Chapter 12 #2
That evening, I met Nicole for a drink in a café overlooking the river.
Walking down the lamplit streets, and taking the familiar turns towards the city centre, I realised that Compiègne had indeed become familiar to me.
It seemed like a lifetime ago since I’d arrived on that unexpected train journey from Paris, full of disappointment at my sheer bad luck to have taken on a job in some outlying village.
I had come a long way in a few short weeks, in every sense.
Nicole was sitting at the bar chatting amiably with one of the bar staff when I arrived.
I had never met someone so comfortable in their own skin, and the ease with which she bonded with people left me feeling a little envious.
‘So…’ she prompted, after ordering me a glass of wine and a snack of paté and bread. Both were exceedingly delicious and bursting with strong flavours.
‘So, he … I mean, Hugo, walked me home,’ I began, though it felt strange saying his name out loud. It was such a magical night and while I had tried my hardest not to daydream about it since, I sometimes wondered if it had ever happened at all.
‘Yes, and…’ Nicole said impatiently.
‘Well, we talked a lot and… Oh, you know he’s a photographer?’ I said.
‘Très bien, et…’ she prompted, eager to get to the good bits.
‘OK, OK, we kissed!’ I swooned like a schoolgirl and didn’t even have the dignity to hide it. The memory of his soft lips came rushing back to me and I actually blushed. ‘God, he was such a good kisser.’
‘Voilà – je l’avais dit! You’re going to have fun in France, non?’ she purred. ‘Are you meeting him again?’
‘Well, that’s just it: he said he had to go back to Paris for some work thing. Actually, I don’t know when he’s coming back, he didn’t say.’
‘Did he take your number? I’m sure he’ll call,’ she said matter-of-factly, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder and revealing giant white hoop earrings.
‘Eh, no, he didn’t,’ I realised with a sinking feeling. ‘I didn’t even think to ask.’
‘Hmm, but he lives here, yes?’
‘I don’t think so. He said he has an apartment in Paris.’ Now that I was saying this aloud to Nicole, the whole thing began to sound a bit sketchy. ‘Oh, God, you don’t think he’s married, do you?’
‘Pourquoi, what makes you think that?’ Nicole asked, clearly less concerned about the possibility than me. She was French, after all.
‘Well, when we got back to the bakery, I invited him up and he just said something about having to get up early. At the time I thought he was being chivalrous, you know? I mean I’m not completely deluded, I’m sure he was interested, but it’s like he stopped himself.
Now I’m thinking it was guilt that made him hesitate. ’
‘Non, je ne pense pas. He did not have that vibe of a married man.’
‘What vibe?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s hard to describe, but he was too uneasy to be married. You know, married men are just more relaxed, probably because they know they have someone at home. Nah, he was too tense to be married.’
‘That’s ridiculous, tense people get married. Relaxed people marry and become tense! What kind of reasoning is that? You’re just trying to spare my feelings.’
‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But look, there are so many other men here.’ Her gaze took in a room full of couples.
I tilted my head with an ironic look.
‘OK, well not here here, but why are you putting all your apples in this basket?’
‘It’s eggs,’ I corrected her.
‘Ce n’est pas important,’ she sighed, exasperated. ‘You really like him, eh?’
I nodded helplessly.
‘Perhaps he was being, how did you say, chivalrous? He is part English after all.’
I gulped the rest of my wine with a hard swallow. ‘He was such a good kisser,’ I repeated, looking out of the window.
Just then Nicole’s phone buzzed and she clicked open the message. Her relaxed features suddenly tensed.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
‘Zut alors. The rent is overdue again.’ She slumped a little.
‘Oh,’ I winced. I couldn’t think of any platitudes and didn’t want to intrude on Nicole’s private affairs.
‘Never marry a musician, Edith!’
‘Sorry. If there’s any way I can help,’ I said lamely, knowing that there was nothing I could do.
‘Well, if you hear of any jobs going for a qualified historian, let ‘im know.’ She rolled her eyes.
Here I was thinking that they had the perfect life, but everyone had their problems.
‘Anyway, tell me about Hugo again. So … he is a really good kisser?’ she encouraged me. And I talked about that, and the romance of the evening with him, until we were both smiling again. Confiding it all to Nicole helped to restore my belief that I would hear from him again.
When I got home that night and let myself into my little apartment, I noticed something on the mat as I opened the door.
Picking it up, I realised that it was a postcard with a black-and-white image of the Eiffel Tower.
I flipped it over and straightaway saw the name ‘Hugo’ signed at the end.
My heart skipped as I threw off my coat and sat on the bed to read it properly.
Miss Lane,
Still dreaming a little dream of you
Hugo x
Short, sweet and incandescently romantic. He hadn’t asked for my number, but he had remembered my address. There was something so wonderfully old-fashioned about sending a postcard, rather than texting me. God, he’s smooth, I thought to myself, for he now had me, hook, line and sinker.