by Robyn Sisman
“Ah. Yes. Er, actually . . .” Molly’s mother glanced at Armand.
“I have invited your mother to stay on in France for a few days,” Armand took over smoothly. “It would be most interesting for her to visit some of the gardens here in Paris—Parc de la Villette, the rooftop of the Gare Montparnasse and so forth. Also, there is a project I am working on, a new centre of culture in Biarritz—on the Atlantic coast, you know? I am hoping Fran will accompany me on a visit to the site next week, and give me her opinion.”
“Opinion on what?” Molly was flabbergasted.
“Landscaping, bien sûr. The relationship between structure and space, architecture and nature, euh . . .”
“Preserving the environment,” her mother chipped in.
“Exactement.”
“But—but—but what about your plants, Mum? And Alleluia? The chickens?”
“Oh, they’ll be all right for a few days. I’ve done some phoning, called in a few favors. I just thought . . . now I’m here . . . and with this glorious weather. Though not, of course, if you need me, Mollypops.”
Her selfishness took Molly’s breath away. “If you need me?” Just when she had no job, no money, a broken heart, and was reeling from the most cataclysmic revelation of her entire life? She made a choking noise and was still casting around for a suitably stinging reply when Armand spoke up.
“Mais quand même, Fran, Molly has her own home, her own life. Why should you not enjoy a little holiday? There is an exceptional restaurant in Biarritz where one can eat baby wild boar cooked with mushrooms, bay leaf and just a soupçon of coriander.”
“Mum doesn’t eat meat,” Molly objected.
“And the fish, of course, is superb. It is even possible that the sea may still be warm enough for swimming.”
“Oh, I can swim in anything,” Molly’s mother said blithely.
“Yes, even a freezing cold Scottish loch.” Molly gave the words bitter emphasis. “Isn’t that right, Mum?”
“Is it? Ha ha. I—I can’t remember.”
Armand glanced from one to the other, and cleared his throat. “Speaking of work, Molly, I have an idea for you. An old friend of mine, an English woman of much charm and talent, is starting some kind of new festival of literature—where, I don’t remember, but her office is in London. Soho, I believe. She requires an assistante—someone to send out the letters of invitation to the writers, organize the timetable, arrange their hotels and so forth. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“Me?” Molly jerked in surprise. No one would give her a job like that. What if she had to ring up Martin Amis?
“Why not? You are intelligent, charming, honest. You interest yourself in literature. I am sure you work hard.”
“Oh, she does. I remember when she was at Bloom ‘n’ Veg—”
Molly silenced her mother with a Medusa glare in the rear-view mirror.
Armand took a piece of paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to Molly. “Here are the details. She will be expecting your contact tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Monday, you know? When one recommences work?”
“Oh. Right.” Molly took the paper wonderingly. Intelligent, charming, honest . . . Was she really? That’s not what Malcolm had thought. But, then, her father had called Malcolm “absurd,” and had seemed almost proud of her for resigning. Maybe she wasn’t such a failure after all. Impulsively she stretched forward and kissed Armand’s cheek. “Thank you very much, Armand. That’s really kind of you.”
“De rien, ma petite.” He smoothed his already perfect hair.
Molly pushed herself off her knees, and sank back into her seat to stow the paper carefully in her wallet. As she did so, her eye was caught by the flickering light as trees rushed past. She was leaving Paris. The realization struck her with such a bitter-sweet pang that she shifted across to the window to gaze at what might be the last leafy avenue, the last green kiosk and red awning, the last café‚ with its clientele jammed elbow to elbow on the pavement outside, drinking, gesticulating, talking, talking, talking, while they soaked up the fiery rays of the evening sun.
And here was the place de la République again, where she had emerged on that first, scary night, and later—Quickly, Molly tried to block out the memory of pausing just there, by that traffic-light, next to that café, with her arms wrapped around Fabrice, but she could not prevent a wave of desire and nostalgia tearing through her.
“Allez, Fran! You have the priority.”
“I do? Help!”
“Vite, vite! . . . Bravo! ”
Honestly, they were behaving like teenagers. Now Armand was showing off the heated front seats. “Ooh, what luxury!” her mother exclaimed, tossing him a look that was, well, frankly flirtatious. Molly was scandalized.
A memory popped up from nowhere, unbidden but vivid and entire in every detail. She had been twelve years old, and it was Christmas time. One of the things Molly and her mother prided themselves on was that they made their cards and presents by hand. “Much more special than buying them from a shop,” Mum always said. Instead of wasting their money on “plastic rubbish,” they baked mince pies together, Molly weighing out the dried fruit, Mum wielding the sharp knife to cut it up, both vying later to make the best pastry decoration on top of each pie—Christmas trees, bells, ivy leaves, snowmen. Or they covered old shoeboxes with Christmas paper salvaged from last year, and filled them with layers of homemade truffles, wonkily shaped but delicious, and so rich that once Molly had been sick on the kitchen floor after licking all the bowls, saucepans, spoons and spatulas.
That evening they were sitting at the kitchen table by the Rayburn, with the King’s College Choir pouring out carols from the stereo (or perhaps Mum’s weird old records, like Blondie or Michael Jackson), and the tools of their trade laid out on sheets of newspaper: squat bottles of ink, phials of glitter, cotton wool for Santa’s beard, fans of colored card—green, red, gold, silver—a dragon’s hoard of felt-tips. “I was wondering about inviting Jem for Christmas this year,” Molly’s mother said casually—although Molly, alert to every nuance of her mother’s voice, knew that the suggestion was far from casual. “What do you think?”
Jem was a local carpenter, rumored by the villagers to be an old Etonian although he lived a hippieish life in a yurt in one of Lord Spilsbury’s fields, along with his dog Kip. The previous summer he had come to do odd jobs in the cottage—building bookshelves in an alcove, fixing a door that had warped in the damp and wouldn’t close. Molly had quite liked him—his dark, unkempt roughness, the sureness of his hands as he snuggled wood into place, the half-teasing, half-flattering way he called out, “Good golly, Miss Molly!” when he saw her. One evening he’d worked so late that they’d invited him to supper. It had been a festive occasion, one of the best evenings of the year. Jem had cooked them pancakes for dessert, with much pan-shaking and extravagant flipping. He had made Kip do tricks. Afterward, he’d taught them both to play poker, using raisins for chips, and Molly had triumphed with a full house and gone to bed with twenty-six raisins under her belt. She had lain under the covers with Bertie, deliciously warm and tired, and fallen asleep listening to the low drone of their conversation and the rumble of laughter through the floorboards.
Jem had been around a lot after that. Molly came to recognize the sound of his pickup engine. Sometimes she came home from school and noticed something different in the house—a new shelf, a shed repaired. “Oh, yes, Jem’s been round,” her mother would say, her tone too offhand, her eyes too bright. Molly noticed she was suddenly out more—“just going to the pub,” “just a little drinks party in the village,” “just taking Alleluia out for a run.” That summer she’d deserted Molly for two whole days to go to the Glastonbury Festival—in a big group of people, but it was Jem’s truck they went in, all tumbled into the back with their tents and camping stoves, clowning around like primary-school kids. Molly disapproved. There was a new spring in Mum’s step, a skittishness she
found distasteful.
So that night, in answer to her mother’s question, she had picked up a glue stick and carefully applied it to the back of a snowman shape. “Jem?” she said consideringly.
“Well, only if you think it would be fun, darling. I just feel a bit sorry for him, all alone in that cold tent.”
Molly turned over her snowman and positioned him above a piece of red card, taking her time. Then she pressed the snowman into place and smoothed him flat with her fist. “I don’t think it would be fair to Alleluia. She doesn’t really like Kip. She always hides under the piano. Anyway, I like our Christmases the way they are, Mummy.” She raised her eyes, wide and empty, to her mother’s nervous gaze, both thrilled and frightened by the power that surged through her. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do, sweetheart.” There was barely a hesitation before Molly felt her mother’s warm hand on hers.
Molly smiled. “Molly and Mum.” She began the familiar litany.
Obediently, her mother responded, “Mum and Molly.”
And that was the end of Jem. Once or twice after Christmas, when Molly was out walking Alleluia, she saw his pickup coming down the lane and waited for him to shout, “Good golly, Miss Molly,” but he didn’t even slow down. Soon afterward he moved away—Cornwall, they said. Her mother never mentioned him again.
Now, watching her with Armand, Molly was aware of the same heightened energy, and felt the same instinct to extinguish it. She could still make her mother come with her, if she tried. A few tears on the station platform, a waiflike slump to her shoulders, and her mother would crumble to her will.
“Alors, now we approach the station, Fran. Pay attention to the taxis—they are brutes.” Armand swivelled gracefully in his seat. “Molly, you will excuse us if we do not accompany you inside. I have promised to take your mother to a concert in the Sainte-Chapelle. We must hurry or we will be late.”
Before Molly could gather her thoughts, the car had come to a halt outside the vast gray façade. Armand jumped out and opened Molly’s door for her. “Come, I will take your case out of the boot.” Her mother had climbed out too. She was wearing leather trousers!
“Voilà.” Armand set Molly’s case on the ground and slammed the boot shut, but not before she had seen the stash of expensive-looking carrier-bags inside. She barely had time to dart her mother a look of astonished reproof before Armand was kissing her good-bye—a firm smack on each cheek. “Come back to Paris soon, Molly. You will stay in my apartment, hein?”
Then he was back inside the car, tactfully leaving Molly alone with her mother. Except she didn’t look like her mother, neither was she acting like her. Molly still couldn’t believe they were just going to dump her here and swan off to some concert.
“Mum, are you sure about this?” she said, in a low, concerned voice. “Armand is nice, I agree, but he’s French. He’s probably got a—you know—mistress,” she whispered.
“Dozens, I should think.” Her mother trailed a hand through her long hair, a dreamy smile on her face. “All the sales assistants seem to recognize him. He even knows the best place for lingerie.”
“Mum! You didn’t—”
“Of course not.” She started guiltily. Then her face softened and she stroked Molly’s cheek. “Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. This is just a little adventure. I know it’s very wicked, but it’s so . . . lovely having someone to look after me, instead of thinking of everything and doing everything myself. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Vous venez, Fran?” Armand called impatiently. “We must hurry.”
“Good-bye, lovey.” Her mother wrapped her arms around Molly in a tight hug. Molly clung to her, eyes squeezed shut, wanting to burrow into familiar comfort and security. But she could feel her mother vibrating with tension and excitement that had nothing to do with her. The new perfume filled her nostrils. Eventually, she was the one who let go and stepped away, silently noting the eagerness with which her mother climbed back into the car. The engine purred into action.
“Good luck with the job!” Her mother grinned from the open window. “I’ll see you soon.”
The car rattled across the cobbles. A velvet-clad arm waved cheerily. Molly saw the two heads, backlit by the sunset, already talking. The left indicator blinked, shortly followed by the right. Eventually, the car shot straight ahead across the busy avenue and disappeared down a side street with an expensive roar.
Molly stood on the wide forecourt among the scuttling leaves. Then she picked up her case and trudged inside.
27
The queue shuffled forward a few inches. Someone’s trolley banged the back of Molly’s calves. “Sorry, love,” called a husky Lancashire voice. Molly nodded in listless acknowledgement, turning her head just far enough to clock the woman’s saggy green shell-suit, gray hairstyle reminiscent of rock formations following some prehistoric natural disaster, and tubby hubby wearing an “I Love Paris” hat. Mechanically, she rolled her own trolley forward and slumped against the handle.
So this was the end of her adventure. Good-bye to sunlight on the Seine, umbrellas on pavements, footfalls in cobbled courtyards, geraniums on balconies. Good-bye to dogs in coats, women in scarves, old men fishing on quays; to pâtisseries and épiceries; to monuments and fountains exploding into the air, and a tower woven from iron in the sky. Good-bye to gaiety, adventure, sparkle, romance. Good-bye to Paris.
Everything felt dreary. Everything looked brown. All was tedium and confusion, and the petty anxiety of tickets and timetables. The Eurostar departure area, located on a balcony under the roof, possessed none of the grandeur of the rest of the station. There was no charm, no style, just a seething mass of people and bags funneling into a narrow entrance, where a stewardess in her blue and yellow uniform checked tickets and waved passengers through to Passport Control. Echoing announcements numbed Molly’s brain. Do not leave your luggage unattended. Smoking is not permitted. The train from Abbeville has arrived at platform eleven. The Eurostar for London departs in twenty minutes.
Soon she would be on her way back to dull, familiar England, back to Fat Sal and their scuzzy flat. Paris would fade to a dream, and so would the Molly Clearwater who had danced in a gold skirt with no knickers, and dared to show her breasts.
Already she was becoming invisible. No one was here to see her off; even her mother had abandoned her. “They flee from me that sometime did me seek,” she quoted mournfully to herself. “I have seen them, gentle, tame and meek, that now are wild, and do not remember . . .”
She hadn’t a single photo from her visit: no silly souvenir, not even a postcard—nothing but the ticket in her pocket and a rawness in her heart. It was probably raining in England.
A gap opened in front of her, and obediently she moved forward, one of the herd. The queue was becoming restive. There was only one official at Passport Control, processing passengers with a magnificent lack of urgency while the big station clock ticked off the minutes. French people queue-jumped with shameless panache, to British mutters of outrage. A touch on her arm made Molly shrink irritably away. No need to push. She felt it again, and snapped her head round. “Fabrice!”
“Molly! Thank God I am not too late!”
He had been running. His cheekbones were lightly sheened with sweat. Locks of hair spilled across his forehead. His helmet swung from one hand, with a package jammed inside. The ardor in his eyes made her head spin.
Molly gripped the handle of her trolley tight. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you—to talk to you.”
“What about?”
He pushed back his hair in a passionate gesture. “You are angry with me. C’est normal. I behaved very badly. And I am ashamed. Truly.”
Everything about him was fiery, urgent, physical. His leather jacket hung open. Molly could see the rise and fall of his chest under the thin shirt, the roll of his hipbones against taut jeans. She dragged her eyes away.
He pressed closer and laid a h
and on her case. “This afternoon I have been in torment. In the cinema, all I could see was your face. I knew I must come here and find you.”
Molly stared at his fingers, and it was as if she could feel them on her skin, claiming her, rekindling bonfires throughout her body.
“Excuse me, love, can you move up a bit?” said the voice from behind.
Molly jerked back to reality. The queue had advanced several feet without her noticing. Concentrate. She was going home. Paris was over. Fabrice was over. He had hurt her, humiliated her, made her feel stupid and worthless. She practically charged forward with her trolley, dislodging Fabrice’s hand.
“Molly, please.” His wounded tone reproached her. “I can’t talk to you like this. Come. We will find a little corner, away from these people. I will push your chariot.” He seized the trolley, swung it out of the queue and set off toward the far wall.
“Fabrice, no! I’ll miss my train.”
But she followed as if he twitched an invisible leash. What was she doing? This was crazy. God, he was gorgeous! The station clock showed that there were twelve minutes to departure. Molly glanced back wildly. Mr. “I Love Paris” gave her a chummy thumbs-up and pointed to the floor ahead of him, as if to say that he’d keep her place. She flashed him a distracted smile.
Fabrice had tossed his belongings into the tray of the trolley and shoved it to one side. Now he grasped her elbows, swung her round, and crowded her against the wall with his body. “This is better, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Molly said breathlessly. A treacherous smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Listen,” she rapped out, breaking free of his hold, “I’m in a hurry. What do you want?”
He bent his head and looked at her through smoky lashes. “I want to say I’m sorry.”
Molly lowered her eyes to his shirt button.
“Écoute . . .” He hooked a finger into hers and swung her hand gently. “I know I said some foolish things, but I didn’t mean them. I was angry—confused. My friends were teasing me. Please, Molly, tell me you forgive me.”