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Chapter 13
By the time we’d made it back to the bike my clothes had dried out a little, but I still felt grimy and damp all over. I missed my clothes, I missed my make-up and even though I’d spruced my hair up the best I could in the loos at the café, I felt far from my best. I’d caught a couple of people glancing at me as we’d walked along and I’d convinced myself it was because they were wondering what somebody who looked as good as Léo was doing with someone who looked like me. I’d rationalised it in my head, told myself they probably weren’t thinking any such thing, but the feeling had stuck with me.
He’d suggested we call in to see a friend of his, a girl called Sylvie who had an apartment right on the Canal Saint-Martin. It was her boyfriend’s bike he’d borrowed, apparently, and he needed to drop it back. I’d insisted that I needed to get back to the station, that I was perfectly capable of finding my own way to Gare du Nord, but as always, he’d known just the right thing to say to talk me into it. He said we could dry off before getting back on the train, that I could borrow some of his friend’s clothes. The offer had been too tempting to refuse, given I was currently wearing wet denim which smelled like a dog who’d been swimming in a stagnant pond, and he’d promised we’d only stay a few minutes. I wondered, though, whether his friends were all as generous as him, whether she, too, would be prepared to hand over her possessions to a complete stranger. I thought she might not be.
The door to Sylvie’s apartment was sandwiched between a ceramics shop and a fromagerie. She buzzed us in and we climbed the stairs to the second floor. When we reached the landing she was standing in the doorway, the epitome of aesthetic perfection, a Clémence Poésy lookalike dressed in skinny jeans and an expensive-looking pale grey sweater, wearing no make-up, her hair scraped up into a messy bun, like an off-duty ballet dancer. She was everything I wished I was.
Sylvie and Léo kissed four times on alternate cheeks (it was very time-consuming, I’d noticed, this ritual the Parisians had) and then reeled off into fast and furious French. He nodded his head in my direction every so often and Sylvie looked at me with a sort of insouciant suspicion, like she didn’t trust me but also as though she couldn’t care less who I was. Why would I, a mud-stained, curly haired, British girl, have any bearing on her seemingly perfect life?
‘Come, Hannah,’ said Léo, beckoning me inside.
I slipped off my shoes, bending to wipe the soles of my feet with a crumpled-up tissue I’d found in the bottom of my bag. It was one of those apartments that felt like a show home, like a piece of art that you’d be strung-up for getting a speck of dirt on.
‘Hi,’ I said, waving at Sylvie in an embarrassingly childlike way.
She ignored me completely, anyway, preferring to talk to Léo as though I wasn’t there, using words I had no hope of comprehending. I followed them into the lounge, a parquet-floored, minimalistic, French-windowed delight. Whatever she did (modelling, probably, or something equally as glamorous) she was obviously very successful at it because her apartment was huge and bright and in the most unbelievable location, overlooking the boutiques and restaurants on the quayside. Through the leafy sweet chestnut trees, which created a gorgeous shady canopy for the hundreds of people who were now meandering up and down both sides of the canal, I could see the teal façade and blue parasols of the Hotel du Nord, which I was pretty sure there had been a film about.
‘Sylvie will give you some clothes,’ called Léo over his shoulder, disappearing off into another room.
I unzipped the wet hoodie, draping it limply over my arm.
‘You have a lovely apartment, Sylvie,’ I said, wishing I could have come up with something more original to say.
It was true, though. The details were perfect: the quirky leaf-print cushion on the mustard velvet armchair, the framed black-and-white prints of Sylvie posing with her boyfriend. The stack of magazines on the table: American Vogue, Vanity Fair, W. The shiny, black upright piano with sheets of music placed neatly on top of it. I wanted to take some photos of my own, some close-ups of light falling on the burnished copper fruit bowl or of the rail in the corner hung with clothes arranged like a rainbow, going from whites and pastels at the far end to brightest nearest me.
‘Merci, Hannah,’ she said, brushing imaginary dust off a bookshelf with her finger and then wafting off in the direction of the kitchen. Léo reappeared in a completely different set of clothes – dark blue jeans this time, with a pale grey T-shirt and no socks.
‘They belong to Sylvie’s boyfriend, Hugo,’ said Léo, noticing my confusion. ‘Luckily we are the same size.’
He threw himself on the sofa, sticking his feet up on the coffee table.
‘Sit,’ he said to me, patting the seat next to him. ‘Relax.’
I could not relax. I perched awkwardly next to him.
Sylvie re-appeared carrying a retro tray containing a stainless-steel pot of something hot and steaming and three over-sized cups and saucers. She padded barefoot across the floor, revealing perfectly pedicured plum-coloured toenails.
‘You want tea, Hannah?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks.’
She filled each of our cups. I didn’t dare ask for milk, and dropped a lemon slice on top instead.
‘It is your first time in Paris?’ she asked, looking bored before I’d even thought about how to answer.
‘I’ve been once before,’ I said. It would have been rude not to respond, even though I knew she couldn’t care less what I said. ‘Years ago.’
‘Sucre?’ asked Sylvie, offering me a delicate china bowl of pale brown sugar.
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks.’
I took a sip of tea too soon and burned my lips, making my eyes water. I put down the cup, blinking frantically and dabbing the corner of my eyes with my fingertips, hoping they hadn’t noticed.
‘So how do you two know each other?’ I asked, looking from one to the other.
‘Hugo and I were at music college together,’ said Léo. ‘He is a brilliant musician, oui, Sylvie?’
Sylvie almost smiled. ‘He plays the saxophone,’ she said to me. ‘He is in a very well-known jazz band here in Paris.’
