Margaret sat in the first-class section of the mid-morning Eurostar to Paris. Her bags were in the store, and she was looking forward to a light lunch. She knew that the price included a full lunch, Julian would have made certain of that, but she was not certain she could manage. Ahead should be a delightful weekend, as the weekends that she had enjoyed monthly for the past year. But now was the ‘big leap’.
Until last week, their affair had been a closely guarded secret. At least between Julian and his family, Margaret’s friends demanded and got a, blow by blow account of their relationship. Everything from her first seeing him in the reception of their office, to their first lunch, the concerts and the plays they had both enjoyed whenever Julian was in London. And they also demanded details of how she had managed in France.
The risk. Surely, they would run into one of Julian’s friends. In a restaurant or bar, walking along one of the boulevards, arm in arm. And when she had mentioned this to Julian, he had merely shrugged and said that people had to know at some time. So she had stopped worrying about it and enjoyed a wonderful Spring in Paris.
Of course, Julian could not be there not every weekend, but she had gone along to their small hotel near Sacré-Cœur. She loved the area near Montmartre. And whenever she was there, which was most weekends, she would take a small sketchbook and sit with others who thought of themselves as artists and sketched whatever grabbed her attention.
And it didn’t matter that Julian was not there every weekend. What mattered was that she was in Paris, near to him.
Eventually, when she had grown tired of the hotel, and Margaret had rented a small flat. Six months lease, it would be enough for them to know what they were doing. This meant she could arrive whenever she wanted, and that meant arranging her holidays to suit. Adding a day or two to the weekend to make her stay more useful. And while she was there, she had driven her ‘schoolgirl French’ to near fluency, which led to some interesting revelations. She still found it fascinating that a waiter could smile you and give you good service, hoping for a tip, while insulting you to their colleagues. It was an art form she only noticed after several months of study.
Over the time she had known Julian, Margaret had studied hard. She knew that he would admire her for her knowledge of French history and culture. She had learnt about the Franco-Prussian war and the siege of Paris. So many dead, less than fifty years before the first world war. Then the two European wars and again, France was one of the main losers. Three major wars in less than a hundred years, it was not surprising they loved their new relationship with the New Europe.
The train approached the tunnel, the worst part of the journey for her, and she suspected the same for the others. Racing blind through the darkness at two hundred miles an hour seemed like madness. It was bad enough on the tube when the best they could do was about thirty. Then they were through into the sunshine of Northern France.
Months ago, she had used a map to chart her progress to Paris and thought that, since they were going too fast to see the station names, there were probably only two people aboard who knew where they were. Her and the driver. But as she approached Paris, her normal pleasure was metered with a slight sense of panic.
Three days earlier, she had received a phone call and not recognised the voice. French, female, and for a moment Margaret thought it was Julien’s wife, she was quickly disabused of this idea.
‘Hi, I hope you don’t mind my poor English. I am Sophie; my Father is Julien, who you know, I believe.’ For a second, she wondered if something had happened to her lover, and thought about the consequences of being the ‘mistress’. No one would take a moment to call you, no one would put an arm around you at the funeral. You would stand alone in the damp graveyard, apart from the family. Ostracised, anonymous and if anyone knew who you were, you would be branded as a pariah, who should have stayed at home.
‘There’s nothing wrong. Just that, well, you know, we would love to meet you.’ She had seen photographs of the girls and knew they were early teenagers, possibly thirteen and fifteen, so she was amazed at how mature they sounded.
Eventually, they had decided on a location. Not the McDonalds that she would have thought they would opt for. Somewhere they would feel safe and secure, should she not appear, nor the small café that she used when she was in Paris. A tiny restaurant in Montmartre, where Bernard would serve her with her evening meal so often, they would take a glass of wine after she had paid her bill and he had locked the door, but a large restaurant opposite the Gar-Du-Nor. Somewhere that Margaret had seen and thought would be too easy for tourists, too full, too fast for a relaxed meal. And too expensive for her budget or theirs.
But this was their choice, and when she approached the maître d, she was immediately shown to a small table near the window, in a quieter part of the restaurant.
For the next ten minutes, Margaret watched the flow of tourists wander aimlessly past the café, odd ones liking the look to the place and looking at the menu outside, other shaking their heads, atmosphere or the price was not for them. And as she watched, she thought about the girls that had arranged this meal.
Mature for their age, and she hoped that did not mean they were precocious, she would have to live with the girls sooner or later at least half the time, once his divorce came through. She could expect them to be antagonistic towards her. In their eyes, she could be breaking up their happy home, insulting their mother, and knowing how selfish children were, that would matter much more than the happiness of their father.
‘May we join you? All the other tables seem to be occupied.’ Margaret had not noticed two young women walk into the café.
The taller of the two, wearing a long white coat of brushed wool or looking more closely, pure angora. Almost fur like that demanded stroking. The other one, who was a little taller than Margaret, wore an English Trenchcoat. They had the build and look of models, and for a second, Margaret was taken aback by their sheer presence.
‘Well, actually, I’m waiting for someone.’ She said in stumbling English.
‘We know, I am Sophie, and this is my sister Julia.’ Margaret half stood and shook their hands, and they sat. Sophie slipped the white coat off to reveal a beautifully cut skirt and jacket.
‘I would guess that you were expecting two children.’ Sophie said and looked at her sister smiling.
‘Did dad show you that dreadful photograph of us when we were on holiday?’ Julia asked.
‘Surely not. That one was taken years ago.’ Sophie looked at her sister and smiled. They knew the photograph and clearly remembered the holiday.
‘At least it was not one of us in our bathing suit. That was the year everyone was trying to be so “cool”, going topless. Not that it was a problem for you, Julia, I mean.’ She looked at her sister, and the younger one merely shook her head.
For the next five minutes, the two women reminisced about their holidays and how they had grown. How the South of France had been spoiled by the crowds and the cheap flights.
By now they had ordered their meal, all three opting for a rabbit casserole, and Margaret ordered a bottle of wine to accompany it. Eventually, Julia nodded at Sophie and started the serious part of the debate.
‘You probably thought we were younger, and that is what Dad wanted since it makes him younger. I don’t know how old he has told you he is, but I can tell you that it is his fortieth wedding anniversary this year. It’s a formal occasion, and we are organising it.’ Margaret stayed silent.
‘So, in some ways, that means less of an impedance to your arrangements. You know, no custody battles, but of course, well you are a young woman. What are you, forty?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes, I’m thirty-nine.’ She answered quietly feeling the edge of the cliff being cut away from her, the ground moving below her. He had lied about his age, what else had he lied about.
‘Now here’s the thing, and don’t take this the wrong way. We love our father.’ Her sister broke into the conversation.
‘We love Mum to, Sophie.’
‘Of course, we do, but that, well Margaret is not going to settle down with Mum, is she?’ Julia went silent. She had made her point.
‘They have lived apart for years, and we are old enough to cope. Hell, we’ve both got flats and good jobs in Paris. So, all that I’d like to say is, welcome to the family and we would love to get to know you better. Much better. You know, before you two settle down.’
At last, Margaret started to find her feet in the conversation. The first surprise was being telephoned by Julien’s daughter, which turned out to be two daughters. And not mature, thirteen-year-olds, but women in their late twenties. Then the restaurant, not McDonald’s where the girls would feel comfortable, or some small café which they could all afford, but the swish chrome and starched aprons of the Café Gar Du Nor.
‘Who knows about our relationship? I mean, I thought we were discrete.’ The two girls looked at each other, their minds clearly churning over their first knowledge of his duplicity. Sophie put her head on one side and looked at Margaret.
‘Well, everyone, I guess. We’ve known for ages. I mean, you might be discrete but when Dad is away for every weekend, Christmas and the New Year, we would have to be idiots not to know what was going on.’
And as she said it, Margaret thought about last Christmas when she had forgone her sister’s invitation to three days in the country; with the warmth and noise of a family Christmas for the chill of her small flat in Montmartre. A ready-made Christmas dinner alone and the afternoon walk to the Sacra Cure. A loss that she had gladly made, knowing she would only spend the holiday thinking of Julian and he would be thinking of her. Being in Paris meant she was closer to him, and that was better than nothing. She had hoped that he was not miserable, that the warmth and smiles of his own children would make up for not visiting her in the flat. But he had not been with his family.
The conversation came to the inevitable end as they finished, and the waiters started to look towards them expecting them to order a second course or leave the table to someone who wanted to eat.
‘It’s been lovely to meet you.’ Sophie stood, the older and more business-like of the two taking command, ‘and welcome to the family. We hope you enjoy the opera tonight, I know that Dad has tickets.’
As she thought about Christmas and her afternoon in the glorious Sacré-Cœur nine months earlier, she thought about the past year. She had risked everything for him, rented a flat in Paris, taken leave from her work, abandoned all her friends and her family, to immerse herself in Paris. She looked across at the coat rack with her beret and coat and thought hour stupid it looked. An English woman, trying to look like a Parisian.
For another ten minutes after they had left, Margaret sat and sipped her coffee until it was time to leave. When she went to the counter, she discovered that the bill was settled, and the waiter smiled benignly at her, clearly glad of the tip and the empty table.
Margaret decided to walk back to her flat and thought about the opera. It was obviously a surprise for her, and she knew that there would be a message on her voicemail. But she went straight past to sit for another afternoon in the Sacra Cur, watching worshippers and tourists come and go.
One couple, clearly tourists broke Margaret’s golden rule, no flash in the church, as he took a photograph of his wife, she touched the feet of a statue. Then to Margaret’s surprise, knelt down and prayed for ten minutes, they had merely wanted to remind themselves of their worship.
Three hours later she was in her flat, changed and went out. But on the steps down towards the heart of the town she stopped, it was getting late, and she thought that a snack would be a good idea. So she turned and went to the small café in the Montmartre where she ordered an omelette and sat and for the remainder of the evening, as usual.
Eventually, Bernard walked over to her table with another glass of red wine for her, sat opposite, laid out the newspaper and started to read. A few minutes later, a plate of casserole was presented to him together with a bread roll, and he started to eat without comment.
When the Parton sits to eat his own meal, the locals know the signs, and gradually, the café emptied, but Margaret stayed. And as usual, cleared the table nearest to her onto the tall bar, a small gesture to help the waitress. Then the next table and eventually did as she always did wipe down all the tables replaced the cutlery and napkins. Then, rather than taking her leave, she sat opposite Bernard and a bottle of cognac with two glasses arrived between them.
‘Bad news.’ Bernard had finished his meal, wiped the plate with the bread and passed the plate onto the bar, then poured two measures of brandy. Margaret merely nodded.
‘Bad news, is always better shared, and even better when viewed through the bottom of a glass of cognac.’ He smiled at her.
‘It’s an easy way to dull the pain. But the pain will be there tomorrow.’
‘And so will the café. So will the rabbit stew, the glass of brandy, and, yes,’ he hesitated. ‘So will the Patron.’ He raised his glass to her and sipped a minute amount.
Margaret looked up and realised why she had taken the flat, why she was in Paris, why she travelled there each weekend even knowing that her lover Julian, was away. And now, even the term, lover brought a bad taste into her mouth as she remembered the missed supper dates, and abandoned visits to plays and concerts.
For years she had lived alone, and in that time had developed strategies. She always had a book in her bag when she went to a restaurant, you can only sit for so long watching the other occupants before they noticed. She always bought a programme at the opera, there was enough writing to keep you occupied, and the spare seat was appreciated by her neighbours. And in a gallery, she took a sketch pad. Not that she was good at copying the artists, but she preferred sketching to looking like a lost soul. And she had used them all in her time with Julien.
‘Will you want to give me the key back?’ She turned to look beyond the red gingham curtains, into the quiet streets of Mont Marche. The coloured lights of art shops and bars, defying the rain that had brought a slick to the streets as she had arrived. Knowing what she had lost with Julien should be making her feel more desolate than the cold streets outside, but there was a growing warmth in her heart, and she turned to Bernard and smiled.
‘Or perhaps, keep it, I like your company, and I need someone for the weekends.’ Bernard said.
Margaret looked at him and thought about the offer, weekend work in Paris. Working with Bernard and the thought was appealing to her.
‘May I say how chic you look tonight. Dressed for the Opera, not Bernard’s.’ He smiled and raised his glass to her.
‘My date, Julian is in the foyer of the Opera with two of the best seats in the house.’ He lifted his glass, sipped a little cognac and smiled at her.
‘Should I call you a taxi?’
‘After I had dressed, showered, put on new silk underwear, manicured my nails, applied the best makeup I could and put this outfit on, I started to walk down the steps to the Opera House. Then I thought about where I’d rather be…’ she turned towards the window and then back to Bernard and there was a lump in her throat.
‘And I thought, I’d rather be here. With you, clearing the tables, setting the knives and forks, and taking a last, very small glass, of cognac. With you.’ She took a sip of the brandy and Bernard refilled her glass.
‘I thought about Lieutenant Pinkerton, not getting back in time to save his love. The randomness of events that affect people’s lives. The opportunities missed. The lovers lost, or simply not seen. I love opera, but I guess I’ve only just started to understand it.’
Bernard smiled and raised his drink, and they chinked glasses glass, and for the first time in years, there were tears in Margaret’s eyes and a smile on her face that reflected the smile on Bernard’s face.