The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Read Free Book Online Page B

suddenly wanted to kiss her. I imagined how her mouth would feel. I could taste the oil of her lipstick and smell her perfume on my collar. But this was another joke, I told myself, born of the drink. I held up the daiquirí and took another gulp. Yes, I thought, that was definitely it. I took one of the olives and rolled it around my mouth.
    â€˜Why were you at a party in Cannes?’ I asked.
    Ã‰lodie’s attention turned to the terrace beyond the windows, and she folded and unfolded her legs. A crease appeared in her thigh, but then it smoothed out again, the lone disruption a mole beneath her knee.
    â€˜Are you an actress?’ I continued. After all, it had been playing on my mind.
    She was pained, but then she pulled her mouth into a defiant line.
    â€˜Yes, that’s it. I never did anything very popular. I have been out of that game for years.’
    She said this with a shade of regret. She had the appearance of an ex-actress. Her beauty was enhanced and preserved with what I presumed to be surgery.
    â€˜That makes sense,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before, when I asked who you were?’
    â€˜Because it isn’t who I am.’ Her voice had lost its breezy tone. ‘I’ve moved on. And besides, Ed has his own life.’
    â€˜I thought he was interested in you,’ I said. ‘Or is the feeling mutual?’
    â€˜None of that cheek.’ She reclined in her chair and ran a hand along the surface of her hair. Her mouth was downturned. She was judging me, and this judgement was more powerful than her expression. ‘Lawrence, darling; are you really jealous?’
    â€˜Only as jealous as you are of Sophie.’
    â€˜But you have every reason to envy Ed. You really should aspire to him. He has lived a full life.’
    â€˜I knew it. You are interested in him.’
    I could not remember the last time that I had talked to anybody so flirtatiously.
    â€˜Silly boy. Leave those clichés alone. They need a master’s hand.’
    She picked up her purse, which matched the purple of her dress. She held it close to her chest and drew her shoulders in. They were limber, and they must have been strong.
    â€˜Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to run into more people.’
    She had finished her drink, while mine was untouched. I forced myself to down it. The flavour had improved. I wondered if this was because the sugar collected in the bottom of the martini glass, or if my palate was seizing up under the burn of the alcohol. As usual, I had no answer for my own question.
    â€˜How many people do you know in this place?’ I asked.
    â€˜Who could say? It is the high season, so anybody could turn up here. When you’ve travelled as much as I have you will understand how small the world is.’
    She sounded a little intoxicated already, which did nothing to improve my image of her. But then, I thought, perhaps it was for show. She dropped those impractical heels to the carpet, and I followed her out towards the terrace, watching for any sign of discomfort. I knew, even then, that this was unlikely. She was the actress, after all.

6
    Ã‰lodie lit up another cigarette on the terrace. We were by the swimming pool, which afforded a fine view across the ocean and over to the dense line of buildings on the bluff. The beach was emptying, but with a fresh gust of wind I could see that the surfers were out on the rip-tide.
    â€˜Are you having fun, Lawrence?’ Élodie asked, inhaling deeply so that her voice became huskier.
    â€˜Sure I am.’
    She tapped the ash from the decaying cigarette to the tiles.
    â€˜That really is bad for you, you know,’ I said.
    â€˜I know. Have you not noticed? I do many things that are bad for me.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because it is who I am.’
    She held the cigarette out to me. I put up a hand.
    â€˜I’ve never smoked,’ I said. ‘And I don’t plan on starting