Sally (15 page)

‘Sorry,' murmured Alice.

‘Is there anything here you like?'

‘I like Pick Arso.'

Sally sighed in dismay and went off to buy postcards. She had a headache threatening and expounding the merits of Modernism had not helped. Could Madame Pelisou possibly manage without her for a few hours? Could she cope with all thirty on the
bateau mouche
?

Cope? Manage?

Bien sûr
!

So Sally left them and wandered back to the Left Bank.

Meandering through the Latin Quarter, charmed by its quaintness, energized by its off-beat vitality, the headache never materialized. Sally felt fine and Sally felt happy. Up the Boulevard St Michel, window-shopping, she turned left on to the Boulevard St Germain. Opposite sat the Musée Cluny; it was tempting but Sally decided not to be victim to Gallery Guilt and boldly strolled past with Catherine's song from
Jules et Jim
matching her foot falls as she went.

Wait! That's the Café de Flore, that's where Picasso
et al
whiled away their hours. And there's a free table! I'm there, I'm there.

‘
Café au lait, s'il vous plaît!
'

Sally sits and sips and watches Parisian life bustle by. The day is beautiful, crisp and bright. Her eyes are slightly watery, her nose a little numb. She feels someone staring. She glances to her left and catches the eye of an impeccably suave, quintessentially French and devilishly good-looking man. Feeling reckless, she stares back. He leans with his arm on the bar, a very small, thick glass of Pernod nearby, an unfiltered cigarette resting idly between his fingers. Sally holds his gaze, intensely and unrelenting, until the man gives in and beams a salacious smile of perfect teeth. They talk with their eyebrows. May he join her? He may.

His name is Jean-Claude and he is a designer. This is his favourite café and usually he likes to sit alone. But he saw an English Rose and his own company was suddenly not enough. Another
café
? Please?
Garçon!

As he ordered, Sally stared into her empty cup and took stock.

No one knows where I am! At this very moment, no one knows what I'm doing, that I am here, right here. This is all mine! I can be who I want and I can do as I please!

Sally felt a stream of warmth and satisfaction trace through her body at this realization.

He doesn't know who I am, and nobody I know knows that I am here. I am totally free; to be.

It felt illicit, it felt wonderful. And now his attention is back with Sally, she must talk and not think.

Talk? Flirt!

‘Your English is excellent!' Thank you, he studied at Oxford and what is she doing in Paris?

‘I'm a teacher, I have a class of thirty children. We are here for another two days.' Thirty children? But where are they? With much Gallic shrugging, Jean-Claude searches for them under the table and behind Sally's jacket. She shrieks with laughter, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, but what the hell? She will never see him again and no one will know anyway. They make small talk for a long time and Sally is won over by the way that simple English words and phrases (‘Good Lord, you don't say?'
par example
) are transformed by a throaty French accent which oozes sensuality and Gauloises. Would she like to meet him later, right here, for a decent drink? Ooh, she would, that would be lovely. Only she can't promise; she may have teacherly duties to attend to. No matter, no matter, he is here most nights. If it is not tonight, maybe it is tomorrow night? Maybe. But Sally must go now, images of Cleo and Marcus have filtered across her mind's eye. She gathers her things about her and feels Jean-Claude looking openly at her breasts as they jut while she twists her body into her jacket. Again they stare. This time it is Sally who smiles first. See you. Yes, I hope so.

When Sally reaches the corner she looks back. He is still looking.

Longing, I do believe.

He raises his glass, she smiles widely and then sets off with a jaunty little stride and a discernible wiggle.

Sally has an idea.

She feels exhilarated, it is such fun mooting it.

Richard's loss will be J-C's gain; Richard's mistake will be J-C's triumph.

Wishing to define it further and in privacy, she walks straight past the turning for the pension and jigs along, head down, smiling distractedly, meandering in her walk and in her mind.

He won't fall in love with me. There simply isn't the time! I'll strip bare the trimmings and trappings of Jackie Collins.

Sally is scheming, Sally's spunk has returned. Sally has an idea, a plan, another project.

This time it'll be Erica Jong who's proud of me. I am going to pursue the Zipless Fuck.

S
ally did not make it back to the café that night. Cleo had suggested they take their entourage to Montmartre. Sally was temporarily disappointed, but reasoned that there was always tomorrow.

Mustn't appear too keen, remember, and he's there most nights.

An evening of potential lust was exchanged for a few hours of fun with the class but to her delight, Sally found that she could quite easily mind her charges while summoning up assorted images of wild love-making. Although she could not remember J-C's face his voice remained vivid and enabled her expertly to conjure up a body that could very well be his. While she walked, while she talked to the children or organized with Cleo, she was confronted by images of a firm and muscle-bound torso, of her own body being fondled dexterously. As she listened to Marcus's theory on French footballers, she dreamt up various positions for the next night; most of them were decidedly offside. When Alice wanted to hear more about Modernism, Sally could say ‘
Art pour l'art
' while undressing Jean-Claude very slowly with her mind's eye. It was like being in two places at once. It was fabulous.

But Montmartre was fun too. They were rewarded, after a steep climb, by a floodlit Sacré-Coeur soaring transparent-gold and beautiful. Montmartre was buzzing and Sally's tales of Toulouse Lautrec and Dance Hall Days put a spring in the step and a sparkle in the eyes of Class Five. Marcus and Rajiv performed a boisterous can-can which won applause all around. Crêpes were scoffed and caricatures sat for. Madame Pelisou was on hand to barter down the exorbitant prices so that the children could purchase the masterpieces.

‘Miss Lomax, have yours done. Go on! And you too, Madame Pelisou.' So they sat for a double portrait. Watching Miss Lomax and Madame Pelisou being fashioned into bulbous-nosed, bug-eyed, buck-toothed caricatures provided the class with much hilarity. The likeness was tenuous but that was hardly the point.

‘Look! The Eiffel Tower. Tomorrow we're going up, up, up! Can't we go there
before
the Loo?'

‘Blaspheme like that, Marcus, and I'll have you in the Louvre until closing time and beyond. The plan for tomorrow, Class Five, is to visit Sainte Chapelle and then spend two hours at the Louvre – and not in the café; I want a page of writing or a drawing of something you see there. After that we'll go up the Eiffel Tower and then on to Forum Les Halles in the afternoon where you can spend your pennies – francs rather. Everybody happy? Good!' Madame Pelisou regaled the group with an embellished biography of Toulouse Lautrec, complete with dialogue and songs. They were back at the pension before they knew it. Tired but happy, Class Five were unanimously obedient and went straight to bed and to sleep.

It is the evening of the next day. Fun was had by all. Marcus loved the Louvre and was late to meet the group. Géricault and Delacroix had become his new heroes. Climbing the Eiffel Tower seemed dull in comparison to entering a painting and becoming a fighter for
Liberté
,
Egalité
and
Fraternité
. He spent most of his money on a book on nineteenth-century French art. It was in French but the pictures were fabulous, and anyway, Madame Pelisou promised she would help him translate.

Now it is the evening. The children are packing. Cleo and Sally are chatting. Sally asks Cleo if she would like to go for a stroll, for a drink? She knows that she will decline. Cleo declines. She will keep watch on the third floor, should the young proletariat build barricades or find imaginary Bastilles to storm.

‘Well, I think I'll go for a walk. I don't know when next I'll be in Paris.'

‘Have a good time, Sally. When the children are asleep, I shall tuck down for an early night. I'll see you at breakfast, eight-thirty.'

‘
À demain!
'

Sally strolled to the Boulevard St Germain. There was the Café de Flore and it was heaving. Will he be there? Is this a good idea? She weaved to the bar and ordered a Kir. She looked about, trying hard not to look like she was looking for someone.

He's there.

Sally spied J-C talking animatedly with two friends.

Catch my eye, catch it! I'm over here. Over here, J-C.

Jean-Claude looked up and saw Sally. She smiled, he looked momentarily blank, then registered and swiftly tilted his head up. Sally jumped at the response and made her way over. The jostle of people knocked her sideways, her wine spilled over the sleeve of her shirt but she recovered her poise by the time she reached her target. Her smile flashed sheepish for a second.

‘Hello, Jean-Claude.'

‘Hello, Susan.'

‘Sally!'

‘Sally. Hello, Sally.' If it is possible for an embarrassing silence to pervade in a noisy and frantic bar, then the café reverberated with it.

‘These are my friends, Michel and Luigi.'

‘Hello, hello! Luigi, are you Italian?'

‘They speak no English. Luigi is French also.'

‘Oh.'

Sally felt awkward and Sally felt shy. Suddenly she wished she had never come. She wanted to go.

Go, Sal. Just up and leave. You'll never see him again. No one knows you are here.

She was tempted but two words crept through her brain, across her eyes and down her body.

Zipless Fuck.

So Sally stays and is heartened when J-C replenishes her drink. She tells him what she's been doing. She asks him about his job, about living in Paris. Has he been to London? Yes. Did he like it? Yes. Will he come again? Maybe. In between one-word answers, Jean-Claude natters to his friends. They laugh a lot, raucous and guttural. Sally cannot join in. She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and runs her finger over the rim of her glass again and again, trying to keep a sassy smile in place. Once more she feels she ought to go. Yet again, Jean-Claude buys her another Kir so she stays. She is not having fun. It is trying and it is tiring.

But I must pursue the Z.F. I have to. And anyway, I'll never see him again. No one who knows me knows that I am here.

Sally feels a pearl of sweat trickle down her back. She knows her cheeks are flushed and she feels slightly self-conscious. How long has she been here? She takes a furtive look at her watch. Two hours. They're talking in French and they're talking fast. Sally takes a good look at J-C. Dishy is the most appropriate adjective. He is tall. Taller than Richard? Yes, a little. His hair is dark, glossy and straight, cut into a classic bob. He has broad shoulders and slender hands. Beautiful fingers, long and elegant with well-shaped nails. There is hair on the sides of his hands and just above each knuckle. Richard's hands are smooth. He is wearing a pink shirt unbuttoned at the neck, dark blue jeans, penny loafer slip-on shoes and a navy jacket fashionably crumpled. She glances at his face and notes deep-set and dark brown eyes, a longish but aristocratic nose, a strong jaw line and an attractive smattering of stubble.

I like what I see. He'll do. He'll do nicely, thank you very much. ‘Sally and the Zipless Fuck'; where are Ms Collins, Ms Jong? A book depends on this. Follow me!

And what does Jean-Claude see? A pretty enough English girl. Not really his type, not quite chic enough. Her dress sense could be greatly improved, the skirt is terrible, the length is all wrong. If she wants it short, then it must be knickers-skimming; just above the knee is so
passé
. But she's keen. She'll do. Beatrice is away in Lyons and Michel and Luigi have been goading him on. She'll do. For the night. Anyway, he'll never see her again. And it's been ages since he slept with an English girl. And Luigi says rumour has it that English Roses are tigers in bed. We'll see. She'll do.

Sally feels more relaxed. Luigi and Michel have gone. They said something to Jean-Claude and she understood it to be along the lines of ‘give her one from me', ‘and me'.

Bloody cheek! It's me that's calling the shots tonight.

Jean-Claude has switched on the charm that he gushed the day before and Sally has allowed herself to be swept along with it. He claims that he was talking business with the other two. Would Sally like a Gauloise? And another drink? Sally sucks the cigarette and is overcome by its strength, she lurches for her wine and gulps twice before she has exhaled. Yuk! And a head-rush too. Suddenly, everything seems terribly loud and she feels slightly dizzy.

Fool! Don't you remember, smoking doesn't suit you? Just make the cigarette last two more drags. And easy on the wine, that's the fourth. No, fifth. Damn.

Unaware, Jean-Claude saves her.

‘Let's take a walk.'

Outside it has been raining and the pavement is dressed in glistening pools cast gold under the street lights. They don't walk, they saunter. The pavement cafés are emptier now, just the die-hard bar-proppers sipping Pernod and philosophizing. Jean-Claude suggests they head for the Luxembourg Gardens but when they arrive all the benches are wet; it has started to drizzle and Sally feels chilled. Her head has cleared and she has sobered up. She and Jean-Claude do not really have that much to talk about. They both know what they want to happen. And they both know that it
will
happen. And they both know that the other is willing and waiting.