked to call them. She was wearing a black, knee-length, long-sleeved lace dress and very high patent stilettos. Somehow she had been sure that an LBD – or little black dress, as she explained to Ned – would be the perfect thing for the occasion and she could tell with one glance around the assembled crowd that she had been right. She had pulled her hair into a French (the irony had not been lost on her) pleat and wore only some diamond studs as jewellery. Ned wore a dark grey flannel suit (‘It’s good to see you still own one’ had been Imogen’s only comment), although he was sporting an open-necked light blue shirt, rather than wearing a tie.
“Merci,” said the girl, who then inspected their tickets. Seeing their names, she said, “Here you are” and gave them their name badges.
Imogen groaned. “Why do the French always assume we can’t speak their language?” she whispered to Ned.
“Probably because most of us can’t.” This was followed by a “Merci” to a nearby waiter, as Ned helped himself to a glass of red wine for himself and Imogen. “I think I’m going to enjoy this evening. It’s looking good.”
“We’re only just in time,” said Imogen, as she noticed people beginning to take their seats in the small, elaborately decorated room. “Here she is,” she added, as they chose seats near the front, but not quite at the front. Imogen was nervous about greeting Sabine and didn’t want to be in her direct line of vision during the reading.
“Wow,” said Ned. “She really is quite something.”
“I told you,” said Imogen, in a low voice. “Not many women of her age look that good, especially in the literary world. That patterned black and grey dress, with the emerald crystal necklace, is just so spot on. It’s ultra, ultra chic. Yet her slightly tousled hair gives the whole image a bit of a boho touch, which is dead right for the literary world. She really knows what she’s doing.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Ned.
Smiling at the polite applause, Sabine took her seat on a small dais next to a young chap. He stood up.
“Here we go,” said Ned.
“Shh,” said Imogen.
*****
“I thought it was fantastic,” said Imogen, as the applause finally died down.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. So French. The readings, the questions. I didn’t understand it all, but I loved the whole atmosphere.”
“I must say, I’m glad they gave us copies of the readings,” said Ned, “or I’d have got a bit stuck. It’s pretty dense stuff.”
“Well, I think we both know what she’s like. What’s interesting is that it’s not just a public stance that she adopts, she really is the same in private.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it made for a very jolly life,” said Ned.
“No, but if you mix with people who are all the same, then it doesn’t matter.”
“I suppose so,” said Ned. “You can all be serious together. For example, you can discuss the philosophical implications of having beans on toast for lunch instead of chips.”
“I shouldn’t think she goes near a chip,” said Imogen, laughing.
“Watch out,” said Ned. “I think our literary doyenne is weaving her way towards us.”
Turning, Imogen said, “You’re right.”
“Well, hello,” said Sabine, air kissing Imogen in a very sophisticated manner. Imogen was quickly enveloped by a beautiful perfume, which she thought she recognised as Dior. “Thank you for coming. I was delighted when I saw your name on the list. I suppose we should say names,” she added, turning to Ned. “I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”
“This is Ned,” said Imogen. “A friend of mine and a much better French speaker than I am, I must say.”
“I am so pleased that you could come,” said Sabine to Ned.
“It was rather last minute,” said Imogen. “Ned saw a mention of the reading in Le Figaro and made a very swift decision to come over on the Eurostar.”
“Well, I am delighted,” said Sabine. “And not just because every writer likes a good attendance at her readings.”
“We enjoyed it hugely,” said Imogen.
“Thank you,” said Sabine. “How long will you be in Paris?”
“I’m afraid we leave tomorrow,” said Imogen.
“What a shame. I am here for the week as I have some engagements. I would have loved to meet up for lunch so you can tell me how your book is going.”
“Actually,” said Ned, “I have a suggestion. If the two of you met up tomorrow morning, I could do some catching up with my friend, James. Then, any of us who are free could meet for lunch before we take the train back.”
“I am free early morning,” said Sabine to Imogen. “Could we meet for a coffe
e then? After that, I have a lunch appointment.”
“That sounds perfect,” said Imogen.
“If you could come to my hotel at, say, 10am, we could have a stroll together and find somewhere for a little croissant,” said Sabine.
“You’re not staying in this hotel?” asked Imogen.
“Oh, no,” said Sabine, laughing. “It’s much too grand for me. I am staying in a smaller hotel in Montmartre. Do you know the area?”
“Not really,” said Imogen.
“Well, then, I can introduce you to it. As I say, if you come at 10am, that will be perfect.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Imogen, as Sabine wrote down the details of her hotel.
“Now, I must talk to some other guests,” said Sabine, smiling, and moved away.
“Actually,” said Ned, “if we’re going to a restaurant, then… are you listening?”
“You won’t believe this,” said Imogen.
“What?”
“Guess who’s over there, behind the drinks table?”
“Believe it or not, I have no idea.”
“It’s Paul.”
“You mean Paul as in restaurant in Eygalières?”
“Exactly.”
“Wow,” said Ned.
“I really don’t want to speak to him. Can we go? Fast!”
“We’re off!”
*****
“I’d love to know what’s going on,” said Imogen, once they were safely outside the hotel.
“Well, they are exes.”
“Yes, but pretty much estranged, from what I gather.”
“It must be that his rift with Sophie is driving him back into Sabine’s arms.”
“I wonder.”
CHAPTER 25
“That’s it,” said Ned. “The rather boutiquey-looking hotel on the corner.”
“Thank you so much for coming with me,” said Imogen. “I’m not sure I’d have found it on my own.”
“Oh, I’d far rather be negotiating the Métro than lying in bed, in Paris, on a Sunday morning,” said Ned.
“I hope we didn’t disturb James,” said Imogen, “getting up so early on a Sunday.”
“Oh, no chance. He sleeps more heavily than any number of logs. I used to share a flat with him when we were students. It takes a bomb to wake him.”
“I’m so glad. It was very good of him to put us up at such short notice.”
“You could say he’s lucky to have us,” said Ned.
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Anyhow, off you go and keep in touch by text. I’m going back to the flat, then James and I are going to find somewhere brunchy.”
“If you can,” said Imogen. “I don’t know whether brunch is a very Parisian concept.”
“James is very good at finding places to eat.”
“As if you aren’t. Anyway, wish me luck. I’m a bit nervous.”
*****
The lobby of the hotel in Montmartre where Sabine was staying was small, but colourful, with myriad paintings hanging on the walls. Imogen guessed that they were the work of local artists and felt that this was confirmed when she saw that most of them were for sale. She could smell coffee and hear voices and the clink of cutlery from one of the rooms adjoining the lobby, which suggested that breakfast was being served.
The receptionist, a young guy in T-shirt and jeans, looked up.
“Bonjour, Madame.” He smiled.
“Bonjour,” said Imogen. “I am looking for Madame Devergne.” She hated herself for using English and felt crestfallen that her French had grown so rusty since the summer that she didn’t have the confidence to use it.
“Ah, yes. She said that she was expecting a guest. I will call her.” He spoke rapidly on the phone, then replaced the receiver.
“She is coming down,” he said. “Can I get you something? A coffee? Or perhaps a croissant?”
“No, thank you,” said Imogen. She moved over to the small seating area and leafed through some French magazines on the table.
It wasn’t long before she heard “Imogen, bonjour!” Imogen looked up to see Sabine emerging from the lift. “You managed to find the hotel.”
“Oh, yes,” said Imogen. “Although Ned helped me.”
“Excellent,” said Sabine. “Shall we walk?”
“I’d love to,” said Imogen. For the first time since she had met Sabine, the novelist was dressed somewhat casually in jeans and a lovely dark blue and green print shirt. Imogen was pleased, as, not knowing that she was likely to be meeting up privately with Sabine, she had brought few clothes to Paris. She felt outclassed, however, as they left the hotel and Sabine pulled on an expensive-looking trench coat in beige and knotted an Hermès scarf, patterned in blue and green, around her neck.
My anorak isn’t quite a match for that, thought Imogen, grimly. Obviously, a designer raincoat is how one dresses down at weekends – especially if you add in the designer satchel and knee-length leather boots. I will never come to Paris again without a complete wardrobe to cover every occasion.
“You said that you don’t know Montmartre very well,” said Sabine, as she and Imogen started walking away from the hotel, up the road towards the church on a hill, which Imogen recognised as Sacré-Coeur.
“That’s right. I came to Paris with my parents as a child, but I hadn’t been for years until I came back with Ned at the end of the summer, so I remember very little.”
“Ah, well, I’ve spent quite a bit of time here,” said Sabine. “Montmartre is my favourite area of Paris, without a doubt. I love the church. especially. Sacré-Coeur is my favourite of all the churches in France, even Notre-Dame or Chartres. As it happened, Paul and I spent a lot of time here when we were young. We loved the Bohemian feeling that seemed to linger from when artists and writers gathered here in the late 19th century. I think that sort of life appeals to the young – and we were young, then.” She smiled.
Imogen hesitated. “I noticed that Paul attended your reading last night,” she said.
“Ah, yes, it was so good that he could come. He hasn’t been to one for such a long time.” Sabine looked at her very meaningfully, then changed the subject. “You should bring Ned here,” she said. “It’s very romantic. I take it he’s your lover – or partner, as I think they say in England now.”
“Well, no, actually,” said Imogen, deciding to play the same game as Sabine and not discuss her private life. “He’s just a friend.”
“I wouldn’t think that’s how he sees it, judging by the way he looks at you,” said Sabine.
“Oh, well, that’s Ned, I suppose. I’m very fond of him.”
“Whatever,” said Sabine, laughing. “Let’s head down here, I know a very good café.”
*****
“Here we are,” said Sabine. “Is this alright?”
“Perfect. It has such a good view of Sacré-Coeur. It’s a really lovely spot. The whole feel of the area appeals to me. The narrow, climbing streets, the pretty squares and the hill dominating everything. I must bring Ned here.”
“There you are,” said Sabine, laughing. “Ned again.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Imogen, with a smile.
“So, tell me,” said Sabine, “how is the book going?”
“Quite well,” said Imogen. “I have really enjoyed working on it. There is a young chap in my office currently checking some of the factual background. When he finishes, I may come back to you and some of the other entrants with some further points.”
“Are you referring to Tarquin?”
“Yes,” said Imogen, astounded. “How do you know about Tarquin?”
“Oh, we writers do our research,” said Sabine. “You have a website, don’t you, for your magazine?”
“Yes, we do, of course,” said Imogen. “I hadn’t realised that he’s mentioned on it, though,” she said, slowly. In fact, I know he isn’t, she thought.
“Perhaps I saw his byline in an interview in the magazine, then,” said Sabine. “Yes, that’s probably what happened. I do read some of the music magazines. I also look at the internet sites. Or does he have a blog?”
“I’m sure it was one of those,” said Imogen. Except, she thought, Tarquin hasn’t had anything published, yet. What have you been up to, Sabine? I’d love to know to whom you’ve been talking. “What are you working on now?” she asked. “I noticed that the readings last night didn’t cover any of your current work.”
“I am doing some preliminary work on an idea I had some time ago. It charts the life of a woman who is infatuated with an ex-partner, to the point where she can think of nothing else.”
“Wow. Pretty serious.”
“Yes. It is looking at how love can be a destructive emotion. Not a new idea, of course. I hope I can refer to works, starting with antiquity up to more modern times, that contain aspects of the theme.”
Ouch, thought Imogen. Then, “That sounds so interesting.”
“Yes. I also hope to bring in quite a lot of the thoughts of French philosophers on the theme, especially contemporary works. I always like to have some aspect of that in my books, because of my deep interest in the subject.”
“Well, of course,” said Imogen. As if one would leave such a thing out; it would be a scandal. “And what happens to this woman? Or is that confidential?”
“Well, I don’t have all the details yet, of course, but if you promise to keep it a secret, then I will tell you that she first torments her ex and his new lover with a series of letters. You know, like a stalker? Then, she contemplates the murder of the mistress. What is quite dark is that the husband suspects it’s her the whole time and knows that she’s capable of doing it, but he keeps quiet. It’s almost as if he’s willing her to do it.”
“Not a very nice sort.”
“I’m giving you too much detail,” said Sabine. “It may, of course, alter by the time I get to the final draft.”