French Kissing Page 17

  After wandering aimlessly for a while in the deserted village streets, stepping in and out of the amber light cast by the street lamps and watching the ice clouds formed by my warm breath, my feet led me along a cut-through I dimly remembered; a snicket running parallel to a field where horses from a nearby riding school had roamed when I was a child. It bordered the perimeter fences of a bland new housing estate now, and the gravelled surface – I had a sudden memory of falling down and Mum painstakingly extracting pieces of grit from my bloodied knee – had given way to a generous layer of tarmac flecked with white stones. When I emerged from the other end, I found myself in the children’s playground next to my old junior school. It was smaller than I remembered, and there wasn’t a great deal left to play on, these days. The tall metal slide had been removed, along with its concrete base, no doubt having fallen foul of every safety regulation in the book. All that remained now were a row of swings and a wooden chicken on a giant spring.

  It came as no surprise that I had the park to myself: night had begun to fall at four and, in almost every single house I’d passed, I’d seen families huddled around their flickering TV sets. I made a beeline for the nearest swing, stepping gingerly over a used condom and an empty packet of Smoky Bacon crisps. It was a snug fit, and the damp plastic seat felt like a slab of ice against my jeans, but I sat down anyway and pushed off, my legs instinctively remembering the movement needed to gain velocity, even though I hadn’t sat on a swing in twenty years or more. As I soared higher the swing creaked ominously, the joints straining under my weight, but I continued, regardless, reasoning that I couldn’t weigh more than the average obese teenager. In the end it was the wet seat that let me down. Sliding out from under my bottom on a backswing, it left me with no option but to jab my heels into the ground, the impact jarring my knees. When the seat thwacked me in the lower back, a split second later, I yelped in pain.

  Abandoning the swings in disgust, I hobbled over to a wooden-slatted bench a few feet away. It was as damp as the swing, the wood tinged with green mildew, but when my enquiring hand came away clean, I lowered myself on to it. I remembered the last time I’d sat on this very bench as clearly as though it had been only yesterday. I’d been sixteen, going on seventeen, and it was a mild summer evening. For half an hour or more I’d stared at my watch and cursed under my breath as I waited for Richard Carter, an older boy who was seeing my best friend, Paula. He was late, but I had no way of knowing why. No one apart from drug dealers and city businessmen had mobile phones back then.

  Paula, who was pretty in a very obvious, bleached-blonde, large-chested way, had already had a string of older boyfriends, whereas I’d only managed to harvest a few isolated, cider-flavoured kisses at friends’ house parties. Richard wasn’t interested in me: our cloak-and-dagger behaviour was all Paula’s doing. I’d been over to see her earlier in the day and she’d begged me to meet Richard and act as her courier. He would give me a package – she wouldn’t reveal its contents and I wasn’t to look inside – and she’d instructed me to bring it to her house and pass it to her discreetly when the coast was clear. Her parents couldn’t stand Richard – he had something of a bad-boy reputation after a local had spotted him spraying graffiti on the village bus shelter – and Paula couldn’t set foot outside: she’d been grounded for some misdemeanour.

  When Richard showed up, he’d barely given me the time of day, clambering off his bicycle for long enough to thrust a white-paper bag into my hands, then haring off along the snicket. I’d sat on the bench for a few moments afterwards, contemplating my bounty. When I peeped inside, giving in to the same impulse to pry which had got me into trouble with Nico, years later, I’d found a rectangular cardboard packet bearing a name I didn’t recognize. Inside was a blister pack containing a single white tablet. In one sharp intake of breath I’d understood: it was the morning-after pill.

  The discovery had filled me with self-righteous indignation. My friend – my best friend – hadn’t even told me she was no longer a virgin, and not only was she secretly having sex, but she’d been taking stupid risks. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like Sarah McFadden, the girl from our class who’d dropped out of school a couple of months before GCSE mock exams to have a baby.

  I think I probably felt a jab of jealousy too, although I doubt I admitted it to myself at the time. Paula had crossed over to the other side, and I couldn’t imagine following in her footsteps any time soon. ‘I may not be as popular with the boys as Paula,’ I remember saying to myself as I turned the packet over in my hands, ‘but I’m nowhere near stupid enough to let this happen to me. There’s no way I’ll ever end up bringing up a child alone like Sarah McFadden…’

  I’d been wrong about that, hadn’t I? Sixteen years later, here I was, living alone with Lila. As for Paula, I had no idea where she was now. We’d lost touch years ago after I left home for university.

  Rising to my feet, conscious of the damp cold that had begun to penetrate my core, I slowly retraced my steps to Mum and Dad’s. Along the snicket to the road, in and out of the amber light cast by the street lamps, staring at the silent films playing out behind living-room windows as I passed. Sometimes I spied only one parent, but I felt sure the missing mother or father was only temporarily absent from the tableau, busy in the kitchen, or pouring themselves a glass of sherry, just outside my line of vision.

  I was still angry with Mum, but I knew part of the reason I’d been so touchy about the subject of Nico was because I was missing his presence, too. It was our first Christmas in ten years without him, and it still felt like Nico’s rightful place should be by our side, nursing a cup of coffee while Lila tore the wrapping paper from her presents on Christmas morning.

  I didn’t want to be with Nico any more, but I missed him, now and then, out of sheer force of habit. And when I padded up the stairs tonight, I knew that seeing the empty twin bed, no longer pushed up close to mine, would make me ache inside.

  15

  ‘Have you heard Kate’s party’s off?’ I couldn’t see Ryan’s face, but he sounded disconcerted at having the plug pulled on his New Year plans only hours before he reached for the bottle of champagne which was, no doubt, chilling in his fridge. He’d lost no time in phoning me: I’d received Kate’s cancellation text only a matter of seconds earlier.

  ‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘I just read her message…’ I was put out myself, but for a different reason. Kate’s text had been apologetic but impersonal and I suspected she’d sent the same three sentences to everyone in her phone’s address book. Didn’t I – her best friend – deserve a more detailed explanation, given the conversation we’d had before Christmas? ‘So terribly sorry,’ the message had read, ‘but Yves and I won’t be able to host our New Year’s get-together this evening. Please accept our sincere apologies for the short notice. We hope you all have a great evening! – KY.’ When Kate and Yves referred to themselves as KY, it usually made me smile – the running gag being that you couldn’t fail to get ‘well lubricated’ at one of Kate’s parties. Today, however, it had given me pause for thought. How bad had things got? Was it the very last time Kate would sign off in this way?

  Over Christmas, when I wasn’t tiptoeing around Mum and Dad, struggling to preserve the uneasy truce we’d reached after I’d returned, shivering, from my trip to the park, I’d spent a good deal of time fretting about Kate and Yves. I knew they’d spent Christmas with Yves’ family in Versailles, keeping up appearances, but I’d had no word from Kate since the day I left Paris. Even the text message I’d sent her on Christmas day – including a photo of Lila posing in a ridiculous reindeer costume Mum had picked up in her local supermarket – hadn’t prompted any reply, and her silence was troubling, to say the least. Kate was my best friend, but she was my employer too, and my livelihood depended on the health of her business. I wondered what implications it would have for my job – or Ryan’s, or Anna’s – if Yves decided to leave and take his capital with him.

  ‘Did yo
u have a plan B for tonight?’ I asked Ryan, wishing I was as blissfully unaware of Kate’s problems as he appeared to be.

  ‘I do have a couple of invitations I’d held in reserve,’ Ryan admitted, ‘although I suspect neither will be able to hold a torch to Kate’s…’ He sighed. ‘Kate always lays on the most fantastic nibbles,’ he added mournfully, ‘and seeing in the New Year at her place is such a tradition…’

  ‘Well, how about I chaperone you to whichever party you rate as the runner-up?’ I suggested, thankful Ryan hadn’t tried to draw me into any speculation about the likely cause of the last-minute cancellation. ‘Lila’s with Nico’s family, and I don’t fancy seeing in the New Year on my own, so let’s salvage something out of this wreckage…’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ryan replied, perking up audibly. ‘I’ll conduct some research into our options and, by the time you get over here for your apéro at eight, I’ll know for sure where we’re heading from here. Now, what about Anna? Will you call her, or shall I?’

  ‘Anna’s in London for New Year’s,’ I reminded him. ‘Staying with an American friend of hers, remember?’ I felt a tiny stab of jealousy when Ryan pronounced Anna’s name. We’d known one another since long before Anna arrived on the scene but, given all the extra spare time single, childless Anna had at her disposal, I suspected she’d been seeing far more of Ryan than I had, lately.

  As soon as Ryan had hung up, I dialled Kate’s mobile. ‘You’ve reached Kate Taylor,’ the even-toned, professional-sounding message said, first in French, then in English. ‘I’m afraid I’m not available at the moment, but do leave a message and I’ll call back as soon as I can.’ There was no ringing tone before the message kicked in, which implied her phone was switched off. It didn’t bode well, but short of turning up, unannounced, on Kate’s doorstep, there wasn’t much I could do but wait until she made contact of her own volition.

  The first thing I noticed when Ryan threw open his front door was that he looked inordinately pleased with himself. ‘You look like the cat that got the cream,’ I remarked, stepping inside and prompting Clyde to dart across the living room to his usual hiding place under Ryan’s bed.

  Ryan grinned smugly. ‘Remember Eric, that banker friend of Yves’ I met back in September and started seeing on and off?’ I nodded. We’d never actually been introduced, but I’d certainly heard plenty about him. ‘Well,’ Ryan continued, ‘Eric’s been on a secondment to Latvia, or Lithuania, or somewhere in one of those former Eastern bloc countries, but he’s back in Paris for New Year. And he’s invited me – or rather, us – to a fabulous party. Some friend of his has an apartment near Bourse with a roof terrace. I’m told you can see the Eiffel Tower from there, so we’ll be able to pop outside to watch the fireworks at midnight…’

  Ryan’s studiously vague-sounding ‘Latvia, or Lithuania or…’ hadn’t fooled me for a moment. He’d been pining for Eric ever since he’d gone away and I was sure he’d been monitoring his movements closely. ‘It sounds perfect,’ I said brightly, thinking to myself that it sounded anything but. I had visions of Ryan and Eric gazing into one another’s eyes while I played gooseberry. ‘Sally, whatever happens, we’ll stick together until well after the clock strikes midnight,’ Ryan reassured me, as perceptive as ever. ‘I’ll be taking my chaperone duties very seriously,’ he added. ‘You’ll need me to fight the men off you with a big stick. That dress of yours is divine…’

  My black dress – an empire-line design which emphasized my bust and camouflaged my hips – was new: I’d caught a train from Mum and Dad’s to Leeds to go shopping a couple of days after Christmas. The January sales wouldn’t begin for another couple of weeks in Paris, but in England they were already in full swing and I’d finally got around to spending the belated birthday money Nico’s mother had given me back in November.

  Reluctant to brave the bitter cold and knowing full well it would be impossible to find a taxi, Ryan and I took the métro to the party. Our carriage was packed with revellers on their way out to parties, bars and nightclubs: everyone could ride public transport for free on New Year’s Eve, with selected lines running without interruption from dusk until dawn. ‘What is it about Christmas and sequins?’ I said, giving a leggy brunette wearing a gold-sequinned mini-skirt a doubtful look. ‘The French are so good at pulling off tasteful and understated for the rest of the year. And then on Réveillon night it all goes to pot…’

  ‘You have a point.’ Ryan surveyed our fellow passengers with narrowed eyes. ‘At the last count there were twelve feather boas in this carriage alone. And feather boas, in my book, are permitted in two contexts only: on drag queens and inside your daughter’s dressing-up chest.’

  Coming to a halt on the pavement in front of the address Eric had provided, our eyes were greeted by an uninspiring block of flats, built in the late eighties, at a guess. But when we stepped out of the lift on to the eighth-floor landing and peered through the open double doors into the huge living area, my jaw dropped. ‘I’m not sure the word “apartment” does this justice,’ I murmured in Ryan’s ear. ‘This is more like a penthouse suite…’

  Inside, all was open plan and fiercely minimalist, and it looked as though an interior designer had been let loose with an unlimited budget. A dozen guests were seated on a vast, horseshoe-shaped cherry-red sofa to our right and the glass coffee table in their midst bore several silver champagne buckets and a tray of elegant-looking petit fours. To our left was a long dining table laden with more nibbles: foie gras, smoked salmon, and blinis with what at first glance looked like tapenade but turned out, on closer inspection, to be caviar. Abstract paintings hung on the white walls and glass sliding doors led on to the infamous roof terrace.

  ‘Ah, vous êtes venus!’ exclaimed Eric, appearing from a corridor to our left. ‘Alors, c’est Sally, n’est-ce pas? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, but Ryan tells me you are both friends of Yves’ lovely wife, Kate?’ He kissed first me, then Ryan, on both cheeks. Eric reminded me a little of Yves – something about his confident bearing and his choice of off-duty, smart-casual clothes, perhaps – but the way his eyes softened when he looked at Ryan endeared him to me. ‘Let me introduce you both to Laurent,’ he said, steering us towards the sofa and gesturing to a man with short bleached-blond hair who looked as though he was channelling Jean-Paul Gaultier. ‘Laurent is one of my oldest friends,’ he added. ‘We went to school together…’

  Perched on one end of the sofa with Ryan by my side and a glass of champagne in my hand, I was glad my friend seemed to feel as awe-struck by the company we were keeping as I did. Laurent, it transpired, was at the helm of a successful TV production company. With a wink, Eric told me that if I played my cards right, I could find myself jetting off to join the temptresses camp on Île de la Tentation. ‘Knowing my luck,’ I retorted dryly, ‘I’d end up on that hideous reality show where single city girls are packed off to seduce lonely farmers. You know, the one in which some clueless bimbo always ends up milking a cow while wearing stilettos?’

  Among Laurent’s guests were a few people I thought I recognized: up and coming TV presenters, a young actress and a waif-like model with razor-sharp shoulders and protruding ribs who looked as though she really ought to tuck into some of the foie gras. ‘This is officially a people-watching evening,’ Ryan murmured in my ear. I knew what he meant. Eric had been doing the rounds, chatting to the other guests, but we were both far too daunted to mingle.

  An hour or so after we arrived, Eric leaned over the back of the sofa and suggested Ryan and I accompany him out on to the roof terrace. Ryan sprang up, glass in hand, delighted to have Eric’s undivided attention, and I had no choice but to follow, reluctant to remain indoors alone. Although a row of outdoor patio heaters was belting out heat, Eric gallantly offered to put his jacket around my shoulders, and I gratefully accepted. ‘This party is about to get a lot more interesting,’ whispered Eric, as the three of us leaned against the railings and gazed out across the city skyline. I frow
ned. I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Was some celebrity about to walk through the door?

  ‘I brought this…’ Eric reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew something, opening his palm to reveal a re-sealable plastic bag containing an opaque crystal. ‘Du MDMA,’ he explained. ‘Very pure, very clean… I propose we pop it into a glass of champagne, let it dissolve and share it between us.’

  ‘I’m up for it if you are,’ said Ryan eagerly, shooting me a questioning glance. ‘What do you think, Sally? Fancy seeing in the New Year with a silly smile on your face?’

  I paused for a moment, pretending to be captivated by the sight of the Eiffel Tower, which had begun to sparkle, as it did on the hour, every hour, after nightfall. In truth, I was agonizing over how to respond. It was a long time since anyone had offered me anything like that, and there was a time when I’d have said yes without a moment’s hesitation. I had some very pleasant memories of dropping E’s in my early twenties, dancing for hours on end in nightclubs, losing all sense of time, hypnotized by the music and feeling – for a few hours at least – as though everything in my life were seamlessly perfect. But years had passed since anything stronger than alcohol had crossed my lips, and I had Lila to think of now. She was staying in Chantilly for a few days, so I knew I’d have plenty of time to recover before she returned, but that wasn’t my main concern. What, said a little voice in my head, if something went wrong?