“Nearly one.”
“I’ll buy you something at the café.” I opened the till and lifted out a few notes.
“Is that allowed?” Charlotte asked as I stuffed the money into my pocket.
“I’ll put it back later,” I lied.
When we stepped outside there was — for once — no sign of Alice, but Maryse was setting out boxes of cheap paperbacks on the pavement.
“Tell Mike I’ll be having a word with him later,” I said, my face set like stone. Then I led Charlotte a few meters along the road, entering the café and taking up position by the counter. Charlotte slid the rucksack from her shoulders.
“Thinking of staying?” I inquired.
“I wasn’t about to do Paris and back in a day. Since when did you smoke?”
I looked down at the cigarette I was rolling.
“Not sure,” I admitted. Which was the truth — I had no memory of buying either the pouch of Drum tobacco or the packet of tissue-thin papers. All I knew was that Alice obviously didn’t mind. The look on Charlotte’s face was properly small-minded and Presbyterian. I could imagine her sitting primly in my parents’ drawing-room, holding cup and saucer and allowing herself “one small slice of cake.” Home baking? Naturally. The conversation stilted and bourgeois and safe. Everything so fucking safe.
“What are you thinking?” she asked as I lit the slender cigarette.
“I’m thinking you shouldn’t have come.”
Was she really becoming tearful, or merely putting on a show in the hope of sympathy? My espresso had arrived, along with her Perrier. The barman waved a bottle of red in my direction but I shook my head and he seemed to understand.
Pas devant les enfants...
“I wanted to see you,” Charlotte persisted. “This is Paris, after all. Everyone says it’s a romantic city and I’ve been missing you, Ronnie. I thought maybe this would be the place for us to...”
“What?”
She lowered her eyes and her voice. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Fuck our brains out?”
Her eyes and mouth widened. She glanced at the barman.
“He doesn’t have any English,” I reassured her, knowing Francois would actually have understood every word. He was polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. All of a sudden I craved something alcoholic, so ordered a pression. When it arrived, I demolished it in two gulps, and nodded for a refill while Charlotte stared at me.
“You need help,” she eventually said. “Something’s happened to you.”
“Well, you’re right about that at least — yes, something’s happened to me. For the first time in my life, and I’m all the better for it.”
“You’re not though. Look in the mirror.”
As it happened, there was a long narrow mirror running the length of the bar, below the row of optics and shelves of drinks. I hunched down so I could make eye contact with myself and couldn’t help grinning.
“Who’s that handsome devil?” I chuckled.
“Ronnie...”
“My name’s Ronald!” I roared. Francois clucked and gestured for me to keep it down. I waved a hand in what could have passed for either apology or dismissal of his complaint.
Charlotte’s hand was shaking as she lifted her glass of water. I realized that’s what she was: carbonated water, while my life had become so much headier and filled with sensation.
“Will you help me find a hotel?” she was asking without making eye contact.
“Of course,” I said quietly.
“I’ll change my flight to tomorrow, if I can. I was going to stay a few days, but...”
“They’ll be missing you at your work.”
“Oh, I quit the job. My thinking was to do some travelling with you.” Finally she fixed her eyes on mine. “But that was when you were you.”
“Who am I now?”
“I’ve really no idea.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to come all this way to find out.” I placed a fifty-franc note on the counter and made to lift Charlotte’s rucksack from the floor.
“No,” she snapped, hoisting it on to her shoulders. “I can manage perfectly well.”
As we exited the café, I caught sight of a dress I recognized. Just the hem of it as its owner dodged around the corner of a building. We headed in the opposite direction, into the narrow maze of streets behind the bookshop. I looked behind me, but Alice didn’t seem to be following. There were plenty of small hotels here, most of them doing good business at the height of the summer. It was twenty minutes before we found one with a vacancy. The owner led Charlotte upstairs to inspect the room while I said I’d wait in the street. I was rolling a fresh cigarette when I heard a scooter come to a stop behind me. I was half-turning in its direction when the passenger launched himself from behind the driver and hit me with what looked like a broken chair-leg. It connected with one of my temples and sent me to my knees. A hand was rummaging in my pockets. It pulled out the notes from the till and rubbed them in my face. Then another smack on the side of the head and Harry climbed back aboard, the driver revving the small engine hard as they fled the scene. Pedestrians had stopped to gawp, but only for a moment. There were no offers of help as I scrabbled to pick up my pouch of tobacco. I got to my feet and felt the world spin. I knew I was grinning, but had no idea why. I lit my cigarette and leaned against the wall, head tilted so I could look at the bluest sky imaginable.
Charlotte came out onto the pavement minus her rucksack, which meant the room had been declared acceptable. When she saw me she let out a screech, covering her mouth with her hand. That was when I noticed the blood dripping down from the cut on my temple. It was staining my already-disreputable shirt and trousers, and adding crimson spots to the street beneath.
“What happened?” Charlotte asked.
I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the cut, feeling it sting for the first time.
“Somebody hit me.” I was still grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him back.”
“We need the police.”
“What for?”
“You know who did this?”
“I didn’t pay him for the drugs.”
Her eyes hardened. “Say that again.” And when I didn’t, she just nodded slowly, as if a small lump of dope explained everything. She clasped me by one wrist. “Come upstairs. We need to wash that clean.”
I resisted long enough to finish the cigarette, then allowed myself to be led up a dark twisting stairwell to her room. It was tiny and stifling, the window open and shutters closed in a vain attempt to keep out the afternoon heat. Charlotte’s rucksack lay on the bed. She moved it and made me sit down, there being no chair. Then she knelt in front of me, examining the damage.
“It’s deep,” she said. There was a thin towel on the end of the bed and she took it with her when she left the room. I could hear water running in the sink of the communal bathroom along the hall. Then she was back, dabbing and wiping.
“Any nausea?” she asked.
“No more than usual.”
She smiled as if I’d made a joke. “You’re being very brave,” she cooed.
“I’m tougher than you think.”
“I’m sure you are.” She made another trip to the bathroom to rinse the towel. This time she wiped it slowly across all of my face, studying my features as she worked. “You’re filthy, Ronald. Really you need a bath.”
“Will you scrub my back?”
“I might.” Her eyes were locked on mine. I leaned forwards and kissed her on the mouth.
“You’re bristly,” she said afterwards. “But I sort of like it.”
So I kissed her again. Then we were standing, arms wrapped around one another. My hands felt beneath her sweat-dampened blouse, running down her spine. Our mouths opened as our tongues got to work, and she gave a small moan. Her fingers brushed the front of my trousers, then started to work at the zip. My eyes were still open but hers were closed, as she concentrated hard on fulfilling the whole purpose of the trip. So greedy and so intent on her own selfish self. I put my hand on hers, squeezing. She opened her eyes.