The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Page B

at me while pretending to clean down his work surface.
    â€˜Is there something else?’ I asked.
    â€˜No sir, of course not.’ He said this in English. My accent must have been worse than I thought. ‘Only that your friend is very…How do you say?…Forthright?’
    â€˜Forthright. Yes, you could say that.’
    â€˜She used to come here a lot.’
    It was my turn to stare.
    â€˜I have served her many times,’ he continued. ‘Normally I would not remember, and I am sure that she does not remember me. Always the Campari and soda, though.’
    â€˜Right.’ I could see Élodie returning from the bathrooms, with her hair rearranged. I bent in closer across the bar. ‘Should I be worried about her?’ I asked in a conspiratorial sort of a whisper.
    â€˜I would not trust her. Be careful, sir.’
    She arrived before I could respond. The barman kept watching us out of the corner of his eye. I asked Élodie if we should find a table. We took one by the window and I chose the seat with its back to the bar.
    â€˜Are you all right, Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone pale. Paler than usual, I mean. Did you not tan at all in Madrid?’
    â€˜I never tan. It’s an unfortunate constitution.’
    â€˜I do feel sorry for you sometimes. No matter—surely some successful men have been pale.’ She was trying to think of an example, and failing. Not that it offended me. I had decided long ago that if my pallor meant that I could not go outside very much, at least I could read a lot. But I was not going to relate any of this to Élodie.
    â€˜When did you come here last?’ I asked.
    She put her arms in a triangular formation and leant her head against her hands. I could see the hint of her breasts for the first time, protruding from the purple satin dress. I must have been drunk because I thought of Titian’s Venus of Urbino , except that Élodie was merely teasing me with her breasts, withholding them. I wanted to touch them.
    â€˜A few years ago,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
    â€˜Just curious. This isn’t one of those places where you would go on a whim.’
    â€˜Oh, my whims are never rational. Have we not come here on a whim?’
    â€˜That’s true, when you put it like that. But who were you with last time?’
    Ã‰lodie was bemused. She slanted her brow and shook her head, so that the diamond earrings swayed to and fro.
    â€˜Why are you asking me these impertinent questions?’
    â€˜Surely it’s your turn now.’
    â€˜Ha. I see. Because you are so unguarded with your thoughts and feelings, you presumed that I would be the same.’
    This was unfair, but I could not have said why. I sampled the martini. It was too bitter, without any of the daiquirí’s sweetness. I gave a little hiccup.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Élodie,’ I said once I had recovered. ‘I was only wondering. Is there any harm in that?’
    â€˜Maybe not. Ask me again when I’ve had a few more drinks.’
    I could feel the alcohol forming a pool in my stomach. I needed water, but there was none available. The bar might as well have been in the Fourth Circle of Dante’s Inferno .
    â€˜Am I allowed to ask about your husband?’ I said.
    â€˜If you must.’
    â€˜Do you love him?’
    â€˜How do you define love, Lawrence? This will be a laugh, I am sure.’
    There were too many ways to define love. Sophie and I had discussed it during our holiday in Madrid, sitting in a café where the couple at the next table were kissing. The memory of this conversation brought with it a tinge of shame. We had both decided that there were too many different types of love to encapsulate one definition. And so we had searched it up in the dictionary on her phone.
    â€˜Devoted affection and union, I guess,’ I said, recalling what the dictionary had told us.