Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Once I fell into Hugo’s embrace, I think we both knew where the evening would lead.
I could have blamed the Mai Tais or the fact that Johnny’s band began playing ‘Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall In Love)’, but the truth was that something was happening inside of me.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but something was becoming unstuck.
When Hugo asked me to dance and the band sang about birds and bees doing it, my fate was sealed.
Had we sat chatting at the table, we might well have gone our separate ways that night.
He didn’t strike me as someone who would make a good dancer: his professional veneer and English reserve made him appear quite stuffy.
But when we started to move on the dance floor, his French genes must have taken over, for he directed me in a practised manner with ease and confidence.
We didn’t speak very much, words seemed superfluous, but I felt so connected to him on a physical level that my inhibitions around him vanished.
When the band finally wrapped up with a version of Benny Goodman’s hectic ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’, we admitted defeat and returned to the table where Hugo ordered another round of drinks.
‘Where did you learn to dance like that?’ he asked.
‘I was just following you,’ I said, slightly out of breath and wishing I’d worn more comfortable shoes. I surreptitiously rubbed the side of my pinkie toe, which was probably already blistering. Taking a sip of my drink, I looked up to find myself the subject of the most intense stare.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, looking away and self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Or everything, actually’.
‘What?’
‘Do you want to get out of here?’
Just then, Nicole, her sister and her husband Johnny, arrived back at the table.
Nicole made all of the introductions and while I was pleased to finally meet Johnny, the timing couldn’t have been worse.
It was clear they were mad about each other, as he caressed Nicole’s neck and placed kisses on her cheek at every break in conversation.
A soundtrack of cool jazz began playing over the sound system replacing the live musicians, and the tempo slowed to a soft sway.
Chet Baker crooned, ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily’.
The whole atmosphere was intoxicating and I felt like I was starring in my own Hollywood romance.
I gave Nicole a theatrical wink and said I needed the loo.
‘What do you think?’ I asked, as she followed me. I suddenly realised that I was looking for guidance from a girl I had only just met, about a guy we hardly knew.
‘He’s very handsome. Do you like ‘im?’
‘Well, he’s undeniably charming,’ I said, smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt.
‘And when we danced together, it was like … every touch was just magical.’ I hadn’t realised that I’d closed my eyes and when I opened them, Nicole was grinning at me.
‘He’s asked me to go on somewhere else, but to be honest, I’m shattered,’ I said, squinting at my watch.
‘It must be all of these early mornings.’
‘Why not ask him to walk you home?’ she enthused, putting on her bright berry lipstick.
‘Eh, I don’t know, maybe because I hardly know him and he could be an axe murderer?’ I pointed out.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, no, probably not, but?—’
‘Listen, ma belle, you came to France to change your ideas a bit, non? So follow your heart this time. It is OK to have some fun sometimes, you know!’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ I said, smacking the palm of my head against my forehead.
I was tired of being so sensible all of the time.
Always assuming the worst and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I hadn’t realised how hard it would be to break free from the old me, but there and then I felt the desperate urge to take a holiday from myself and all of my rules.
‘You have my mobile number if you need me, d’accord?’ she said, rousing me from my thoughts. ‘Now stop over-thinking everything and get back out there!’
* * *
‘So, Edith, you haven’t told me what brought you to Compiègne,’ Hugo asked, as we walked along the riverbank. The heightened sense of enjoyment I got out of hearing him say my name made me feel like a complete nerd, but his accent was so delicious I couldn’t help it.
‘Um, something of a clerical error,’ I joked, sounding decidedly less posh than Hugo’s tutored English accent.
The cool night air came as a shock after the hot and sweaty atmosphere of Nostalgie, yet I somehow felt buffeted against the cold when Hugo offered his arm in such a chivalrous move that it made my heart glow a little brighter.
‘I had always planned to come to France,’ I said, sounding very cosmopolitan, ‘but Compiègne was … how can I put it?’
‘A twist of fate?’ he offered and I nodded in agreement. It certainly sounded better that way. ‘And what do you do here?’
‘I’m a singer.’ I’d blurted it out before my brain had time to restrain me. I had no idea why I said it; all I knew was that I wanted to sound a little more interesting than a mid-life-crisis victim working in a bakery.
‘Really?’ he asked, genuinely impressed by my not so run-of-the-mill answer. In fact, he seemed so impressed that I was reluctant to correct him. Besides, what harm would it do to tell a little white lie? As Nicole said, I wasn’t marrying the guy.
‘Yes, well, I mean, I’m working in a bakery here until I get my big break, but yes, I’m a singer.’
‘What genre of music do you sing? Do you write your own songs?’ he enthused, unaware of the pressure he was putting on me to make up the answers.
‘Mainly jazz,’ I said, trying to keep it vague and nonchalant.
‘Ah, hence Nostalgie,’ he concluded.
‘Mmm … and what about you? You never said what it was you do,’ I deflected, buying myself some time from my ridiculously tall tale.
‘Um, well, I do some photography,’ he said.
‘Really, oh, that sounds so interesting! What kind of photography?’ For a moment I imagined him doing nude portraits. I crossed my fingers.
‘Streetscapes, mostly, I’m not very good at it, though.’
Phew! Humble and artistic, he almost seemed too good to be true.
‘In fact, I’m off to Paris in the morning to take some shots on location,’ he added
I emitted a kind of strangled noise.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just … I didn’t get to see much of Paris when I arrived.’ I decided not to tell him what a moron I’d been, confusing the name of the bakery.
‘Well, I have an apartment there. You can use it, if you like…’
Who said things like that? I have an apartment in Paris if you want to use it. I felt like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life for the night. I hoped it wouldn’t all end at midnight.
We came to a bench that offered a beautiful view of the Pont Solferino bridge, with its lights reflected in the flowing waters of the River Oise. Despite the chill, the late hour and the absurdity of it, we both instinctively sat down, wishing to prolong the evening.
‘So do you live here, or…’ I didn’t want it to sound like an interview question, but I was curious to fill in the blanks.
‘Not anymore. I grew up here, but we moved to Paris when I was about seven. It’s funny,’ he said, looking out towards the bridge and the lights of the buildings, ‘I always remember it being bigger than it is.’
‘That’s childhood memories for you, half of them are inventions.’
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, turning to look at me, with an unreadable smile on his face.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I really didn’t know.
I’d been trying to block out the painful memories for so long now, it was difficult to recall what actually happened, what was true and how my childhood brain had interpreted it.
‘Two people can have the same experience, yet still have completely different memories of it.’
He looked out at the water again, as if trying to solve some puzzle.
‘Have you read Proust?’
I burst out laughing.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, it’s just so random!’
We both began to laugh. It seemed like a ridiculous question to ask someone, half drunk, that you’d just met in a bar called Nostalgie. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a beaten up old paperback and handed it to me.
‘Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust,’ I read aloud.
‘It’s the first volume of In Search of Lost Time. I think you might like it. Besides, you’re living in France now so you have to read Proust. I don’t make the rules.’
‘And you just happen to carry a copy around with you, like a prop,’ I said, flicking through the pages.
‘What can I say, I like to have a paperback on my person at all times.’
‘You’re not really like anyone I’ve ever met before,’ I said, letting my guard down momentarily.
‘I hope that’s a good thing.’
So do I, I thought to myself.
I felt his fingertips brushing against mine and looked up at his face.
God, I wanted to kiss him. I wasn’t sure if I was leaning towards him or if the earth tilted on its axis, but before I knew it, our lips were touching.
I could feel his stubble grazing my top lip, his hand reaching up to cradle the back of my neck and it felt like a romantic film.
There wasn’t a sound, just the breeze blowing in the branches overhead.
He kissed me softly and deeply, the warmth of his breath on my skin intoxicating.
It was the most beautiful feeling of complete abandonment, and I did not want it to end.
I felt light-headed when we stopped and I didn’t know what to say.
‘That was…’ he murmured.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed.
He held my hand in his and eventually we found some words and began forming sentences again. But none of it really mattered. It was all secondary to whatever unspoken thing was happening between us.
‘Do you make a habit of kissing strange women on park benches, Mr Chadwick?’
‘On a scale of one to ten, how strange are we talking?’
I smacked his arm playfully and he leaned in to kiss my ear. Oh, God, I was really falling for him.