Pack Up the Moon

by Anna McPartlin

  “Are you sure this is OK?” Seán asked.

  “It’s fine,” I nodded. “I’d rather this than walk in on a couple first thing in the morning.”

  He nodded. It was a good point. It was obvious that everyone was intent on having as much French sex as possible. He pointed to the stereo.

  “There’s a stereo.”

  “I’ve got earplugs.”

  He nodded again, grinning. He turned to join the others who were rammed into the kitchen attempting to work out the coffee machine. He got to the door and he turned as though he was going to say something, but words appeared to fail him.

  “What?” I asked hopefully, although I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to hear.

  “What do you think of Frankie?” he asked.

  “She seems nice,” I lied. She was arrogant and stuck out her tits whenever she wanted to make a point.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ll be seeing her after Sunday,” he said, searching my face for an expression.

  I wasn’t sure what kind of expression he was looking for so I just smiled.

  “A girl in every port,” I laughed.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, but he obviously didn’t find it as funny as I pretended it to be.

  * * *

  We ate in a quaint little restaurant of Frankie’s choosing.

  “It’s for the French,” she said mysteriously.

  It was an odd thing to say, as we were in fucking France so who else would it be for?

  She must have copped my expression. “Not the stupid tourists. Good food, good price, no rip off,” she noted before sipping on her cheap wine.

  Great, we’re stupid tourists.

  Clo smiled before taking a picture of the flower-framed window. The waiter took our orders. I was looking forward to the rack of lamb, having earlier chosen something that turned out to be wolf meat.

  “Comment voulez-vous votre viande, Madame?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your meat, how would you like it cooked?” Frankie intoned while shaking her head knowingly at the waiter.

  Bitch.

  “Well done.” I didn’t look at either of them, instead concentrating on the menu.

  “Bien cuit,” she translated.

  He nodded at her and walked away.

  “It’s so authentic,” Anne said.

  I could see Frankie give her the same look I have given Americans who say “everything is cute and small”.

  Clo and Tom were holding hands under the linen tablecloth. I was a gooseberry at my own birthday dinner. Seán must have noticed my pathetic demeanour. He raised his glass and the others followed suit.

  “Here’s to the birthday girl – may she always stay beautiful!”

  I blushed. The others laughed and smiled. Frankie looked me up and down, making it quite obvious she had no idea what he was talking about. You could almost hear her thoughts: You have to be beautiful to stay beautiful.

  I didn’t give a toss. It was a nice thing to say, so screw her. The waiter arrived with our meals. Mine was last of course. Everyone made a big deal about waiting until eventually it was obvious their food was getting cold. When my meat eventually arrived it was barely cooked. The waiter almost dropped the plate in front of me and walked off before I could register the blood flowing into my potato gratin. I cut into it, revealing pink flesh.

  Oh my God, it’s alive!

  Richard was the first to notice my horror. “I thought you said well done?”

  Anne peered at my dinner plate. “It certainly took long enough.”

  “Jesus,” was all I could manage.

  Frankie leaned in to see what all the fuss was about. “What’s wrong? It’s fine – eat!”

  I really didn’t like her. “I asked for well done,” I said snottily.

  “It’s not blue. It’s cooked. Look, brown.” She was pointing at the outside of the meat.

  I was pissed off so I held up what looked like road-kill on my fork. “Look, it’s pink and bloody,” I said sarcastically.

  Seán, realising this could get nasty, called the waiter back. He appeared over me looking down.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The bastard could speak English.

  “I asked for well done,” I said, attempting to match his arrogance.

  “Yes,” he said and he walked away.

  Everyone stopped eating.

  “What a prick!” Clodagh intoned while Tom nodded his head in agreement.

  “Sorry, Em, they are a bit funny about their meat,” said Seán.

  Frankie smiled as though she had secured some sort of victory. I pushed the plate away and poured a large glass of wine.

  Happy birthday to me.

  * * *

  The nightclub was on a street just off the Champs-Elysée. Music blared, people danced, big comfy booths lined the walls around the dance floor. They were full of young men watching the half-naked girls gyrating with one another. Unlike in Ireland, there was no queue at the bar. At least something was going my way. I ordered a double vodka and Coke and sat at the edge of the booth that Frankie had managed to secure.

  “VIP will open soon,” she said.

  “Are we going into the VIP?” Clo asked excited.

  “Of course,” she said snottily as though Clodagh was a little slow. “My brother is a famous French rapper – where do you think we would drink? A barn?” She was pointing into Clodagh’s face. Her finger was inches away from Clodagh’s right eye.

  “Why not? It would appear that you were brought up in one!” Clo said stepping back from her long finger.

  Frankie scowled. “You bore me!”

  I wanted to punch her but I was a little afraid of her – she looked like she could be vicious with those long nails of hers. Clo obviously felt the same, as she waited until Frankie’s back was turned before giving her the fingers.

  Within an hour we were in the far more salubrious VIP room. Frankie marched us in like she owned the place. Anne, Clo and I hung back, not too concerned about whether or not we got in. Our need to bitch was way too strong.

  “What a bitch!” Anne said.

  “She doesn’t like us,” Clo smirked.

  “Yeah, well, she can piss off,” I concluded.

  “There’s our girl,” Clo laughed.

  The bouncer was looking at us quizzically.

  “We’re with Françoise,” Anne told them.

  “Who?” the bald bouncer with the pecks asked.

  Exactly, I thought, pleased with myself.

  Tom came back to the door. “They’re with us,” he smiled at Baldy.

  “Go ahead,” he said and unhitched the red rope between us ordinary folk and French celebrity.

  The room was dark and only lit by candlelight. Each booth was circular with high backs so as to give those with high profiles the illusion of privacy. We found a booth with Frankie’s brother’s name on it. His posse was already ensconced. Introductions followed. I just nodded mutely while Seán shook hands with his new friends.

  “Where’s Pierre?” he asked.

  “Bar,” one of them answered.

  I sat beside Seán just to piss Frankie off.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Great if you like banging your glass off your teeth.”

  “I love the dark,” he grinned.

  I smiled. It wasn’t so bad. Clodagh and Tom were slow-dancing to a fast track. Anne and Richard were in a deep conversation. Then Frankie shoved her tongue down Seán’s throat in a bid to get his attention. Some French guy tried to make conversation, but with the loud music and the fact that his English was about as good as my French, we gave up after mere seconds. Frankie looked up from her tongue-job.

  “Pierre!” she waved.

  Pierre, a tall brunette with golden highlights, gleaming smile and a body carved out of precious stone smiled at his sister. He said goodbye to a waif-like model that I recognised from Vogue and she retreated into her own dark corner. He approached and smil
ed at one and all.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” he asked and I shoved over.

  “I’m Pierre.”

  “Emma.”

  “Ah, Seán’s friend,” he smiled.

  “Yeah,” I nodded.

  “You like Paris.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Beautiful.”

  “You’re dark Irish, not ginger!” He laughed at his own joke.

  “You’re observant,” I said, attempting to be snotty, but it wasn’t as easy to be snotty to Pierre as it was to his sister.

  He smiled. “Fire,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fire in your belly, no? You dark Irish.”

  I just smiled. I hadn’t a clue what he was trying to get at. We sat for a while sipping at our drinks. He spoke to the others about his musical career and his chart success, tour dates, press responsibilities. I’d never heard of him.

  Boring.

  I smoked. The great thing about Paris is that smoking is not only tolerated, but also condoned, and although I was normally a light smoker, the circumstances ensured that I would make use of this reprieve. I lit another smoke. He took it out of my hand and dragged on it long and hard.

  “Thank you,” he said, grinning.

  I just lit another cigarette. This Frenchman was way too smooth for his own good. Still, he was pretty. I liked looking at him, especially when I realised that Seán was staring. After all, he wasn’t the only who could score.

  “Would you like to dance with me?”

  “Maybe later,” I answered smugly.

  Bet you’re not used to hearing that, are you?

  He was intrigued. I could tell he was used to women falling all over him.

  “Come with me?” he said and stood up.

  I found my hand in his and suddenly I was on my feet and crossing the dance floor. He was commanding, I’d give him that. I could feel Seán and Frankie’s eyes on our backs and when I looked around to wave neither of them looked too happy.

  He took me outside to a private balcony that overlooked a little courtyard full of trees, flowers and little fountains lit up by blue lights. We sat on the bench and he put a fresh cigarette in my mouth and lit it. I inhaled and smiled at him hoping he didn’t notice that I was feeling a little light-headed. He touched my hair.

  “I like dark.”

  “The blue lights are nice.”

  “I meant you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re single, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seán told me about his friend, your boyfriend. I’m sorry.”

  I had been feeling pretty smug. Smug and dizzy, but this really threw me. “Oh,” I stammered.

  “I didn’t mean to cause pain.”

  “You didn’t,” I smiled convincingly.

  “Good. Life is for living.”

  “I never realised I was in the presence of genius.” I said it before I’d managed to think about it, but luckily enough he found my jibe entertaining.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “I like you Irish. I like Seán. He’s fun.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not so much for me as my sister.”

  He was laughing again and I laughed too – his giggle was infectious. We sat in silence for a time and it was comfortable. I could feel his thigh resting against mine. The night sky was lit up with stars and it was like they had been hung there especially for us. I hadn’t looked up into a dark sky in so long. I felt like I was in a Van Gogh painting. Things were beginning to look up. I had a moment of realisation. I was sitting on a VIP balcony with a French god. It was true that I’d never heard of him, but millions had. He was a celebrity.

  What the hell was he doing hanging out with me?

  “How many girls are wishing they were me right now?” I asked out of nowhere.

  He smiled, enjoying my honest questioning. “A lot,” he grinned, flashing a sexy little crocked tooth.

  “So why are you wasting your time with me?” I said. “You are wasting your time, you know,” I added, putting him straight. I wasn’t about to have sex with some French celebrity.

  He wasn’t perturbed. “I never waste time,” he said brightly.

  I laughed. He was sexy. I could see Clodagh through the glass door. It was obvious that she was the scout sent to report back to the others. She grinned and gave me the thumbs-up. He caught her and mimicked her gesture. She jumped back and pretended she was talking to someone who gave her a dirty look before moving on. We laughed together as she made a hasty retreat.

  “Your friend, does she think I’m wasting time?”

  “My friend doesn’t think.”

  I didn’t mean it of course, but I was really enjoying our banter. A slow French song I didn’t recognise played inside.

  “We will dance now, yes?”

  He was standing over me with his hand outstretched. I gave him my hand and he pulled me from the chair. I was standing in front of him waiting for him to make the next move, but he was happy to let me stand against his chest for a moment before he took me in his arms. Suddenly we were dancing. He smelt good. He put his hands through my hair and cupped my face ensuring that I had nowhere to look but his face. It was a pretty face and he knew it. The trick was not to get lost in his eyes. I focused on his mouth. That was a mistake. Suddenly his pouting French lips looked like a chilled Coke bar in the desert.

  Oh my God!

  “I’m not planning on sleeping with you.” I said it more for my own sake then his.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  Good question. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “You don’t like me?”

  “If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t be dancing,” I said, glad my series of blushes was hidden beneath the dark sky.

  He laughed. “I like you. You are different.”

  “Everybody’s different – sometimes they just act the same.”

  He smiled and nodded his head. “You are smart.”

  I was beginning to get bored with his observations. “You like to point things out, don’t you, big man?”

  He laughed again.

  I liked it when he laughed.

  “Let’s go.” He was raising the stakes.

  “Go where?” I was marking time.

  “Let me take you to my home.”

  I snorted.

  “Attractive,” he grinned.

  “Cheers,” I smiled, remaining cool, although deep down I wished I hadn’t made a noise through my nose.

  “Come,” he said and I found myself succumbing and following his lead.

  He grabbed his jacket and my bag. I was impressed that he could so easily determine which bag was mine, seeing as there were at least four under the table. Seán and Frankie were staring at us. Anne and Richard were dancing. Clo approached from the rear.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked, obviously excited by the prospect.

  “Yes,” Pierre answered before winking at her.

  Seán sat back in his seat.

  “See you Seán,” Pierre smiled warmly at his new friend.

  “Yeah, see you.”

  Seán couldn’t seem to manage a smile. Frankie was horrified. I grinned at her and she pouted while staring back, ready to take a slice out of me. Pierre and I walked out together. I pretended not to notice the girls in the club staring and pointing and even ignored those who attempted to touch and grab at him as he passed.

  What’s that all about?

  We were escorted out by nightclub security. A car and its sleepy driver were waiting outside.

  “Rue Boissière”

  “Oui, Monsieur Dulac, tout droit.”

  We settled into the back seat. He put his arm around me.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

  “I won’t ask.”

  He grinned. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You’re sure of yourself.”

  “And you are not.”

  Damn. Game, set and match to Mr Dulac. I
grinned. The driver sped through Paris at an alarming rate, so much so that at one point I felt like screaming, “Slow down, you lunatic!” I was getting edgy, but to Pierre it was just another night. I made myself relax. When the car stopped I sighed with relief.

  “Let’s go.” He took my hand and helped me out of the car.

  We were in his apartment block before I got time to catch my breath. He was used to making fast exits. The lobby was like that of a 1920s hotel. Brass was the predominant feature. It had dark red walls and bright modern art lined them. We got into the brass lift – again it was a tight fit.

  What is it with the French and tiny lifts?

  I looked at the floor, signalling that I had no ambition to make out in a confined space. He continued to grin like the cat that got the cream or, in Leonard’s case, the entire contents of an ice-cream van. Once inside his apartment, I began to wonder what I was playing at. It was getting a little intense. I had no idea where I was or what I was planning on doing. He took me to the sofa and sat me down. It was a chaise longue, red and dangerous-looking. He put on some music. I didn’t recognise it. It was French jazz. He poured drinks from a bar that filled the corner of the room. He handed me vodka with a splash of Coke. I could have done with more Coke, but I wasn’t complaining.

  He moved in towards me, and my heart was racing. We were about to kiss and then the strangest thing happened. We talked. I mean really talked. He asked me about John and I told him. I told him things some of which even Clo wasn’t party to. He told me about the girl who had broken his heart by leaving for America. She had never returned. A few years after they split she had died in a fire. He didn’t compare our pain and it wasn’t a competition.

  We laughed a lot. We had the same outlook, same sense of humour, same ideals. There were differences too. He was a hip-hop god while I was a teacher. He loved to sleep around while I wasn’t that way inclined. He was arrogant and I was self-conscious. But we had fun. He told me sexy stories and I pretended to be a little bit more shocked than I was, purely because he enjoyed my horror too much to let him down. We drank into the early hours and fell asleep together on top of his covers. I woke a couple of hours later and he was awake and staring at me.