The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Read Free Book Online

hand, and I took it, feeling a much tighter grip than my own.
    â€˜I’m Lawrence,’ I said. I had been lingering for too long. My palm was wet, and I felt it slip against his callused skin.
    â€˜Ed Selvin. Pleasure to meet you, Larry.’
    From across the tabletop I could see that he had the smile of a terrier. I tried to move my chair nearer to Élodie, but she stuck close to Selvin. The other woman was never introduced, although she feigned some interest in our conversation. She wore too much eyeliner, which smothered the life out of her eyes. Like an unoriginal landscape painting, she faded into the background.
    â€˜You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady,’ Selvin said in a tone that was neither jovial nor serious. ‘What’s going on here?’
    â€˜I’ve agreed to show my new friend the high life,’ she said.
    Selvin raised his eyebrows, which were effeminate and thin. ‘Well you came to the right place, let me tell you.’
    â€˜He has no money, would you believe? And of course, with those damned rail workers on strike, he won’t be in Paris for days.’
    â€˜Wow, Élodie. I never picked you for the charitable type. Is this some sentimental ageing thing?’
    â€˜Now really, darling, that is too cruel. Besides, you wrote the handbook on ageing, didn’t you? Midlife crisis over yet?’
    â€˜Had it twenty years ago. It’s out of my system.’
    The conversation was humiliating. I tried the daiquirí. It was both bitter and sweet, and very strong.
    â€˜What do you do, Larry?’ Selvin asked.
    â€˜I’m a student of art history,’ I said, much to Élodie’s evident displeasure. ‘At the Sorbonne.’
    â€˜How coincidental. I run an art dealership in New York.’
    â€˜Do you?’
    It was a joke, and it meant something to Élodie.
    â€˜No, not really,’ he said. ‘Do you consider yourself more of an artist or a connoisseur?’
    â€˜Neither.’
    â€˜Right. So what are you, then?’
    â€˜I’m not sure yet.’
    Selvin waited for me to elaborate. And then he laughed, a mocking, self-righteous noise, and I should have got up and walked away. Élodie joined in, in much the same tone, but it did not suit her as it suited him.
    â€˜Go easy on the boy, Ed,’ she said. ‘He’s learning.’
    â€˜Sure, sure.’ Selvin drank deep from his whisky, relishing the bite. He had the beginnings of a beard, which was grey around the edges. He wore his wealth explicitly. His suit was expensive, but it clung too tight around the shoulders and accentuated his meaty gut. His drooping eyelids said that he was drunk. This was how the rich survived their dull lives: by pouring liquor down their throats for half the day.
    Fortunately he returned his attention to Élodie. She did not want to give her reasons for being in Hendaye, and I thought it was strange that she did not mention her mother in Ascain. Instead she continued to exchange repartee with Selvin. They got on well, and their jousting played in harmony. It was both enviable and deplorable.
    â€˜Are you still with that bozo in Paris?’ he asked.
    Ã‰lodie’s eyelids fluttered. It was the only hint of her discomfort.
    â€˜What was his name again? Marcel?’
    â€˜He doesn’t stop me from having fun. Have you seen my beautiful ring?’ She laid her hand in the middle of the table. I leant forward to read the inscription, which glinted in the light. Nous sommes nés magnifiques . I could translate it, but the phrase meant nothing to me. ‘I will sell it for a fortune one day.’
    â€˜Of course you will. Hey, why not sell it now? Then you could buy me a drink.’
    â€˜I have money, you silly man. It just isn’t mine.’
    â€˜Ah, the best sort.’ It seemed as if he was about to say something to me—his diaphragm drew in and he sat up—but he continued talking to