Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  We met at the entrance of the museum.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s just fashion,’ Mackenzie said. ‘The more art I see, the less confident I become.’

  Just fashion! I shook my head as we stepped into the dimly lit exhibition space. We ended up staying for over an hour. Who knew that underwear could also be a love letter? In the eighteenth century, a lover would have his declaration of love carved onto thin wooden or whalebone busks that were part of a woman’s corset. In return, he might receive one of the ribbons that held it in place. So romantic! Or that sixteenth-century men had already discovered their equivalent of a sock in the jocks? Or that anyone would wear a wig down there? Seriously?

  We tried on crinolines – not mini-crinis, but the full-sized ones – and took photos of each other. The best thing in the whole exhibition, however, was a doll-sized mannequin – a Pandora, the label read. They were sent around Europe so that fashionable women could choose their clothes from the doll’s wardrobe. She was dressed only in her underwear, but the clothes she would have once worn were displayed beside her. Everything was tatty but I could see how exquisite she would have been and I longed to reach through the glass of the display case and touch her.

  ‘A grown-up’s doll,’ Mackenzie said thoughtfully. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Oh, Mackenzie, I want one!’

  ‘I can see that!’ Mackenzie said. ‘Stop drooling on the glass, Lise. They’d be worth hundreds, probably thousands. If you could even find one.’

  ‘I wonder if Hugo knows about them,’ I said aloud.

  ‘Hugo?’

  ‘Just this guy I met. He’s into antiques.’

  ‘I thought . . . you and Anders?’ Mackenzie said delicately.

  I blushed. ‘Goldie warned me off,’ I said, ‘and then Anders – oh, it doesn’t matter, really. It was a near escape.’

  ‘I would have told you,’ Mackenzie said, ‘but I wasn’t sure. It was possible that Anders and Gabi had broken up. I’m sorry, Lise. I haven’t been a good friend.’ She reached out and touched my hand, her face sad and earnest.

  ‘You’ve been a friend,’ I said. ‘Mackenzie – you’re a great friend. Thank you.’

  Her face cleared as suddenly as it had clouded and she wrinkled her nose. ‘So this Hugo?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, ‘we’ve only just met and then the Romany curse erased his phone number from my arm.’

  ‘Whoa’ – Mackenzie held out her hand – ‘stop right there, Lise. A Romany curse?’

  I told her the whole story. It took two coffees each – Mackenzie’s shout, she said, because it was such a weird story.

  ‘Wow!’ she said at the end. ‘Lise, you come to Paris and stuff happens to you. Me, I come to Paris, do a few mediocre paintings and miss my boyfriend. You’re an encounter magnet. Like, seriously, most people look at the Eiffel Tower, climb up to the Sacré-Cœur and see the Mona Lisa. You get a clairvoyant landlady, two men – okay, one’s an arse, but the other one sounds fine – an authentic curse and your tarot read after a genuine French bistro meal.’

  ‘I won’t see Hugo again,’ I said sadly. ‘His phone number disappeared. I could contact him through the shop’s website, but I don’t think I should. What would I say? What if his uncle read it? Holiday romances don’t last.’

  ‘You never know,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Paris isn’t that big. He might just show up again.’

  I didn’t have much faith in Paris being that small. Mackenzie’s optimism was catching, however, and her version of me was much bigger and more interesting than my own. Perhaps because of that I found myself keeping an eye out for Hugo all the way home and even when I didn’t see him, there was still a residual seed of happiness growing inside me.

  There are tricksy elements in designing dancewear. You’ll want a sexy, backless dress. But you’ll perspire. After your partner has jived, dipped and swung you across the dance floor, he’ll be all too familiar with your sweaty back. This is just one of the reasons that I do not dance. Mum and I once saw a movie where this married couple dance together, around their bedroom, after a fight. Mum started crying. ‘That was the kind of husband I wanted,’ she said. ‘Someone you could just fall into step with, after the shouting.’ I get that now. I totally get that.

  Only two days later I was window-shopping, dreaming of mini-crinis and corsets and thinking of how romantic it would be to receive a carved busk from a beau, when my phone pinged. Mackenzie – It’s Paris-Plages. There’s dancing! Tonight!

  To say the idea didn’t thrill me would have been an understatement. On the other hand, what else would I do?

  I did wonder what on earth Mackenzie would wear, but she showed up in jeans with small-heeled shoes that sparkled.

  ‘Ballroom shoes,’ she said. ‘Ethan and I do ballroom dancing, back home. We met doing the salsa.’

  ‘Wow! I didn’t know that you were into dancing.’

  Mackenzie grinned at me. ‘It’s so much fun,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Goldie’s meeting us there.’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ I said. ‘Do we have to dance?’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘I don’t actually do that.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Not in public.’

  ‘So what?’ Mackenzie said. ‘You’re in Paris. You have to dance in Paris. You have to dance at Paris-Plages. They put speakers up. People come from their dance classes. It’s a summer ritual. You only have to dance once, just to say you’ve done it. You can take photos the rest of the time, if you want.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  Mackenzie just smiled.

  There was already a crowd down by the river. Children were playing in the sand that had been dumped for the fake beach. The misters were on and kids ran in and out of them while a teenage couple stayed underneath, glued together by kisses and spray. Couples strolled past eating ice-creams, or sat on beach chairs watching the tourist boats and barges on the river.

  A portion of the boardwalk had been constructed into a makeshift dance floor. Two large speakers were erected on some scaffolding and they blared out up-market lift music. People were already congregating at the edges of the stage, subtly checking each other out. They were mostly older women.

  ‘Here you are!’ Goldie found us. ‘Jeans, Mackenzie?’

  Mackenzie laughed. ‘It’s all I’ve got, apart from yoga pants. I’m wearing good shoes, at least. That’s all that counts.’

  The music changed to something with definite rhythm and a couple moved to the centre of the boardwalk. They were an unlikely couple. Even though he was definitely middle-aged, if not frankly old, he wore long dreadlocks that were looped around his shoulders. He was tall and far more casually dressed than his stout companion who wore a silky hot-pink blouse over a tight black skirt with kick pleats. His shoes, however, were sharp – narrow-fitting and highly polished.

  ‘They’re going to be good,’ Mackenzie said. They were good. Even I could see that. They moved as though they’d spent all their lives entwined in that loose but confident embrace. ‘Ooh, I want to dance with him.’ Mackenzie sighed. ‘Oh God, it’s a tango! Come on, who wants to get up? I can lead.’

  ‘Not a tango,’ Goldie said. ‘No way, Mackenzie. You have to know something to do that!’

  There were more couples up on the stage now. Mackenzie gave a running commentary on the abilities of each dancer. It was obvious that she was longing to get up and dance but I pointed out that there was no one even close to our age dancing.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who you dance with,’ Mackenzie said, ‘once they know you can dance. The point is the dance.’

  Finally Mackenzie managed to drag Goldie up for a salsa and I saw what she meant. The other dancers watched her, just as she’d watched them. They were definitely judging Mackenzie, but she was every bit as professional as the hot-pink woman. She led, making up for Goldie’s hesitations and stumbles.

  Mackenzie was a star. She had partners lining up for her after that. First was the dreadl
ocked man, who when Goldie shook her head slightly at Mackenzie’s invitation to dance the next number, smoothly intercepted and swept Mackenzie away. His previous partner sat on the sidelines, fanning her face, clearly pleased to sit out the faster number.

  ‘Was it fun?’ I asked Goldie when she joined me.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘But I’m happy to be here. Let’s take photos instead.’

  Mackenzie was not without a partner for the next thirty or so minutes and then, flushed and smiling broadly, she came down to rehydrate.

  ‘I had completely forgotten how much fun that is!’ she said. ‘I just love it! Lise, you have to come up!’

  More and more people arrived and there were always at least five or six couples spinning and dipping. One woman arrived with her partner dressed as though they had both come from a fifties-style wedding. She wore a hat with a tulle veil and a skirt layered with petticoats that flew out as her partner, in a three-piece suit, spun her around.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I admitted. ‘Mum would love to see this.’

  ‘She can see the photos,’ Goldie said. ‘Mackenzie, I really have to go. It’s been great, but I have to get to an exhibition opening.’

  ‘You’ll stay, Lisette? We haven’t even danced yet!’

  I wanted to go too. Sweat had trickled down my back simply watching Mackenzie, but I agreed to stay, cursing myself for my cowardice.

  I cursed myself harder when minutes later I caught sight of the one person I had wanted to avoid. Anders. With a girl. She had to be Gabi.

  Mackenzie had already returned to dance and I couldn’t simply disappear. I ducked my head and fiddled with my camera. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me.

  I held the camera up both to conceal my face and also to zoom in on Gabi. She was a pale glow underneath a pile of dark curls. She leant into Anders as though they had been waltzing together all their lives. They probably had been. They were so engrossed in each other it felt as though I were spying. I lowered the camera but I couldn’t stop watching them.

  Why on earth had he made a move on me when Gabi was a part of his life? It didn’t make sense. I was out of her league. I was too young, too blonde, too Australian. I couldn’t understand it. It was humiliating to think that I’d imagined us together.

  Gabi blurred. I put the camera down to blink away my tears. Anders didn’t matter so much. What stung was my own stupidity. What had I been thinking?

  They’d stopped dancing. I blinked again. Gabi was pointing in my direction. She was tugging Anders forward. I looked for an escape route but I was hemmed in by tourists. Then suddenly they were right in front of me.

  ‘This is your little Australian? Introduce us,’ she ordered Anders. Up close she was not flawless although her make-up was very good. Underneath the concealer, a fine sprinkling of pimples covered her forehead and I didn’t believe for one second that those full, long eyelashes were her own. I lifted up my chin. My clear skin was one of my assets and my own eyelashes were respectable. I was ready to snarl like Napoléon.

  ‘So, Anders, this is your sister?’ I said. ‘How very European of you both. How very . . .’ I paused and took a breath to steady my voice, ‘incestuous.’

  Gabi flashed a look at Anders, frowning. ‘I am his girlfriend. Always.’

  ‘Not what he told me. Enjoy the new lingerie,’ I said. ‘I thought it was quite . . . pretty . . . if that’s what you like. A little traditional for someone whose relationship is not so conservative.’ I fluttered my fingers at them both and sidestepped into a gap in the crowd. My knees were shaking but I had done it. I had shown my teeth.

  ‘I hate to intrude,’ a voice with a distinct English accent said, ‘but your clairvoyant told me to find you here.’

  I whirled around. It was Hugo. I could have flung my arms around him. ‘Hugo! I’m so sorry I couldn’t call. A Romany woman cursed me and your number faded on my arm.’

  ‘It always happens.’ He nodded. ‘I mean, if it’s not a curse, it’s a dragon abduction or an army of ogres. The things that keep me from the girls of my dreams!’

  ‘It’s true,’ I said, ‘there was a woman in the metro. Madame Christophe had to perform a cleansing smudge.’

  ‘Is that an oxymoron?’

  ‘With sage or something herbal.’

  ‘So not charcoal and art therapy?’

  ‘No. She’s a clairvoyant, not an artist.’

  ‘She’s amazing. I think we bonded. Napoléon was the glue – he remembered me.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘I could say it was an accident, and then I wouldn’t sound like a stalker, but I’m happier telling the truth. When you didn’t call I researched clairvoyants in the Marais. There are surprisingly few. Actually, there’s one. Yours. So I went there and she told me you’d be here and . . .’ Hugo stopped. ‘And here you are,’ he finished.

  ‘I didn’t tell her I was coming here,’ I said. ‘In fact, she was out when I left. There was a sign on the shop. How did she know?’

  ‘She’s a clairvoyant,’ Hugo said, shrugging. Then he looked at the dancers. ‘So that’s him,’ he said after a few seconds.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘The guy who stood you up? The one who caused you to contemplate the lonely river?’

  ‘I wasn’t contemplating the river! Also, how do you know that’s him? Or that he’s even here?’

  ‘Intuition. I’m a wheeler-dealer, remember. He’s obviously a bit of an arse.’

  ‘He is an arse and she’s not as beautiful as she looks from a distance.’

  ‘She looks high maintenance,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Hugo, how could you even tell?’

  ‘Just a feeling. Do you care about them?’

  I considered the question. Did I care? ‘I regret being deceived,’ I acknowledged. ‘They were actually in a relationship but he told me . . . he told me lies. That’s what hurts – and that I believed him.’ I looked at Anders. He was slightly self-conscious. His shirt sleeves were a little too neatly rolled. His hair had been gelled.

  ‘I think we should dance,’ Hugo said.

  ‘Dance?’

  ‘I’m not that great at it,’ Hugo said, ‘you know, Camden boy – we pogo. But we can give it our best and have a bit of fun, yeah?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t danced since the school formal.’

  ‘I have been told I resemble a windmill on speed,’ Hugo admitted but he already had my elbow and was leading me to the dance floor. ‘On the other hand, that’s better than looking as though you’ve a poker up your arse.’

  ‘I’ve always liked windmills,’ I said.

  The music had changed to something Latin but that didn’t deter Hugo. He watched for a minute or two and then grabbed me and we both attempted to follow the couple nearest to us. As it happened, they were the wedding couple who were so much better than us that what they made look easy tangled our feet in an instant. Hugo grabbed me and pulled me to him.

  ‘We’ll improvise,’ he said in my ear, before swinging me out again.

  Eventually we stopped fretting about what everyone else was doing and managed to dance together, roughly in beat with the music, inventing our own steps, which at one point definitely included something pogo-ish. When the music changed again to a slower number, Hugo opened his arms and I stepped forward as though it was the most natural thing in the world to be there.

  His collar points were frayed and his shirt sleeves had half unrolled. He was wearing weirdly not-quite-vintage trousers. Where his shirt was open at the throat, I could see his white skin. He smiled at me, his eyes tender.

  ‘It’s not that difficult,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not,’ I answered and I knew neither of us meant the dance.

  ‘You’re not going to do another Cinderella on me, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the one who ran off!’

  ‘I had to. I nearly missed the whole reason I’m in Paris. Besides, I l
eft you more than a glass slipper.’

  ‘I was cursed!’

  ‘Such a good story to tell our children. We nearly didn’t get together because your mother was cursed by a Romany.’

  ‘What? You’re hopeful!’

  ‘Always. Is that a friend of yours waving?’

  ‘It’s Mackenzie.’

  ‘Mackenzie – good Scots name.’

  ‘She’s Canadian.’

  ‘That explains it. Delighted, Mackenzie.’ Hugo stuck out his hand for Mackenzie to shake.

  ‘Hugo, Mackenzie. Mackenzie, Hugo.’

  ‘I’d shake hands with you but I’m covered in sweat,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Shall we get a drink?’

  ‘Sounds ideal,’ Hugo said. ‘I mean, I like dancing as much as the next chap, but there’s a moment when your shirt feels as though it’s just come out of the wash and that’s when I prefer to stop. Beer? My shout.’

  It was only when we were sitting down that I realised I’d forgotten about Anders and Gabi. At the same time, I noticed that Hugo had rested his arm on the back of my seat. He was waiting, I thought, for permission. I leant back and his hand came down on my shoulder. Mackenzie carefully smiled at her beer.

  While Hugo asked Mackenzie about painting, environmentalism and her life in Canada, I wondered if Hugo and I were temporary, like Paris-Plages. Every so often Hugo’s hand left my shoulder as he emphasised something he said. When it returned, warm and slightly sweaty, my pulse quickened as though my body was saying, glad to see you again.

  ‘The thing is,’ I heard Mackenzie say, ‘you can’t pre-empt the future, can you? I mean, you can’t say, I shouldn’t be doing figurative stuff because that’s been done and it won’t sell. You have to do what your heart tells you to do and trust that it will all come out okay.’

  Mackenzie had nailed it on the head.

  ‘I guess that goes for life as well,’ I offered and Hugo squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘It’s all risky,’ he said, ‘risky and wonderful.’

  How many days did Hugo have left in Paris? I couldn’t remember when he’d said he was leaving.

  ‘To wonderful risks.’ Mackenzie held up her beer bottle and we clinked, echoing her words.