French Kissing

by Catherine Sanderson

  ‘Oh come on, Sal, she only threw up once,’ said Kate sensibly. ‘Anyone can see that she’s feeling much better already. And you know as well as I do that there’s a good chance she’ll sleep it off this afternoon and be right as rain by teatime. So there’s no point cancelling your date so that you can mope around at home this evening and play the martyr. I’m perfectly capable of handling things here.’

  Kate seemed to have thrived on today’s little emergency, and I was filled with gratitude at how supportive she’d been. ‘I’d be happy to take you up on that,’ I said cautiously, ‘if you’re really sure…’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Kate said briskly. ‘Sally Marshall, you shall go to the ball.’

  20

  Last time I’d been to see a play in French – invited out by Nico’s parents to see something by Molière at the Théâtre du Châtelet – I’d vowed never to cross the threshold of a Parisian theatre again. French films I could manage, as long as I was held captive in a darkened cinema with surround sound or, at the very least, curled up on my sofa with the TV volume turned up. But the play had taxed my powers of French concentration beyond their limits. It had lasted a full three hours, and I’d only been able to make out three-quarters of the dialogue, partly because my ears ceased to function for a few seconds every time I yawned. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be truly bilingual,’ I’d remarked to Nico in the taxi home. He’d frowned, protesting that, as far as he was concerned, I already was. ‘If I was truly bilingual,’ I reasoned, ‘I’d have the same concentration span in both languages. I’m sure the actors gave fantastic performances, but I’m afraid I kept losing the thread…’

  But when Jérémy called to say he was waiting downstairs to take me to the theatre, my heart somersaulted in my chest. ‘I’ve got it bad,’ I told Kate bashfully, conscious of how irrational this infatuation with Jérémy was. ‘The truth is, I’d happily sit by his side watching paint dry if he asked me to.’

  Kate had returned before six, bearing a carrier bag full of clothes plucked from her own wardrobe, ‘in case I fancied a change’. I’d fallen for a teal wrap dress in a slinky, silk-mix fabric which draped itself around my curves in the most flattering way. With Lila looking on, Kate had proceeded to do my make-up. ‘You’re taking your fairy-godmother role seriously tonight,’ I’d remarked, looking at the ceiling, as instructed, while she brushed mascara across my top lashes. The end result was far superior to anything I’d have been able to manage on my own. ‘Mummy, you look like a princess!’ was Lila’s breathless verdict, the highest compliment a four-year-old girl can bestow.

  Pushing me out of the door, Kate wished me luck and advised me to leave my coat unbuttoned until Jérémy had been treated to a glimpse of my dress. Giving my pyjama-clad daughter one last hug, I raced downstairs, too giddy with impatience to wait for the lift.

  ‘Dis-donc, tu t’es fait toute belle!’ Jérémy exclaimed as I pushed open the front door and walked over to where he stood leaning against his motorbike. I smiled, basking in the warmth of his compliment, thrilled that our evening had got off to such a good start. Leaning in for a bise, I touched my lips lightly to his clean-shaven cheeks and inhaled his scent. He looked – and smelled – every bit as good as I’d remembered, and his presence still made me weak at the knees.

  Once I’d finished buttoning my coat, Jérémy handed me his spare helmet. My eyes followed his hands as he fastened his own with a deft, economical movement, then travelled lower, lingering on his buttocks, as he hopped on to his motorbike and kicked out the stand from underneath. When he beckoned me to join him, I swung my leg over and positioned myself close behind him, my arms circling his waist with casual ease. As we roared along rue du Faubourg du Temple, the neon-lit shop fronts darting by in rapid-fire bursts of colour, I relished the feeling of my breasts pressed into his back, loving how intimate it felt, despite the layers of clothes between us. My other senses were working overtime too: the blood pounding in my ears was deafening, the cold air whipped my skin. It was hard to remember whether Nico had had this effect on me, in the beginning. Had his very presence fine-tuned my senses, making colours more vivid and amplifying sounds?

  Halfway around place de la République, a taxi cut across our path and Jérémy slammed on his brakes, the forward momentum bringing all my weight to bear against him. I used this as a pretext to grip his torso even tighter, and didn’t release him until, all too soon, we’d pulled up opposite the theatre. Clambering off, I watched spellbound as he chained his motorbike to a lamp post.

  ‘Tu n’y arrives toujours pas?’ Jérémy sounded exasperated when he turned to see me struggling with my chin strap, just as I had on our first date. Letting my hands drop to my sides, I tilted my face towards him, in an exaggerated display of vulnerability. ‘You know, I’m beginning to wonder whether you’re playing the damsel in distress on purpose,’ he said in a sceptical voice, freeing me with his thumb and forefinger. Once he’d stowed my helmet under the seat, he frowned at his watch. ‘We’d better get inside if we want to get decent seats. There are no seat numbers in this theatre; it’s placement libre…’

  The play Jérémy had chosen was nothing like the Molière I’d seen at Châtelet. It was contemporary, with only two characters, a man and woman in their thirties called Marc and Madeleine. The first scene showed their emotional reunion in a café, years after they’d gone their separate ways, while the rest of the play consisted of a series of flashbacks. At the height of their friendship, Marc and Madeleine had shared an apartment for a year, somehow never ending up in a relationship, despite the almost palpable chemistry between them. The unexpected twist at the end – which made some members of the fifty- or sixty-strong audience gasp out loud – was the sudden realization that the Marc of the present day, who reached for a hitherto unseen white cane when he stood to leave the café, was now blind. It was then that the title of the play – Revoir Madeleine – took on its full, bittersweet meaning. The only way for Marc to see Madeleine was to lose himself in the memories locked inside his head.

  When the two actors had taken their bow and the lights had flickered on, Jérémy and I remained seated for a few moments, waiting for the people at the end of our row to file out of the auditorium. ‘So, what did you think of it?’ he said, turning to face me. ‘Have I managed to convert you into a regular theatregoer?’

  ‘It’s left me feeling rather melancholy,’ I replied hesitantly. ‘All those missed opportunities and regrets… There were so many moments in Marc and Madeleine’s story where I wanted to give them a good shake and shout at them to wake up to themselves and seize the moment.’ It wasn’t earth-shatteringly profound, but when Jérémy nodded and smiled, I felt as though my response had met with his approval. With any luck, he’d have grasped the sub-text too. While I fully intended to follow Anna’s advice and let Jérémy take the initiative tonight, I hadn’t been able to resist nudging him in the right direction.

  ‘Would you like to go for a drink somewhere?’ Jérémy asked, as we gathered up our coats and made our way towards the end of our row. I was about to reply in the affirmative when a striking woman with closely cropped brown hair appeared out of nowhere and put a hand on Jérémy’s shoulder, leaning close to whisper something in his ear. It took me a few seconds to realize I was looking at the actress who had played Madeleine: she’d been wearing a long, jet-black wig on stage. ‘Sally, I’m sorry, would you mind excusing us for a minute?’ Jérémy’s expression was apologetic, but his voice betrayed his excitement. ‘My friend Elsa tells me there’s a theatre director here tonight I really ought to corner for a chat. If you like, you can wait for me in the lobby. I won’t be long…’

  A full twenty minutes later, Jérémy found me pacing up and down the pavement not far from his motorbike, hands in pockets, head bowed. Maybe I was being paranoid, but the more I’d replayed Elsa’s gesture in my mind, the more I’d managed to convince myself there had been something possessive about it; something which hinted at a past or pr
esent intimacy. But Elsa was nowhere in sight now, and Jérémy looked so adorably contrite when he saw me that I decided to forgive him for leaving me, quite literally, out in the cold. ‘I’m so sorry, Sally,’ he said, placing an apologetic hand on my forearm, ‘but that took a lot longer than I thought it would. It was well worth it, though. Jean-Jacques – the guy I was speaking to – suggested I audition on Monday for a new play he’s producing…’

  ‘Shall we go and talk about it over a drink somewhere warm?’ I suggested, punctuating my sentence with a theatrical shiver for good measure.

  ‘Any preference?’ Jérémy enquired, handing me what I was beginning to regard as my helmet. I pondered this for a moment, and decided that my priority should be putting as much distance between ourselves and the theatre as possible, to minimize the chances of running into Elsa and ending up seated together, discussing the play.

  ‘How about you take me to your favourite bar?’ I pretended to sift through my brain, searching for the name, even though I remembered it without any difficulty. ‘I think you said it was on the Canal Saint Martin, somewhere on the opposite bank to Chez Prune?’

  The early stages of a flirtation could be so dishonest, I decided as we plunged into a series of small side streets to return to République, then continued in the direction of the canal. Emotional dissimulation was the name of the game. Determined not to put a foot wrong with Jérémy, I was aware of how I was tying myself in knots to seem witty and intelligent, but also more laid-back and facile à vivre than I actually was. Let’s face it, if Nico had kept me waiting like that once we’d been together a while, I’d have had no qualms about cutting him down to size with a few razor-sharp words and a baleful glare. I supposed every man or woman in the grip of a new infatuation was guilty to a greater or lesser extent of this kind of ‘false advertising’. But didn’t it mean setting the other person up for an inevitable disappointment when you let your true colours shine through, much later?

  Our destination, a bar with a yellow awning called ‘Le Jemmapes’ was smaller than my living room, and the only available seats were two tall bar stools close to the draughty front door. When I shivered again – a genuine reflex this time – Jérémy tried to talk me into ordering a ‘grog’, a hot toddy made with rum and flavoured with lemon and cinnamon. I declined, opting for a less medicinal-sounding glass of wine, nonetheless pleased that he was being so attentive. While we sipped our drinks, little more was required of me than to smile and nod at appropriate junctures while Jérémy, fired up after his encounter with Jean-Jacques, talked at length about his upcoming audition. I was a captive, captivated audience, free to enjoy the way the soft lighting of the bar played over his features. Imagine if he got this part he’s auditioning for, I thought to myself. I’d get to see him on stage. Back in my schooldays, I’d gone out with a boy who played lead guitar in a local band, and I remembered how electrifying it had been to see him performing, watching all the other girls’ eyes on him, but knowing he was mine, and mine alone.

  When Jérémy mentioned, in passing, that Elsa had already been cast in Jean-Jacques’ play, a stab of jealousy punctured my little fantasy and I decided it was time to pose a seemingly innocent question and find out, once and for all, what their history was. ‘Have you two worked together before?’ I enquired, as casually as I could manage. ‘Or do you have friends in common?’

  ‘Oh, Elsa and I go back a long way,’ Jérémy replied. ‘She was shacked up with one of my best friends for years. And although that relationship petered out a while ago, I somehow managed to stay friends with both of them afterwards, without having to choose sides…’ Setting down his drink, he gave me a searching look, and for a moment I thought he’d seen through my studied nonchalance. ‘How are things between you and your ex?’ he said finally. ‘Did things get ugly when you separated?’

  ‘Oh, Nico and I are still adjusting to the new status quo,’ I replied carefully, thinking what a good sign it was that Jérémy was showing an interest in the practicalities of my situation. ‘It’s been almost a year since we separated,’ I explained, ‘so I suppose it’s still early days, but there’s very little animosity between us, and I’d like to think we’ll be able to remain friends, for Lila’s sake.’ I cast my mind back to the short but vitriolic exchange I’d had with Nico late that very afternoon, when he’d called to apologize and ask after Lila. Saying there was ‘very little animosity’ in our relationship was stretching the truth, but I sensed it would be best to keep our petty quarrels under wraps until I knew Jérémy better. I began to tell him a little about Lila instead, testing the water to see whether Jérémy was used to being around children. When I told him about Lila’s playground relationships, he chuckled. ‘It must be pretty amazing watching a child grow up,’ he said with a wistful half-smile. I longed to ask him why he’d never had children himself, but I didn’t feel sufficiently bold. Perhaps I was afraid he might say he’d never wanted a family. After all, he was now forty-six years old.

  When he’d drained the dregs of his second beer, Jérémy announced – to my dismay – that he’d have to be getting home. ‘I know it’s the weekend, but I’m going to have to make an early start tomorrow if I want to fit in some preparation for my audition,’ he explained, offering to chaperone me as far as Goncourt métro. I nodded mutely, a lump of disappointment forming in my throat. Not only was Jérémy cutting our evening short, but he wasn’t even offering me a lift home. Was he really being conscientious about work, or was he having second thoughts and trying to let me down gently?

  It hardly seemed worthwhile getting on Jérémy’s motorbike to travel such a short distance, especially as the one-way system forced us to ride in the wrong direction until we could cross the canal and return via the opposite quai. To my surprise, Jérémy pulled over and parked in front of an apartment building on the corner of rue du Faubourg du Temple and Quai Jemmapes, a few hundred metres short of Goncourt métro, and it wasn’t until I happened to glance at the column of interphone buttons by the door and spied his surname – Robin – towards the bottom of the alphabetical list, that I realized we were standing in front of his apartment building.

  ‘So, what’s your place like?’ I craned my neck to look up at the modern facade. ‘Do you have one of those big balconies?’ I knew it was obvious I was fishing for an invitation, but I didn’t care. The opportunity to see Jérémy in his natural habitat was not something I was willing to pass up.

  ‘My place is on the sixth floor,’ said Jérémy, holding out his hand to take the helmet I’d finally mastered removing without assistance. He was silent for a moment, as though inwardly deliberating. ‘You can come up for a few minutes if you like,’ he offered, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking the front door. ‘Although I’m warning you, it’s a bit of a tip.’

  When I stepped over the threshold, my first impression was not so much that I’d walked into an apartment, but rather a specialist bric-a-brac shop. The long, narrow room leading to the balcony was crammed full of all manner of theatre and film memorabilia: adverts for films and plays were plastered across the walls and bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of biographies of actors. There were crates filled with what looked like scripts, and a collection of vintage stage lights. The only utilitarian pieces of furniture in the room were a small desk wedged into one corner, which housed a computer – his Rendezvous control centre, as he jokingly referred to it – and a round metal café table positioned in front of the sliding French doors along with a pair of director’s chairs.

  ‘So… you collect things,’ I said, stating the obvious as I turned to face Jérémy, who stood behind me in the doorway.

  ‘You could say that…’ Jérémy smiled. ‘Feel free to take a look around,’ he added, making an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘I’m going to make myself a tisane… Would you like one too?’ I wasn’t at all fond of herbal teas – which often smelled delicious yet almost always tasted bland and disappointing, in my experience – but I accepte
d his offer, seizing the chance to prolong my visit. After glancing into the tiny kitchen where Jérémy was heating up water in a pan on the stove, showing a typically French disregard for the invention of the kettle, I returned to his living room to explore further.

  First, I studied the handful of framed photographs of Jérémy posing with fellow cast members, noting, with satisfaction, that Elsa was nowhere to be seen. Then, moving towards the window, I noticed a white curtain beyond the bookcase, to my left. Drawing it open a few centimetres, I peered through and discovered a second room running parallel to the first, a bedroom containing a wardrobe, a bed with an orange quilt cover, and an oversized yucca plant. My nostrils caught a faint scent of vanilla, and when I spied the coils of incense on the bedside table, I realized I’d solved that little mystery.

  When Jérémy reappeared, bearing two steaming cups of pale-brown herbal tea, I’d closed the curtain again and was standing with my back to him, looking out of the French windows at the rooftops, which were backlit by the orange of the light-polluted sky. ‘Have you been here long?’ I asked him as I took a mug from him and blew on the unidentified liquid, lowering myself gingerly into one of his rickety, canvas-backed chairs.

  ‘Fifteen years,’ he replied. ‘When I first moved in I was living with someone… And when she left, I decided to keep the place on.’ I narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine two people living in such a cramped space. No doubt it had only morphed into this eccentric, cluttered garçonnière once his girlfriend or partner was out of the picture. If I were ever to consider moving in with Jérémy, I reasoned, unable to switch off that part of my brain that seemed intent on projecting into the future, then we’d definitely need to find a new place. We’d need two bedrooms, for a start. And, if Jérémy would allow it, I’d push for an awful lot of his film and theatre memorabilia to be stored somewhere out of sight. Quirky and original Jérémy’s place might be, but it was too much of a bachelor pad for my liking. ‘What are you thinking about?’ Jérémy had noticed the faraway look in my eyes.