Frederic finds our seats. “Here we are. Would you like the window?”
It’s a beautiful sunny day and I want to watch the rolling fields of England turn into the French countryside. I grin at him. “Yes, please.”
The business class carriage
is spacious and muted, and is dotted here and there with solo travelers, a few couples and a young family. They have twin boys in matching outfits, and one watches me solemnly while he gnaws on a carrot stick.
My stomach gives a lurch as we pull out of the station. Frederic’s reading emails on his phone, and I watch some unlovely subterranean parts of the city slip by, illuminated now and then by bright daylight overhead. The train crawls at a snail’s pace out into the cramped southern suburbs and then picks up speed.
Finally Frederic tucks his phone into his pocket and turns to me. “So. Tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you.”
Our dinner was on Friday night, and early Saturday morning he took a train back to London as he had some meetings about his upcoming show. It seems he told Lisbet, the only other person stirring at seven in the morning, that I was accompanying him to Paris on Monday, and then disappeared with a mysterious smile. Lisbet asked everyone about it as they drifted downstairs but of course nobody knew what she was talking about.
When she saw me, Mona screeched and grabbed my arm, asking if I was having an affair with Frederic now because that was the only explanation she could come up with for me going to Paris.
“Don’t be stupid. It’s work, of course. I’m writing his biography.”
“Ohhh,” Therese said, suddenly understanding, and poured me a cup of tea from the pot. “Of course.” And she sounded quite disappointed.
Dad sort of blinked when I told him about the biography, but covered his surprise quickly. Mum, to whom I’ve shown drafts of earlier books and who read them with interest, gave a decisive nod. “Wonderful idea. You’ll do an excellent job.”
“I had my last interview with Mrs. Müller and transcribed it,” I tell him. “I wanted to do as much as possible to get that job finished before we left London. It still needs some work, though.”
We’re interrupted by an attendant offering me refreshments. In French. “Um—”
“Mademoiselle est anglaise,” Frederic says to the woman. Turning to me, he asks, “Tea?”
I’m tempted to say, “Un café, s’il vous plaît,” but that might invite more questions in French. I’m also tempted to order myself, as the attendant undoubtedly speaks English as well, but I like Frederic’s solicitousness. It’s flattering. Worst feminist ever, I think, as I ask him for coffee. He accepts the cup, milk and napkin from the steward and places them in front of me, chatting all the while to her in French.
“Merci,” I say when she’s gone, and my accent isn’t too horrible.
“De rien,” he replies, adding sugar to his black coffee. “You must make sure you don’t work the whole time you’re in Paris. You must enjoy yourself, too. It’s your holiday.”
I laugh, incredulous. “You mustn’t say that or I will spend all my time in the Louvre or drinking coffee by the Seine. I mean to work hard, but I will make some time to see the galleries and eat gateau.”
“Good. Now. I read a lot of the pieces you wrote in that archive your sister sent me and I want to talk about them.”
I nearly choke on my coffee and put the cup down. “Oh, dear. I thought we were pretending you hadn’t.”
He gives me a curious smile, sunlight flashing over his face. We’re out of the suburbs now and over his shoulder I can see the landscape has opened up into countryside. “Why did you put them online if you didn’t want anyone to read them?”
“I posted them anonymously online. They’re in a place where only people who feel the same things as me about those characters will read them. It’s a safe place. We’re kind to each other.”
“Am I not kind to you? Do I not love those characters, too?”
“Oh, yes, you’re kind and of course you love those characters. But you think about them in very different ways than a fifteen-year-old girl does. Some of that stuff is so old.”
“Not all of it,” he points out.
Jesus Josephine Philomena Christ. He’s not smirking or teasing, but I know exactly which pieces aren’t old and none of them are what you might call “family friendly.” They were written after the True Blood story I shared with Mona, so she probably didn’t realize how embarrassing the newer part of the archive would be for me.
I’m twisting my napkin and he captures my hands in his. “Evie. Look at me.”
His hands are very large and warm, and I want to look at them, not into his eyes. But he waits, and a moment later I glance up.
“You like to write, and I confess I can’t see you as a biographer for the rest of your life.”
The train plunges into a tunnel. The Channel Tunnel? No, it’s too soon. The darkness seems to be pressing through the windows on us. “That’s a strange thing to say given what you’ve hired me to do.”