Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  “So what on earth was all that about?” he asked calmly.

  Molly jerked her head in surprise. He was English! For the first time she looked at him properly. Blue eyes, a bit saggy but quite intelligent-looking; mid-brown hair showing the first flecks of grey; indoor skin; a mouth that suggested he smiled more often than not; sophisticated in a way she couldn’t quite define, though not a vain man, to judge by his clothes. Her eyes fell on his badge. She couldn’t read it through her super-dark sunglasses and, anyway, it appeared to be upside-down. But he must be with the conference—perhaps even an employee of PLB. She’d better be careful.

  “You are English, aren’t you?” he insisted. “Despite the rather inspired use of French nursery songs.”

  “No. Not at all. I’m . . . Australian.” Molly injected her vowels with a nasal twang.

  “Really? Your French seems remarkably good. I thought Australians learned Japanese these days.”

  “My family’s originally from Frahnce, I mean Frans,” Molly improvised.

  “Ah. No doubt that explains your splendid dark hair.”

  Baffled, Molly raised a hand automatically to her head and encountered something that felt like the coat of an Afghan hound. Of course: the wig. She smoothed it casually, then wished she hadn’t as she felt something dislodge.

  “And what do you think of Paris?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s—it’s fair dinkum.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly, but all he said was, “My own view exactly.”

  There was a silence. Molly plunged in: “Look, I’m terribly sorry to have grabbed you like that. You must have thought I was mad—I mean, crazy as a bandicoot.” She tried to imitate Alicia’s rollicking laugh. “The thing is, there’s someone here I don’t want to see. But I did. So I had to get out of there fast, without being spotted. I know it was incredibly rude and stupid but . . .”

  His eyes rested on her, not exactly disbelieving but wary. “And who was it you didn’t want to see?”

  “A man.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Someone more . . . official, perhaps?”

  “No!” What was he implying? “Just a man.”

  “Hmm.” His tone was skeptical.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said hotly. “That I’m some kind of hustler who sneaks into hotels and—”

  “Would you like a drink?” he interrupted.

  Molly saw that the barman had reappeared with his pad. “No, thank you.” Her tone was frosty.

  “But I insist. You’re the one who dragged me in here, after all.”

  “Oh, all right. Do you have Appletize?” she asked the barman.

  His nostrils flared at this barbarity.

  “Orange juice, then.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, she leaned across the table and continued, in an indignant hiss, “I promise you, I am not after your wallet, or a free drink or—or anything else. You obviously think I’m some dangerous criminal on the run, but I can assure you I was simply trying to deliver a package.”

  “A package?”

  “Yes! The package I need to give to this man.”

  “The man you don’t want to see?”

  “Yes! No.” Molly sighed at this nit-picking. “I want him to get the package, I just don’t want to give it to him personally. Look, it’s here, if you don’t believe me.” She pulled out the envelope and slapped it theatrically on the table. A second later she flipped it the other way up to hide Malcolm’s name.

  “You’re some kind of courier, then?”

  “Well . . .”

  “You’re not a spy, are you?”

  Molly had a feeling he was laughing at her. She turned her head and gazed haughtily into the distance, not deigning to reply. Then her face brightened. “Cool! Look at that.” Her orange juice was arriving, complete with a wedge of fresh orange, a maraschino cherry, one of those straws you could bend in every direction, and a cocktail umbrella. She was shocked to see that her companion had ordered Scotch, though it was barely afternoon. Perhaps he had an alcohol problem.

  They sipped their drinks in silence. Molly’s was delicious, though every time she bent her head to the straw her sunglasses slipped annoyingly down her nose, and she had to wedge them in place with a forefinger.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but is there a problem with your eyes?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I thought you might like to take off those glasses. It really isn’t too dangerously dazzling in here.”

  After a moment’s consideration Molly did as he suggested. Instantly, her face felt cooler, more normal. The room sprang to life, right down to the fleur-de-lis carpeting and gilt mirrors beset with cherubs. She looked carefully round the scattering of tables and peeped over the back of her banquette to check the entrance.

  “If the man you don’t want to see comes in,” he said, “scratch your left ear and I’ll create a diversion.”

  His expression was deadpan, but she caught the glint of humor in his eye and couldn’t help responding with a small smile. He wasn’t so bad, now she could see him properly. His pale coloring and rumpled appearance were reassuringly familiar among all these dark, natty foreigners. It was comforting to hear an English voice; his was educated but not lah-di-dah. She might have chosen someone much nastier.

  Suddenly she remembered the time and jerked back the cuff of her jacket to check her watch. Forty minutes until she was seeing Fabrice, she calculated: better get going soon. But what about that damned disk? Alicia had promised it to Malcolm “within the hour”; the deadline had passed fifteen minutes ago. That’s probably why he’d come into the lobby. If he was really desperate, he might still be waiting, ready to pounce. Molly gnawed at a nail, then realized she was being observed.

  “Sorry. It’s just that I’m meeting . . . someone. I mustn’t be late.” But instead of making a move to go, she put out a hand and fingered Malcolm’s envelope. She must do something soon. But what?

  He watched her over his Scotch. For some reason she noticed his hands—broad and capable-looking, with clean, rounded nails. No signet rings. “You’re not in any trouble, are you?” he asked.

  “No, no. Well, apart from delivering this package.” She poked it with a fingernail, then nudged it infinitesimally in his direction. “I suppose . . . I suppose you wouldn’t hand it in for me?”

  He thought about this. “What’s inside?”

  “It’s not drugs, or a homemade bomb or anything, honestly, just some boring PR stuff for a pharmaceutical company.” She turned the envelope over and pointed to Malcolm’s name. “Look. He’s in their marketing department. You can check if you like. He, er, forgot this stuff and I promised to bring it.”

  Molly could tell he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. She was beginning to be sick of all her lies.

  He hefted the package, put it to his ear and gave it a rattle. She looked up hopefully.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll deliver it. In person, if you like. I’d quite like to meet this Mr. Figg.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Molly pressed her palms together as if all her prayers had been answered by God Himself.

  “So long as you swear it doesn’t contain the secret locations of Australia’s nuclear arsenal.”

  After a moment’s confusion, Molly remembered she was supposed to be Australian. She blushed a bit, and they both laughed. He was quite funny, really, for an old guy.

  “And would you mind terribly not saying it came from me?” she asked.

  “That’s easy enough. I don’t know who you are, do I?”

  “No.” Molly twisted her hands in her lap. It felt rude not to give her name, but Malcolm mustn’t know she was in Paris. Imagine him muscling in on some romantic moment with Fabrice and bullying her back to the conference to take a memo or set up a stand. “You needn’t even say a girl gave it to you,” she suggested diffidently.

  “I
won’t. Not even under torture.”

  Molly smiled. She wondered what he was doing here. He didn’t seem like any of the Phipps Lauzer Bergman brigade, with their flashy self-importance. “Are you with a drug company, too?” she asked.

  “God, no. I’m a doctor, lowest of the low.”

  Molly raised her eyebrows at this. At work everyone had always spoken of doctors as if they were capricious gods, to be cajoled and appeased. “Then shouldn’t you be, you know, conferencing?” Molly nodded at his badge.

  “Probably. The truth is, I don’t usually come to this kind of conference and I’m rather bored.”

  Despite her horrid experiences at Phipps Lauzer Bergman, Molly felt a perverse prickle of annoyance. To think of the hectic preparations for this conference, all those pages of typing, her mega-drama with disks, and he was “rather bored.” “What’s wrong with it?” she demanded.

  “Too much marketing, not enough science.”

  Molly frowned severely. “I’d have thought you’d be grateful to learn about all the useful drugs they’re producing.”

  He burst into laughter, as if she’d said something naïve. “Actually, it’s the other way round. People like me develop the drugs they make a fortune out of. If I’d only had the wit to buy shares in the companies selling the drugs, I’d be a millionaire by now.”

  This sounded convincing, if rather arrogant, but his hilarity at her remark still stung. Molly bent her head to her straw and sucked up the last drops of her juice, producing a satisfying gurgling noise from among the melting ice cubes. Then she looked up challengingly. “I know why you came here,” she announced. “You wanted a freebie in Paris.”

  She was deliberately cheeky, expecting a smile. Instead, he sighed. “I expect you’re right,” he answered dully.

  Perhaps he was tired. The newspapers were full of articles about doctors’ long hours. He did have quite a lot of wrinkles.

  “What’s it like being a doctor?” she wondered aloud.

  “Frustrating. Exhausting. Sometimes interesting. Very occasionally thrilling. I’ve never known anything else.” He tossed back the last of his whisky. “Listen, shouldn’t you be going?”

  “Golly, you’re right.” Molly grabbed her bag.

  “I’ll come out to the corridor with you.” He picked up Malcolm’s envelope and stood up. “There’s a side entrance that brings you out right by the Métro, if that’s useful.”

  “Yes, please. I’ve only got half an hour to get there.” Molly was already on her feet, jiggling with impatience. She couldn’t believe she’d been sitting talking to some old doctor about a stupid conference when Fabrice was waiting. Still, she must be polite. She followed the doctor to the bar and watched him pay the bill while listening to his instructions about how to get out of the hotel and which Métro line to take. “It’s only a few stops,” he told her. “You’ll be fine.”

  They walked together out of the bar and halted. “That way.” He pointed down the long corridor. “Right, left, and you’re there. I’m going back through the lobby.”

  Molly nodded, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Thank you so much for agreeing to deliver the package,” she said, “and for the drink, of course.”

  “A pleasure. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.” He put out his hand for her to shake. “Have a good time, wherever you’re going.”

  “I will.” Her nerves were already tingling.

  Something must have shown in her face, for as he let go of her hand he added abruptly, “I hope he’s nice to you.”

  Molly had to bite her lips to stop herself smiling too ridiculously. Turning away, she flipped a small wave. “ ’Bye.”

  Round the first corner she broke into a run. No one was about, so she tore off the wig, stuffed it into her bag and let her hair stream free. Joy swelled in her chest. Fabrice! There were large medallions woven into the carpeting at regular intervals, depicting the face of some Louis or other in a clasp of laurel leaves. With exuberant leaps she cleared them easily, one by one.

  Another turn. Here at last was the exit, a revolving door gleaming with polished brass. Not a flunkey to be seen. Heartbeat thudding in her ears, Molly pushed at the heavy mahogany and spun herself out into the sunshine.

  11

  “I am desolated, Monsieur Feeg.” The reception bloke spread his hands and gave another of his irritating Froggy shrugs.

  Malcolm twisted his signet ring in frustration. This was the third time in the last ten minutes he’d escaped from his duties in the exhibition hall to check whether the girl, whoever she was, had reappeared. His boss Jerry was beginning to notice: “Got the runs, mate? Too many es-car-goes? ”

  Ha bloody ha. Malcolm leaned aggressively across the desk. “Sure you haven’t missed her? She must have come back by now. What could she be doing? Where did she go?”

  “I told you, she disappear. Comme ça. Pouf! ”

  Poof was right, thought Malcolm, eyeing the Frenchman’s pouty lips and flapping wrists. Bloody ballet dancers, the lot of them. Even if the girl did come back, he’d probably be too busy pirouetting about the place to notice.

  Malcolm fixed the receptionist with a steely Clint Eastwood stare. “Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to wait over there for five more minutes.” He jerked a thumb at the group of low sofas and coffee-tables behind him. “My eyes will be on you, mate. As soon as you see this girl, you tip me the wink. Keep her talking, right? And this time make sure you grab that envelope. Comprendo? ”

  “Oui, Monsieur Feeg.”

  With the macho deliberation of a cowboy unholstering twin pistols, Malcolm jerked his shirt cuffs free of his jacket—first left, then right—holding the Frenchman’s gaze to be sure he got the message. You didn’t mess with a guy who wore twenty-four-carat Gucci cufflinks. Monogrammed. Then he swiveled abruptly, walked stiff-legged to a beige leather sofa and sat down, remembering first to unbutton his jacket to avoid unsightly creasing.

  Where was she? More to the point, where was his disk? Crunch time was rushing toward him. Jerry would be at tomorrow’s presentation, along with Jerry’s boss and Jerry’s boss’s boss. If he screwed up, it would be steak au Figg for lunch.

  Malcolm’s left foot jiggled violently, then the right. He stared at the ceiling, checked on the receptionist, frisked his ears for excess wax and furtively flicked the findings onto the carpet. He examined his watch, whose multiple dials included a solar compass, an underwater depth gauge, a digital calendar and the current times in Tokyo and New York. None of these gave him comfort. The second hand swept implacably round and round. No one approached the reception desk.

  The girl had sounded so convincing on the phone. She, or at least some “foreign” female, had actually come to the hotel with a package to deliver. She had asked for Mr. Figg by name. The receptionist had seen the envelope himself—bigger than a letter but not too bulky, just right for a disk. He’d almost had it in his grasp. Then the girl had vanished. Why? Where? Malcolm’s eyes bulged, his ears buzzed with the maddening mystery of it.

  He jumped to his feet, automatically rebuttoning his jacket and smoothing it over his stomach. He paced to the furthest potted plant and gazed at it intently. I am a leaf, he told himself, practicing one of his stress-management techniques. A nice, big, shiny leaf, calmly hanging in the air. He unclenched his fists. A Figg leaf. No, it was impossible. He gave one of the leaves a vicious flick with his fingernail, retraced his steps and sat down again. He unbuttoned his jacket.

  Black hair, the receptionist had said. Red dress and boots. Young. Very pretty. It couldn’t be Molly, despite his suspicion that she was somewhere in Paris. But what about the other one, Alicia? “I might be blonde and I might not.” Cheeky bitch. Was she having him on, or might she be up for it tonight? He liked the sound of those boots. Bet she knew a trick or three. He had no problem with that. Bedroom-wise he was in peak condition, especially since taking those capsules advertised in the back of a men’s magazine. He’d even entered the competition. Ph
otographing himself for the “Before” and “After” snaps had been tricky, but worth it for the chance of winning a red Lamborghini Diablo (“0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds”!). Malcolm pictured himself squealing to a stop outside the office, the awed faces of his colleagues pressed to the windows, girls begging to—

  “Excuse me, are you Malcolm Figg?”

  A tall geezer was looking down at him, giving him the once-over: posh voice, superior manner, a linen suit that looked as if it had never seen the inside of a trouser press.

  “Who wants to know?” Malcolm snapped back. The man was blocking his line of sight to the reception desk. The girl might turn up at any minute.

  “My name’s Griffin, Dr. Jonathan Griffin. But that’s not important. All I—”

  A doctor! Belatedly Malcolm noticed the badge. He rose swiftly and smeared a smile across his face. “My privilege, Dr. Griffin.” Deftly he slithered his jacket buttons into place while wiping any traces of sweat from his palm, then held out his hand. “Malcolm Figg, marketing executive, Phipps Lauzer Bergman. How may I help you?”

  “It’s more the other way round, I think,” the doctor said coolly. “Shall we sit down a moment?” He gestured to the sofa.

  “Of course. Be my guest.” Malcolm waited for the doctor to sit, then pinched up his trousers and perched on the adjacent cushion. “I must warn you, however, that I may be called away at any moment. I’m expecting an important delivery.”

  “Not . . . this, by any chance?” The doctor produced an envelope, seemingly from nowhere, and held it up tantalizingly.

  Malcolm’s mouth went dry as bark. He could read his own name hand-printed on the outside. “Where did you get that?” He itched to grab it.

  The doctor gave an infuriating smile. “I’m afraid I’m only the messenger.”