Page 30 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Because he thought it was. He thought he’d done something terrible, and that you’d run away. From him.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Juliet fiercely. ‘Olivier Godard was the best thing that ever happened to me. He changed my life.’

16

The Ingénue

‘Defense de cracher’ read the sign.

I wrinkled my brow, wondering what ‘cracher’ meant.

‘No spitting,’ Nathalie translated, seeing my puzzlement. ‘In case you’re tempted.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll try to resist.’

I could feel myself breaking into a sweat. It was freezing outside, but down here in the Métro it was smoky and steamy. After what had happened only the week before at the Gare du Nord, I was nervous. We were heading to Montmartre and I would have much preferred to walk. But Nathalie was having none of it.

‘Just be bold, stare back at people, and keep your bag under your jacket,’ she instructed me as she held my hand and we ran down into the unknown at the Place de la Concorde, leaving daylight behind.

Nathalie had been in Paris less than six months but she seemed to belong here. Even though she knew little more French than I did, she was far more confident about spitting out expletives or requests. ‘Excusez-moi,’ she would say, with a baleful glare, if someone was in her way. I was not yet so bold, endlessly muttering ‘pardon’ and scuttling about like a demented beetle trying not to bump into anyone.

At the platform, a train was waiting. Nathalie pushed me into a carriage, and we were thrust into the middle of a Saturday-afternoon crush. There was no choice but to be pressed up to whoever was next to you. Gradually, I began to let the half-inch of milky pastis we’d thrown back work its magic. After three stops, I started to relax, swaying in time with the train as it thundered through the belly of Paris to Abbesses, to the Sacré Coeur, where our evening was to begin.

I grinned at Nathalie. We were dressed up to the nines. I had the leather skirt and lace shirt on, and had borrowed Nathalie’s plum lipstick, as well as lots of black eyeliner. Nathalie had on a very short plaid dress, her cowboy boots and a fur-lined denim jacket. I gazed at our reflections in the train window, mesmerised. Despite my nerves, I had never felt so free, so liberated, so full of anticipation. A Saturday night out in Worcester wouldn’t give anyone butterflies. There was an inevitability to it that was soul-destroying. Had I still been at home I’d probably have been in the pub, searching the pallid crowds in vain for a potential soulmate. The night would end in disappointment and a kebab.

Here, in Paris, anything could happen.

‘Your whistle-stop tour starts here,’ said Nathalie, as we burst out onto the street and headed for the wide steps that led up to the basilica. We raced each other up, panting and laughing as our breath came in white bursts, then stood against the stone balustrade looking out at the city of light, the sugar-crystal domes of the Sacré Coeur behind us. As the sun set, there were streaks of orange and purple along the skyline, a multicoloured backdrop to the hundreds and thousands of Parisian rooftops.

‘Look,’ whispered Nathalie, pointing, and as I followed her eyeline, I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, looming over the city as if safeguarding it. I caught my breath and felt tears in my eyes.

Nathalie nudged me with her elbow. ‘You’re crying.’

‘I am not.’ I laughed through my tears.

‘You know what? I cried when I first saw it too. It’s just so goddamn … Paris.’

She was right. It was overwhelmingly Paris, and I loved it. The night air was teasing my hair and filling my lungs with a cold sharpness, my veins sang with pastis and joy and before me were spread a million opportunities, twinkling underneath the silver sky.

Nathalie tugged at my arm. ‘Come on. We’ll go to the Place du Têtre. Just don’t catch anyone’s eye, unless you want to be ripped off. If you want your picture painted, I’ll negotiate.’

Minutes later, we were in a packed cobbled square. It was lined with dozens of restaurants, and the smell of frites and crèpes tempted hungry tourists to take a seat under a canopy and order something to eat, perhaps with a chocolat chaud or a verre du vin. Amidst the bare plane trees in the middle were dozens of artists and their easels, surrounded by examples of their work. They were wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves and fingerless gloves, men and women, some aloof, some keen to engage in conversation, most of them smoking while they waited for a willing victim to have their likeness captured. I could feel the history in the air, the ghosts of all those bygone artists who had struggled to make a living. The camaraderie, the drunkenness, the affairs, the passion: their legacy was still in the faces of their successors. Some had achieved fame, and that gave the generations that followed in their footsteps hope.

‘Come on.’ Nathalie grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowds. I’d soon learned that she wasn’t one for lingering. She led me to a little restaurant, the tables outside covered in gingham, red to match the canopy, the windows above framed by white shutters. The light from the windows spread gold onto the cobbles.

We ate crèpes with ham and cheese. Mine seemed to melt on my tongue, salty and savoury and not big enough – the walking had sharpened my appetite – so afterwards we ordered sweet ones with caramelised apple and whipped cream. It reminded me of the Calvados I’d drunk with Jean Louis the night before. I wondered if I should talk to Nathalie about the Beauboises, but it seemed indiscreet, even though I was a little worried about Corinne and not sure how to handle her.

By now, Nathalie had finished her crèpe and was signalling to the waiter for the bill. I was flagging somewhat – the travelling, the walking and the food were making me weary, but I had a feeling this was only the beginning of the evening and there would be no escape. I was also learning that keeping up with Nathalie was a challenge.

‘OK,’ she said, jumping up as she slapped some franc notes onto the table on top of the bill. I scrabbled for my purse, but she waved me away. ‘We’re done with the tourism. Now we’re going to see the real Paris. Allons-y!’

Pigalle was something else. Like nowhere I’d ever been, sheltered little mouse that I was. Nathalie, of course, had been brought up in New York, so the bright lights were nothing to her. I was dazzled. I’d never known anywhere so frenetic, so buzzy and bright and noisy. I held on to Nathalie’s arm as we wound our way down the Boulevard de Clichy, blinded by the neon flash of ‘XXX’ outside the cinemas.

I was terrified but elated. It was so blatantly and unashamedly wicked. Everyone was bold and beautiful. I’d never seen clothes so tight or short; I’d never seen so much skin on a cold night, or so much lipstick, or so much smiling. The traffic, the music spilling out of the shopfronts, the laughter made my head spin. I gasped as I caught sight of the outrageous clothing for sale in a shop window: straps and PVC and studs and six-inch heels.

Nathalie was laughing her head off at the expression on my face.

‘Welcome to the red-light district, honey. Haven’t you seen anywhere like this before?’

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