Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  “Wakey, wakey,” Alicia gave her a nudge. The screen had changed to “Numérotez.”

  Molly read the number off her mobile and Alicia punched the buttons, then held the receiver so that they could both listen. They waited. Molly wished she’d gone to the loo first. Oh, God, she could hear it ringing.

  “Yep, Figg speaking.”

  It was him! His voice was low and crisply businesslike against a background roar of voices. He must be in the actual conference.

  Alicia pulled the receiver close so she could speak into the mouthpiece. “Hi, Mr. Figg, how are you doing? This is Ms. O’Connell, phoning on behalf of Ms. Clearwater.” She gave Molly an enormous wink, and angled the receiver back again.

  “Molly Clearwater?” He uttered the name with such fury that Molly flinched. “Where the fuck is she?”

  “Now, Mr. Figg, we’re not going to get very far with that sort of language, are we?”

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow. “If it comes to that, who the fuck are you to be threatening Ms. Clearwater with the police?”

  Molly marvelled at her steely calm. Even Malcolm seemed impressed. After a small pause his voice came back on the line tinged with a new respect: “Her boss, that’s who.”

  “Ex-boss, according to my information,” said Alicia, unperturbed. “She’s considering bringing a suit for sexual harassment and constructive dismissal.”

  Molly’s jaw dropped.

  “Bollocks!” Malcolm snapped. “I’m the one who’s going to be suing—for bloody stealing.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what’s she supposed to have bloody stolen?”

  “She knows. Did it deliberately, the cow.”

  Alicia turned inquiringly to Molly, who spread her hands and hoisted her shoulders in a desperate mime.

  “Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Figg?”

  There was a pause. Then his voice came through slightly muffled, as though he’d turned his head away, oozing smarmy matiness. “No. No problem, Jerry. Hot to trot. Catch you later.” They heard him blow out his breath. Then he said in a tight, furtive voice, “I’m going to have to take this call in—in another room.”

  The babble of voices receded. There was the squeak of a swing door, the click of shoes on tiles. Malcolm’s voice came back on the line, aggressive but strangely echoey: “Now, listen to me. I don’t think you realize who you’re dealing with here. I represent one of the UK’s leading pharmaceutical companies—”

  “What, you personally?” Alicia cooed. “You must be very important.”

  “Yes, well, I do have considerable responsibility for strategic thinking, market-wise, within the global economy, plus an extremely large—”

  He broke off and they heard an unmistakable whooshing noise. Molly caught Alicia’s eye and exchanged a look of wide-eyed glee.

  “An extremely large . . . ?” Alicia paused delicately.

  “Budget. Which is why,” he hurried on, “I need those graphics. I’ve got the cream of international medicine here, the boss breathing down my neck, and no disk!”

  At the last word Molly let out a little squeak. Too late, Alicia jammed her palm over the mouthpiece.

  “Who’s that?” Malcolm pounced. “Molly’s there, isn’t she? Molly, get on the line this instant or I’ll—”

  Alicia lowered the receiver, cutting Malcolm off in mid-rant. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” she whispered.

  Molly nodded. She remembered now. She’d wrapped the disk in her clothes, packed it in her case. “In the hotel,” she whispered back. “I forgot.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes and lifted the receiver again.

  “—never work in the industry again!” Malcolm was shouting.

  “Just shut up a minute and listen,” Alicia interrupted. “I may be able to locate that disk for you.”

  “Ha!” Malcolm said triumphantly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Right, then. I want it couriered over to me in Paris, top priority, and don’t whine to me about the expense.”

  “As it happens, Mr. Figg, the disk is already in Paris.”

  “You’re kidding me.” It seemed that for once his brain was working, for almost immediately he added, “Do you mean to say Molly’s here?”

  Molly made frantic signs of denial.

  “I’m afraid I am not at liberty to divulge her whereabouts. But talk to me nicely and I could have that disk at your hotel within the hour.”

  Utter silence. Then a dazed voice said, “Fuck me.”

  “Is that what you call talking ‘nicely,’ Mr. Figg?” Alicia’s voice was like honey.

  “How do you want me to talk, then, Miss Bossyboots? Er, I assume it is ‘Miss’?”

  “You could always try calling me Alicia . . . Malcolm.” Alicia shot Molly a look of wild mischief. Molly gaped back, horrified.

  “Oh, ho. Alicia, is it? Well . . . Alicia . . . I can tell that you’re a very formidable lady.”

  Molly clutched her throat and stuck out her tongue. She could hardly wait to hear Alicia’s put-down.

  “Am I?” Alicia said silkily. Molly couldn’t believe it. Alicia was actually enjoying this.

  “Oh, yes.” There was Malcolm’s smug chuckle. “I can hear it in your voice. As it happens, I’m quite an experienced judge of women.”

  “What a coincidence. I’m quite an experienced judge of men. . . . And both of us in Paris, too.”

  “Ooh, là là! ” Malcolm said friskily.

  This was disgusting! Molly made a grab for the phone. Alicia snatched it back and jabbed her, really quite sharply, in the ribs, then pressed the receiver so tightly to her own ear that Malcolm’s side of the conversation faded to an unintelligible drone. Molly tugged at the phone cord. Alicia held it firm.

  “Tonight?” she was saying, passing a languid hand over her hair. “No plans in particular. What did you have in mind?”

  Worse and worse! Molly put out her finger to cut off the call, and was shocked when Alicia slapped her hand and made a shooing motion. Reluctantly she ducked out from under the hood. But she could still hear Alicia.

  “And where exactly is your hotel, Malcolm?”

  Molly cleared her throat ostentatiously.

  “. . . No, no, a show sounds great.”

  Molly plucked desperately at the hem of Alicia’s sweater.

  “I might be blonde and I might not. You’ll have to wait and see.”

  Now Molly was jumping up and down, signaling wildly. She slashed a finger across her neck, stuck a finger down her throat, scratched her armpits like an ape, smooched her lips to the Perspex hood and crossed her eyes. Alicia simply turned her back and went on talking.

  Finally she put down the phone, retrieved her card and turned. Molly blocked her path. “Alicia, you can’t! He’s a creep. He’s got tufty hair and a signet ring.”

  Alicia grinned. “He sounds quite a laugh. Anyway, my dad wears a signet ring.”

  “You know where he wants to take you, don’t you? That ticket was supposed to be for me. It’s . . .” She lowered her voice and looked around carefully. “It’s the Crazy Horse Saloon.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t understand. There are naked women dancing around with—with feathers and snakes and stuff. It’s a sex show.”

  “Really? Might give it a go, then.”

  “Not with Malcolm. He’ll leer, and make smutty remarks.”

  “I can handle sexist men, Molly. Remember, I’m Australian.”

  Molly stared at her, thwarted. “Well, at least take your mobile, so we can contact each other. Let me know if things get out of hand.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Alicia patted her head. “Come on, let’s nip in here.” She waved to a door marked “Dames.” “I’m busting for a whiz.”

  Molly gave up, and slowly followed Alicia inside. This morning she’d wondered if she’d ever understand men; now it turned out she didn’t understand women either. Great.

  Still, there were more i
mportant things to think about. As soon as she emerged from the cubicle, Molly made a bee-line for the mirror and peeled off her cardigan to reveal a skimpy red dress. She’d bought it months ago, egged on by Abi who’d insisted that this particular holly-berry red was absolutely “her” color—but Molly had never yet had the nerve to wear it. The neck was deeply scooped (too low?), the skirt short (too short?) and flared, the fabric stretchy and figure-hugging (did she look fat? Those waffles!). What would Fabrice think?

  There was the rasp of a bolt. Alicia strolled out, heading for the basins, then did a double-take. “Whoa, knockout dress.”

  “You really think so?” Molly was sucking in her stomach so hard that her voice came out hoarse as a crow’s.

  “Not so sure about the shoes, though.” Alicia turned on a tap. “And that cardy should be burned. Haven’t you got a groovy jacket?”

  Molly was itemizing her limited choices when Alicia checked her watch and interrupted: “Malcolm’s hotel is on the other side of the river, you know. If you’re going to take that disk back and still make your rendezvous with Fabrice you’d better get a move on.”

  “Me?” Molly was astounded. “I’m not taking the disk.”

  “Yes, you are. I promised Malcolm he’d get it within the hour—you heard me—and I’m a girl who likes to keep my promises. Have a heart, Molly. The poor guy’s frantic.”

  “But I thought you—”

  “No way. I’ve got to get back to Zabi and the shop. Some of us have to work, you know.”

  “But, Alicia, I can’t. The place will be crawling with my old colleagues. It’s too embarrassing. What if I run into Malcolm?”

  “What if you do? He’s just a bloke. Like Fabrice is just a bloke.”

  Molly blanched at this heresy.

  “Anyway, all you have to do is hand the thing in at the desk and rush out again.”

  “I can’t,” Molly said stubbornly. “I won’t. Someone will recognize me.”

  Alicia went on washing her hands. Molly watched her clean her nails, one by one, then smooth the thin arcs of her eyebrows with a damp finger, and wished she’d say something. Instead, Alicia moved over to the drying machine, leaving Molly staring at her own unattractively sullen reflection. She ran hot water into the basin, trying to drown the sulky echo of her voice, knowing she was being childish. But the idea of entering some posh hotel foyer and facing all those people terrified her. Alicia didn’t understand. She was older and braver and—and Australian. She had five brothers who shouted. Why couldn’t she do it?

  Then Molly felt ashamed. Alicia had been generous to her beyond all expectation. She was warm and funny and terrific company. It was because of her that Molly had met Fabrice. Now Alicia wanted to meet Malcolm (God knows why). It was pretty obvious that their date would go a lot better if he wasn’t still waiting for his stupid disk.

  Molly joined Alicia and thrust her hands into warm air. For a moment their fingers touched, and Molly looked up and smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s no problem. Of course I’ll go.”

  “Good on you.” Alicia gave her a quick hug. “And stop worrying about it. I’ve just had a brainwave.”

  10

  The windows were full of wonders. In one, rivulets of diamonds and avalanches of pearls poured onto dark velvet. In another, female torsos paraded in filmy lingerie of every sorbet shade from lime to raspberry. Molly passed whole shops devoted to truffles, or caviar, or mosaics of baby vegetables embalmed in gelatin; to rosebuds and bronze-leafed dahlias still glistening with garden dew; to carved plinths of chocolate supporting miniature sculptures of lemon peel and crystalized violets. She saw floor-length cashmere coats and leather bags supple as babies’ skin, displayed against limestone-and-glass interiors where exquisite assistants palely loitered. Emblazoned on flags, or coyly framed by clipped box trees, were designer names she’d only read about in back issues of Vogue while waiting for a trim and blow-dry at Snipz, Minster Episcopi’s trendiest hairdresser. This was the natural territory of American and Japanese tourists, confidently eyeing the credit-card signs, though they were easily outclassed by the Parisian women, coiffed and creamed, toned and taloned, carrying themselves like duchesses.

  Lèche-vitrine, they called it in France: not window-shopping but window-licking. But for Molly the most mesmerizing sight—and the main reason she stopped so often to gaze in appalled fascination—was her own reflection. The Cleopatra wig was Alicia’s idea, filched from Zabi’s shop. The sunglasses they had bought together, not far from the café, from an Arab street-trader peddling designer rip-offs; almost as large as the mask of Zorro, they had starlet-black lenses and fake tortoiseshell rims. Alicia had also insisted on lending Molly black mid-calf boots with criss-cross laces, and one of those super-cool denim jackets that looked as if it had been immersed in seawater, pegged out to dry in the Sahara, then lightly singed. Along with the red dress, it was a striking ensemble.

  She heard what she thought was a derisive snigger, and turned sharply. But it was only a tiny beribboned dog, whose yapping head protruded from an elderly woman’s handbag. “Mais qu’est-ce que tu as, mon petit bijou?” clucked the woman, and tapped her little jewel’s nose with a crimson-tipped forefinger. Molly moved on, avoiding eye contact. Despite the disguise, she felt as conspicuous as if she were naked. The wig itched. She longed for this whole ordeal to be over.

  The ritzy shops were now giving way to less intimidating department stores and kitchenware outlets, with “Prix choc!” signs pasted to the windows. At the entrance to one of these, Molly stopped and pushed up her sunglasses to consult her map. One more block north, turn right, and she should be there.

  The hotel was unmissable, one of those turn-of-the-century monstrosities built for wealthy travelers arriving at the nearby railway station, now downgraded to accommodate the hoi polloi of conferences and tour groups, and vulgarized with a Marie-Antoinette Bar and concession gift shops. Nonetheless, a veneer of grandeur remained in the ornate portico, red-carpeted steps and uniformed flunkeys summoning taxis. Molly’s throat tightened. For the umpteenth time she checked that the disk was in her bag, now sealed in an envelope marked “For the attention of Mr. M. Figg (Phipps Lauzer Bergman).” All she had to do was hand it to the receptionist and walk out again. With a final uneasy glance at the peculiar person keeping pace with her in the hotel’s street-level windows, Molly raised her chin, put an extra swagger into her step and, looking to neither right nor left, swept up the carpet and inside.

  Crikey! The lobby was enormous, as big as a ballroom and at least three stories high, with an abundance of marble, gilt, and crystal chandeliers, and a broad staircase twisting up to galleried landings. Scores of people milled about by the desks variously labeled “Information,” “Exchange,” “Concierge.” Lifts pinged. Porters wheeled trolleys of luggage. Women in sensible shoes and draped silk scarves chatted among potted palms. A huge banner welcomed the Congrès International de Gastro-entérologie.

  But where was the reception desk? Molly walked forward a few paces, lost her nerve and veered purposefully left. By a glass display case she mimed an artistic double-take, then pretended to admire a selection of Hermès scarves while scouting out the territory. There was no one she recognized. Phew! Eventually she spotted a long curve of mahogany set with bulbous glass lamps, with a bank of pigeonholes behind, and men in black suits attending to a stream of queries and requests. She sidled up to the extreme end of the desk and lurked behind a vase of lilies until it was her turn.

  “Oui?” A sallow-skinned man with slicked hair cocked his head with professional politeness.

  Molly leaned forward and explained her mission in a low voice. She spoke in French, but her accent couldn’t fool an old hand: “Certainly, Mademoiselle,” he replied in English. “I will see that ’e receives it.”

  With a rush of relief Molly reached into her bag and took out the envelope. She was just stretching out her arm to hand it over when the man’s gaze slid over her shoulder and h
e gave a cry of joyous surprise. “Ah! But ’ere is Monsieur Feeg now!”

  In a frenzied panic Molly ducked behind the flowers and shot in the opposite direction at a low, crouching run, the envelope still in her hand. Her head swung left and right, as she searched for escape. Where should she hide? What should she do? Into her field of vision came the back view of a man—tallish, grey jacket, heading for a doorway. She rushed up behind him and slid her arm into his. “Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot! ” she gabbled breathlessly, as if greeting a long-lost friend.

  The man halted in astonishment. He was middle-aged, ordinary: sweater and casual shirt under the jacket, a badge ineptly pinned. Molly felt his arm pull away, and locked her elbow in a vice-like grip, propelling him forward. “Ma chandelle est morte. Je n’ai plus de feu!” She gave a vivacious laugh.

  Her bonkers behavior had been enough to get them through the doorway and out of the lobby. A long, carpeted corridor stretched ahead: if Malcolm followed, she might still be trapped. Molly could feel her companion’s surprise turning to annoyance: any second now she would be denounced. There was an opening on her left: low tables, dim lights, red plush. “Le bar!” Molly cried ecstatically, and frogmarched the stranger inside.

  Here he wrenched his arm free, swiftly frisked the breast-pocket area of his jacket, and confronted Molly with mingled puzzlement and suspicion. The barman looked up from his glass-polishing, sensing a drama. Molly shifted from foot to foot in an agony of indecision—longing to hide, wanting to explain, infuriated to be mistaken for a pickpocket, terrified that she was about to be publicly accused.

  She lowered her voice to a heartfelt whisper. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur, excusez-moi. Je regrette, er, beaucoup . . .”

  The barman had slithered, eel-like, to their side. Did Monsieur have a problem? His damp eyes lingered on Molly’s bare legs and fetishist boots. She was horribly reminded of that scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts got fingered as a prostitute by a hotel manager.

  After a long look at Molly, the stranger shrugged as if to say everything was fine, and gestured to her to take a seat. There was a hint of irony in his extreme courtesy, which she found disconcerting. Feeling rather as if she was being escorted to the head-master’s study, she led the way to the farthest, darkest corner and slid into a banquette. The man sat down opposite her and folded his arms.