The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Page A

Nonetheless, I followed Élodie to the bar. She asked for another Campari and soda.
    â€˜This is getting silly,’ I said. ‘How many of them do you need?’
    â€˜As the occasion dictates.’
    â€˜Do you always drink this much?’
    â€˜I do when I want to have fun. I don’t always want to have fun. Sometimes I want to be damned serious.’
    â€˜I don’t understand that whole concept of fun.’
    â€˜Oh dear,’ she said. ‘You poor lamb. It’s worse than I thought.’
    She waited for me to explain myself. At a nearby table a woman shrieked with laughter. I watched the barman as he shook a martini, determination written on his face. He would go home after work to a family in one of those whitewashed villas on the outskirts of town. He had a life and a purpose.
    â€˜I would rather make my own fun than follow someone else’s,’ I said in a single breath.
    â€˜Now that I can understand,’ Élodie said. ‘Why not make me your fun?’
    â€˜Because you would enjoy it more than I would.’
    â€˜I’m not so sure about that.’ She flicked her eyelids up and down, reaching around to straighten her hair. Her elbow was red and flaky. ‘Oh hell. Have another drink.’
    â€˜I’m all right, thanks.’
    â€˜I insist. You might need it if we are to see Ed Selvin again.’
    â€˜What if I don’t want to see him again?’
    â€˜You didn’t like him?’
    â€˜No.’
    There was no point in pretending otherwise, and Élodie deserved to taste her own flavour of bluntness.
    â€˜That’s a real shame,’ she said. ‘He’s a nice fellow. You don’t like him because he is confident, sure of himself. Is that right?’
    â€˜What? No, I never said that.’
    â€˜It’s the most obvious thing in the world. Does he perhaps remind you of the children at school who looked down on your modesty and earnest studiousness with contempt? The ones who thought that you took it all too seriously, and mocked you for that reason?’
    â€˜I don’t know where you’re getting this from,’ I scoffed. ‘I was happy in school. You wouldn’t know. You know nothing about me.’
    â€˜But they were right,’ she continued, ignoring my growing frustration. ‘You do take things too seriously. Have you never wanted to simply relax and love life for what it is? Now, what will you have?’
    There was no way to refuse her. I asked the barman for a dry martini.
    â€˜You really are a bully,’ I said. ‘Are you happy now?’
    â€˜You’ve gone to the other extreme, silly boy. You are mixing rum and gin. A true recipe for disaster.’
    â€˜You’re impossible to please, aren’t you?’
    â€˜I’ll be pleased if you don’t end up passed out on the beachfront. Drinking needs to be treated with sophistication and sensibility. So don’t have the whole thing at once.’
    â€˜That’s not the sort of advice I would expect from you.’
    â€˜Well remember it, boy. Retain your dignity.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘Please excuse me. Won’t be a minute.’
    I was left to the sound of ambient chat. I always preferred to stand up at the bar, where I had a vantage point of the rest of the room. This was a good bar, made from polished oak and bound by brass. My reflection stood out in the mirror, which had bottles of gin and whisky stacked in front of it, and my head appeared between them. I was becoming sick of the gold. The room was lit to accentuate the yellow end of the hue, and it felt like being stuck behind a pair of tinted glasses. The chandeliers gave off a nauseating glow, and the diamonds were not so much glinting as fading into the half-light.
    â€˜Your martini, sir.’ The barman had presented it to me on a tray. He wore a mauve tie that set him apart from his customers.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    He stared