Page 31 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘No, I have not,’ I said, sounding prim.

‘They don’t have sex shops in Worcester?’

‘Not that I know of.’ My throat felt tight. I wasn’t sure how safe we were in an area like this. Yet there was something thrilling about being on the edge of danger. It was seedy and sleazy, but there was something joyful about it. Nobody cared what anyone thought, which was, I realised, the exact opposite of where I came from, where everyone worried what everyone else thought all the time. I shut the image of my mother’s disapproving face out of my mind. I could only imagine how horrified she would be to see me here: exactly the kind of place she had feared I might end up the moment I mentioned Paris.

And it made me even more self-conscious about how inexperienced I was. I’d had one serious boyfriend, Anthony. Sex with him had not been the thing I’d hoped it would be. Not horrible but non-eventful – in that I never got anywhere near a state of abandonment. And then there’d been Hux – Mark Huxtable – who was probably the reason I’d flunked my A levels. He had taken me at a party one cold winter night, in a spare bedroom, warm mouth and cold hands everywhere, and had shown me what the fuss was all about. And then never spoke to me again.

Would Olivier be the same? Was I setting myself up for humiliation? Was I a fool to think that because he’d seemed to find me fascinating he’d be pleased to see me tonight? Or would he blank me, like Hux?

Just as I’d got used to the Métro, I got used to the brashness of Pigalle. Occasionally, a man would look at us with interest, but Nathalie would give him such a hostile glare that he soon moved on. You had to have attitude to survive in this city, I was realising, and that I didn’t have. I was too meek and submissive. Too quick to apologise; too eager to please. But if I was going to survive, I’d have to pretend. I held my head up higher, pushed back my shoulders, put a haughty expression on my face and lengthened my stride. It seemed to work.

‘Wait up,’ said Nathalie, as I charged on ahead. We hooked arms, people stepping aside to let us past and looking at us to see who we were, for we walked as if we owned the street, smiles wide, eyes bright, powered by our youth.

Eventually, Nathalie led us off down a side street, then another, scanning the signs over the doorways. Here, there were takeaways and tanning salons; grubby little bookshops selling dubious magazines. Litter scuttered along the gutter; men bent down to talk to the inmates of cars dawdling on the kerbside. I didn’t want to know what they were discussing. I felt more vulnerable here than in the bustle of the boulevard, for there were too many shadows. But, eventually, Nathalie’s eyes lit up.

‘Here we are.’

As soon as the door was open, I could feel the music reach out and grab me, pulling us down a set of wooden stairs, the red walls covered in ripped and torn posters. We were catapulted into a room full of people transfixed by a band. There were almost as many people on stage as there were in the audience: I counted at least twelve, all in a circle around a girl with black hair piled high on top of her head, with a tight-fitting emerald-green dress and huge gold hoops in her ears. She sang in a husky voice, her eyes shut, her smile wide, the music that accompanied her going from gentle seduction to wild abandonment as she shimmied and glided among the musicians. There were drums and trumpets and saxophones and the thrum of a double bass. It should have been a cacophony, but it was hypnotic and beguiling and joyful all at once.

The song built to a crescendo and came to an explosive finish, followed by ecstatic applause as they left the stage for an interval. Nathalie was heading for the bar, and as I followed, I saw her bounce up to someone, and my heart skipped a beat.

There he was. In a white shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned, and black jeans. Nathalie beckoned me over. My mouth was dry with nerves. I had no idea what to say to him, even though he was smiling over at me.

I went to hold out my hand, English to the core, but he ignored it, leaning forward and kissing me on each cheek. Beside me, Nathalie’s eyes were gleaming as she nodded in approval.

‘Bon soir. Ça va?’ I sounded so gauche, and laughed to cover up my awkwardness. ‘Le band – c’est … fantastique.’

‘Oui, c’est mon groupe préféré. Ils sont incroyables.’ He stopped as he saw the panic in my eyes. ‘My favourite band. I see them every week. They play all over Paris.’

I felt a flood of relief, that he didn’t seem to mind speaking English. It was hard enough with all the noise. Even though the band weren’t playing, the background music was loud and everyone was talking and laughing, so I was already straining to hear what he was saying. He was pointing to us both.

‘Quelque chose à boire?’ He indicated drinking from a bottle with his hand.

‘Oui! Merci!’ Nathalie accepted on our behalf. ‘Deux bières.’

She handed him a crumpled note and he sauntered off to the bar obligingly.

‘Oh my God. He’s totally fallen for you!’ Nathalie crowed. ‘The way he looks at you!’

‘I don’t get it.’ I didn’t. What did he find so fascinating?

Nathalie frowned. ‘You really need to work on your confidence.’

She was not wrong. I had never been confident. I had never admitted it to anyone, but failing to get into university had secretly been a relief. I was amazed I’d actually had the courage to make it as far as Paris, but alarm bells had gone off inside me over the summer. I knew I had to take action if I didn’t want to go down the path my mother had plotted for me: marry a nice local boy with a useful trade and get a house down the road. If I’d entered into my third year of small-town life, I’d have never got out.

‘You’re so pretty,’ said Nathalie. ‘And you’re smart and funny in a very quiet and English way. Like – the total opposite of me. He would never look at me.’

I felt a burst of pride. I’d come a long way. Literally – for here I was, in a sweaty nightclub in Pigalle, eyeing up the boy of my dreams.

When Olivier came back with the drinks, I took a bottle of beer from him, raised it in a toast and drank deep.

A ripple of applause broke out as the band made their way back out of the wings.

‘Come on,’ Olivier said. ‘We’ll go to the front.’

He put a hand on my shoulder to guide me towards the stage, pushing through the crowd. I turned back to check if Nathalie was following, but she raised her hand with a smile, then disappeared into the throng. She’d be fine. Nathalie was not the kind of person to be freaked out by being alone at a gig.

We stood one behind each other, me and Olivier, close but not quite touching. My head was filled with the scent of him, and I could feel the heat from his body behind me, only inches away. The singer was at the microphone, her eyes shut, swaying suggestively from side to side, singing the introduction softly, whispered words of seduction. Every one of my senses was highly charged, yet at the same time I was more relaxed than I’d ever been, because this felt like the moment I’d been waiting for all of my life.

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