The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson

now.’
    â€˜Really, Lawrence, you must try. One puff won’t hurt. Look at me—I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. Do I appear ill?’
    I tried to find some sign of the rotting carcass beneath the make-up and jewellery. She had angled herself as though she were in the middle of a photo shoot.
    â€˜No,’ I said, failing to hide my reproof. ‘You’ve covered it very carefully. I’m not capable of doing that.’
    â€˜One puff and I will let you off.’
    Resigned, I took the white stick and pressed it to my lips. It was as if I had inhaled a mixture of burnt tar and ashes. I coughed, but tried to subdue it. Élodie took the smouldering torture device back. It left a crude aftertaste.
    â€˜Not to your liking? Don’t worry. One does get used to these things. Good thing Ed didn’t offer you a cigar.’
    â€˜Are they stronger than this?’
    â€˜They are utterly divine. There is nothing like a good cigar. It is the difference between a cafetière and a strong espresso. Incomparable.’ She took another puff of the cigarette and grimaced. ‘I only have these out of necessity. If it were possible I would be smoking five Montecristos a day. Even my husband’s credit wouldn’t extend that far. But do give smoking a chance. It gets better. One cannot say that about many things.’
    â€˜But it really is unhealthy.’
    â€˜Isn’t everything? Coffee, alcohol, that bouillabaisse. They all do harmful things to the body, but we enjoy them.’
    The sun was on its path towards the horizon. It would take another hour or two to set, but the terrace was already bathed in the deep gold of a day’s end. It shimmered on the water, and it all felt wrong. Unlike Hendaye, with its hostile townspeople and a blaring white sun, this terrace felt like a Hollywood film set.
    â€˜Where do you live in Paris, Lawrence?’ she asked, as she continued to lean on the parapet, her shoulderblades pointing out to sea.
    â€˜The Sixth,’ I said as casually as I could. It was a fashionable address that suggested more money than I had. ‘I have a little one-bedroom. Rue Saint-Sulpice.’
    â€˜Good Lord. I had you down as the Thirteenth at best. What possessed you to live there? How do you afford it?’
    â€˜An aunt left me some money. And my flatmate is meant to be contributing.’
    â€˜He is not French, is he? Or she?’
    â€˜Ethan is from New Zealand. He’s a musician, and he is doing well for himself. But he is younger than me, and he doesn’t know how to share a house.’
    â€˜Fancy that. Two clueless boys living in Rue Saint-Sulpice. Let me guess—your parents must have had a hand in this arrangement.’
    â€˜I came here to get away from them. And I thought that this would be the best way to spend my money. Enjoying life while it lasts, right?’
    â€˜Good for you, Lawrence. So you really can pop down to the Louvre from there. It must be quite the hovel, though.’
    â€˜I don’t need much. A home is a place to be when you’re not outside, surely. It gives me a good excuse to go places.’
    â€˜How unusual. Don’t ever change that, Lawrence. You are a strange boy. Very strange indeed.’
    â€˜No. No, I’m very ordinary.’
    â€˜Never say that again, child. You owe me that much.’
    Once again her change in demeanour disoriented me. I had done something wrong. She had stayed in the same pose for a long time. The mechanics of it were uncomfortable, but when I stood back and admired her, craning her neck up and breathing out a stream of that sickly smoke, it could not have been more natural.
    â€˜I need another drink,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen anybody. And I need another drink when I haven’t seen anybody.’
    â€˜And what if you have seen somebody?’
    â€˜Then I need another several drinks.’
    This made no sense to me.