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Chapter 3
Light filtered through the glass roof of the Gare de Lyon in misty strips of silver. I put my camera to my right eye and took a sequence of photos. I wasn’t really in the mood and I couldn’t remember a thing I’d learned from my Beginner’s Photography book about composition, about framing, but it was too lovely not to try. It was the first beautiful thing I’d ever noticed about Paris; it felt right to capture it.
I followed the other passengers along the platform. The air was spiked with fumes, the way it always was in these gigantic stations, and a cool breeze made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I folded my arms around myself, my shoulder bag bobbing up and down under my arm. It was easy to spot who was French and who was not, I thought. The local women looked chic and unruffled, even after the long and uncomfortable journey we’d had. They wore light jackets over expensive-looking fine knits, and had filmy scarves wrapped nonchalantly around their shoulders. I, on the other hand, was in a wafer-thin vest and skinny jeans that had gone all saggy at the knee.
Because I was lagging behind the rest of the crowd it was eerily quiet, except for the turning over of a train’s engine on a distant platform and the odd squeak of a suitcase wheel. I moved hesitantly towards the ticket barriers, knowing I was going to have to brazen this out. I hooked stray hairs behind my ears, fixed on a smile and made a beeline for the less aggressive-looking of the two male ticket inspectors. I attempted to exude confidence by doing all the things I thought confident people probably did: I made eye contact, I relaxed my shoulders and I, inexplicably, casually hummed a Hamilton show tune under my breath.
He held out his hand as I approached.
‘I haven’t got my ticket, I’m afraid,’ I told him, keeping my expression apologetic yet assured, hoping he’d believe me when I told him that I wasn’t an actual fare dodger.
‘Quoi?’ he said, groaning when a woman ran her massive suitcase over his foot.
‘I didn’t realise the train separated in Geneva,’ I explained, my voice coming out all sing-songy in my rush to make my excuses. ‘And the thing is, I’ve got a wedding to get to in Amsterdam. Today, in a few hours’ time. Can you tell me what I need to do?’
He laughed, throwing back his head, his mouth open so wide that I could see his tonsils.
‘Why do you not keep your ticket with you? It is yours, non?’ he said.
‘My boyfriend has it,’ I said, struggling to keep my cool. ‘And he’s currently on his way to Amsterdam. Where I should be going.’
Seriously, what was it with ticket inspectors and their attitudes? Everyone made mistakes. Some more than others, as Si would say.
He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Un moment, Madame.’
I watched him shuffle off to speak to another – presumably more senior – inspector.
It was raining, of course, just to add insult to injury; I could hear it clattering on the roof of the station in violent, tinny bursts. Typical Paris with its grim, depressing weather. I’d get soaked at this rate, just what I didn’t need with another long train journey ahead. If I made it that far, that was. The worst-case scenario would be that they’d make me pay a massive fine for not having a ticket. And I’d have to try my credit card and it wouldn’t go through because I was probably over my limit. And then what would they do with me? Send me back to London? Detain me? I’d never make the wedding then, which given how the day was already panning out, was looking more and more likely.
Another train snaked through the tunnel towards the platform, its windscreen wiper flicking back and forth across the front window. I watched as it squealed to a stop and the doors opened and about a thousand people cascaded off. What were they all doing here? I could never understand the appeal of Paris; I could think of a million better places to go. In a moment of rebellion, I thought I might be able to lose myself in the crowd, barge through the barrier behind one of them, like people sometimes did on the Tube. There was a name for it, an actual word, but I couldn’t remember what it was. It was on the tip of my tongue. Piggy-backing? Anyway, the younger, more defiant me might have tried it, but, well … I wasn’t brave enough to do stuff like that any more.
The inspector came back. ‘We will let you through,’ he said, opening the barrier with a fob. ‘You are lucky we will allow it, you understand?’
I nodded obediently.
‘You must go directly to Gare du Nord where you can buy a ticket for the train to Amsterdam. D’accord?’
I nodded again, whisking through before he changed his mind, calling a thank-you over my shoulder.
The clock on the departures board said 6.37. I needed coffee, but there was no time or money for that. I’d had nowhere near enough sleep and felt as though I was either deeply jet-lagged or coming round from an anaesthetic. I began to walk, heading over to a pod of garish orange and green ticket machines, figuring there must be a train or a Métro I could catch. I stood in front of one, staring at the screen for a few seconds, prodding at all the buttons before working out that I needed to twiddle a dial to move the cursor. Eventually I found Gare du Nord, but I couldn’t figure out which ticket to get, or which route I’d need to take to get there. I whirled round, looking for some sort of information desk, catching sight of the French guy from the train disappearing down the escalator into the Métro with his too-big bag on his shoulder. I bet he’d have absolutely no problem swanning across Paris like he owned the place. Just as I resigned myself to the fact I was going to have to actually approach somebody and ask, I saw a sign for taxis and thought how much easier that would be. I felt around in the bottom of my bag, pulling out the twenty-euro note I’d seen earlier. It was a risk using up all my cash so early on, but surely the most important thing was that I caught the next train to Amsterdam, even if it meant spending every last penny I had. I could go without food for a few hours, it wouldn’t be the end of the world; I could stuff my face at the wedding instead.
I ran outside into the rain, holding my open book above my head.
Miraculously, because it was too early for the tourists, I supposed, there was only a short queue at the taxi rank. I watched the cars pulling up, one after the other, each one sporty and black with a flashy green logo on the side. When my turn came, I opened the rear door and flung myself inside, sliding my bottom across the slippery, leather seat.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ I said, reaching back to slam the door behind me. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘A little,’ he said, looking at me suspiciously in his rear-view mirror. Was I going to be too much trouble for him, he might be wondering; was the fare worth the hassle?
‘I need to get to the Gare du Nord, but I only have twenty euros. Will that be enough?’
He shrugged.
Well that was helpful. Anyway, I was here now, I would have to risk it.
‘If the meter gets up to twenty, I’ll have to get out and walk the rest of the way. Ok?’
‘Oui, Madame,’ he said, screeching away from the kerb, his elbow hanging out of the window, a cheesy French pop tune on the radio.
