Chapter Five #3
With my things collected and in tow, we went back upstairs toward the ticket counter.
But even though we were no longer locked in battle, my temper wouldn’t cool.
I was furious with him, furious with myself.
Afraid that this would reflect poorly on me when I needed to earn Vartre’s good opinion now more than ever.
I tried to breathe and tell myself everything would be fine.
We’d catch the next train. But it felt like this was another in a growing line of life-altering crises arising in my life.
Benoit Levin, however, seemed relaxed, moving through the crowd with loose ease.
As we crossed the station, Benoit suggested we split up. “I can call the office while you see about the tickets.”
“Oh, no you don’t. There’s no way you’re calling work to tell them it’s all my fault. I’ll handle Vartre; you check on the tickets.”
“Maybe we should just stick together, since I can’t be trusted.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one being ridiculous.”
And so I talked on the phone while he stood right next to me and listened to every word. Then we went to the ticket counter together. We explained the situation to the clerk, who clicked her tongue and searched her ledgers.
“I’m sorry, but the next train is the busiest all day, especially this time of year. The economy cabin is the best I can do.”
“We don’t need to sit together.” I assured her. “Not even in the same car. You must have two individual seats.”
“I'm sorry. The economy cabin is the only thing left. Unless you want to wait until tomorrow morning.”
“There are two individual seats in the economy cabin?”
“There are two seats, yes. It’s nice. Very private. You’ll like it. I won’t tell.” She looked between us and smiled suggestively.
“Fine. If that’s all we can get,” Benoit said at the same time I said, “We’re not together.”
“Sure.” She shrugged, unconvinced and not really caring.
I resented that she assumed we were a couple. I was most certainly not part of a couple.
To be honest, I never imagined myself in any sort of coupling.
I had been kissed—there was a boy in school who I loved and who loved me back—in our childish, bumbling ways.
But I’ve never had a real, adult petit ami.
I didn’t really want one. I didn’t want a girlfriend either, if that’s what you’re wondering.
I wanted my work. I needed my work. I imagined no other future than working at my highest capacity.
It had always been that way. I was hired as a secretary because I was a woman, but I wanted to be a reporter.
My first story was about an up and coming playwright from Montmartre who Nadine introduced me to.
I interviewed him, wrote up the story, and then I spent two days not giving it to the editor because I was so nervous that he wouldn’t take me seriously.
I was afraid he would dismiss me outright.
But he read it while I stood there, to my utter mortification.
Then he published it without changing a word.
And he payed me for it. That was my first small success, which led to many more.
My ambitions ran high, much higher than my experience and, frankly, my maturity level.
But I wanted it, whatever was available.
I had no one but myself, and so I wanted everything I could get.
Every time I achieved something, the next goal always became visible.
Now it was section editor. Who knew what I could be or accomplish from that higher place?
Needless to say, I wasn’t thinking about love or any sort of coupling, regardless of what the ticket clerk assumed.
Not even when Benoit Levin stirred terribly inconvenient and most unwelcome desirous feelings in me.
Back on the train platform, there were open spots on two benches that faced each other.
I sat on one side next to an older woman who smelled like lemon, and he sat on the other.
We had four hours to wait. For a long while, neither of us spoke.
His proximity was maddening. There was no way we’d make it five hours on a train in an economy cabin, whatever that was.
I tried to put it out of my mind. That nightmare was still hours away, while my current nightmare—the one with him watching me from across the way with some unreadable, smug expression on his perfect face—was happening now.
His presence aroused something destructive in me that I struggled to control.
This trip was turning into some kind of impassable test of my strength as a woman, as a human being.
How not to kill a bastard who deserved it, or something like that.
But I couldn’t give up. We hadn’t even left Paris yet.
Benoit pulled a cigarette case from an interior pocket of his jacket and held it up to offer me one. I accepted, and he stood to pass a cigarette and light it for me. I nodded in thanks.
There was just something about him that made my skin crawl so bad I wanted to rip off my clothes.
Not in a sexual way. Not at all. A frustrated release, maybe?
No, that didn’t sound right either. Whatever it was, I needed to get it under control.
So I watched the crowd. I smoked a cigarette.
I read my papers. And if I didn’t look at him, it was almost as if he didn’t exist.