I made my way through the crowded restaurant to Libby’s table. She watched me approach blankly and said something to her companions. Then she looked up at me again.
– It is Siobhan. You look so much like your mother!
Her mouth was smiling while she examined me. She looked the same – the same neat small pony-tail; another low-cut, thin-waisted long dress. If she’d looked French in Australia, she looked Australian in France. The freckled chest, the sunspots on the backs of her hands.
We touched cheeks, then Libby motioned to the man opposite her. He was big. When he stood to greet me the table came halfway up his thighs.
– This is Grover Hiscock, Siobhan Elliott. Grover’s mother went to drama school with your mother in London, Siobhan.
Grover was a bull-necked Canadian in his mid-thirties. He had hot blue eyes under a prominent forehead. Two eyebrows clambered along it and collided in the dent above his nose.
– Hallo. Nice to meet you.
– You too.
– And this is Margaret Nettleton. I met Siobhan’s mother when I first started working in television, Margaret.
Margaret wore a huge scarf patterned with mauve and pink flowers. The pink matched the skin on her neck and the mauve matched her glossy eyeshadow. The frame of her glasses, large and square, sat on a thick nose, thickly powdered. Like curious neighbours peeping over a fence, her eyebrows rose.
– And does your mother produce as well, Siobhan?
– Just children.
I bit my smile. It hurt. Margaret cleared her throat. I looked at the kir that was placed before me. Suddenly I was a daughter again: naughty, confined, and utterly defenceless. Seated next to Libby with my back to the street, I had the feeling something was going on behind me that I should know about.
– Margaret’s a Sydneysider too, Libby said to me.
– Seventeen years ago I escaped, said Margaret, and I’ve been in exile ever since.
A waiter handed the wine list to Grover. I watched him, wondering why I wanted to. Grover hadn’t shaved that morning, or the one before. Margaret took the wine list from him, saying she knew which wine would be just right, and Grover resumed his journey through the plate of olives and chillies. One by one, he ate them all. He leant his dark chewing jaw on his hand and stared out the window. His eyes moved from side to side, following the footpath traffic. Margaret ordered the wine then rubbed her hands together in front of her face.
– And what do you do, Siobhan? she said brightly.
I mumbled something about teaching English, sort of au pairing.
– Oh! An au pair girl! You poor thing. I’m so glad I managed to avoid that when I first came to Paris. I’m surprised they let you out tonight. I thought they’d have you on all fours scrubbing the kitchen floor.
– They’re probably a bit more lenient these days, Margaret, Libby said quietly.
– I don’t live with them. I’m not really an au pair, I just work with the kid in the evening. Anyway, it’s the only work I can do here without papers.
– Siobhan did arts/law at Sydney University, said Libby helpfully.
– Oh yes, I was there back in the olden days, said Margaret.
– I didn’t really, I said, I failed. I dropped out after a year.
I twirled my empty glass, wishing for the others to empty as well so we could get into the wine, waiting now in the middle of the table. I’d eaten one croissant today and the kir had made itself at home very quickly. It was welcome.
– Why don’t you do a course here, Siobhan? Libby suggested.
– I don’t want to.
She looked away and ran her hands through her hair.
– That’s a shame.
– Why is it a shame?
– It’s always useful to have some sort of qualification.
I had no answer to that. I filled our glasses: Grover’s, then mine, then Libby’s and lastly Margaret’s. Margaret was asking Grover what he’d been doing in Paris.
– Well, I was at Les Halles today, and—
Margaret slumped back in her chair as though she had been hit.
– Oh god, what on earth would you want to go there for? These places are designed for people like us to avoid.
I glared at her. Who did she think people like us were?
– And what’s the child like, that you teach? Libby asked me.
– Obnoxious. But I like him.
– Well, that’s what counts.
– I feel a bit sorry for him because he’s an only child and his parents are pretty awful. I can’t blame him for wanting to rebel, you know what I mean?
Oh dear, I was talking to a parent. My unequivocal justification for Laurent’s misbehaviour now seemed so one-sided. Parents were oppressors, I took this for granted. My discomfort increased when I remembered Libby had just one child, a teenage boy. My big-family arrogance! I waited, hoping she would say something sensible. Her fingers stroked the stem of her glass. She gazed at the lights moving in her wine, nodding faintly. She was listening to me. On I rushed.
– It’s just this real pressure on him to get good marks, all the time. They never talk about anything else. It’s all a bit … cold.
– I think I know the school he goes to. It’s very competitive. The system’s different here, you know, Siobhan. Libby looked at me intensely. French children have to work much harder than Australian children. The work really is quite difficult.
– I’ve just started teaching another girl, the same age, and her parents aren’t as bad.
I heard my voice – clipped, hesitant, tinged with an unidentifiable accent. It occurred to me I was imitating Libby. I repeated phrases in my head in an effort to reclaim my English speaking voice. Margaret’s was a booming English accent. I wondered what life in Paris had to do with English accents. She was harping on at Grover, Don’t go there, you must go here.
It was a long time since I’d vented my spleen, and my spleen felt full to bursting. Margaret Nettleton was nettling me. She made me feel reckless and mean. Maybe it was her hairstyle. The way it veered off her forehead in an arrested grey curve had been reminding me of a certain person all evening, but the person had been misplaced in my memory. I blamed Margaret for the fruitless, agitated search that my subconscience had been conducting since it first set eyes on her. I said I often went to Les Halles, changing on the métro; coming here tonight, for instance.
– Where did you say you live?
– I didn’t. Bréguet Sabin.
– Quoi?
– It’s near Bastille.
– Oh. Bréguet Sabin.
Margaret pronounced it much better than I had. For a second I wished she could see me with the Durebex, rattling on in French. Then the perceived misfortune of my job came back to me and I wished she could see what I could say fluently in any language, the up-yours sign I was making at her under the table.
– Surely you’d walk, she said. We are in Paris, you know.
– How could I forget?
– Of course, all Australians think it’s normal to have a car.
– I can’t even drive, I lied. And lied again, Anyway, I was up at Barbès this afternoon. I didn’t have time to walk all the way back down here.
I hadn’t been up to Barbès for weeks. I should lie more often, I thought, watching Margaret’s eyes do one more desperate roll before coming to rest on her menu. A spelling mistake there made her caw with laughter.
– Shall we order? said Libby.
I couldn’t decide. I had a private rule to eat in restaurants what I couldn’t cook myself. I couldn’t cook anything on this menu, except the plate of olives and chillies, and Grover had eaten them. The waiter waited patiently, pen poised.
– Siobhan? Margaret prompted.
– Um. I don’t know …
She ordered for me, and tapped my hand.
– Trust me. You’ll love it.
Libby spoke so quietly I got a crick in my neck from all the craning to listen. She asked me about my accommodation. I told her about Hôtel des Etrangers.
– I know a little place in the sixteenth, she said. It’s very quiet, the proprietors are very kind. I’ve been sending my friends there for years. It’s only about two hundred francs a night.
– That’s more than twice as much as I’m paying now, I sighed. There’s no way I can afford that.
I moved back as my couscous was placed before me. Libby studied me abstrusely. I averted my eyes. How could she possibly think I’d have that sort of money? How could she make me feel totally exposed, and at the same time totally misunderstood? My resentment quivered, unsure of itself, in her direction.
I concentrated on extracting the meat from my sauce. Margaret was complaining to Grover that the wrong kind of olives had been used in her tagine. In Morocco you would get the little hard green ones, but the ones in the dish before her were just plain black. I stole glances at Grover, whose face stayed close to his plate. He nodded at the things Margaret said. His fork travelled steadily from the plate to his mouth and back again. A forgotten part staggered down to his left temple and the hair fell away from it in thick clumps. His lips were shiny with oil. He glanced over at me and smiled. I felt the hot threat of a blush around my collar. As it ascended, I put my glass down.
– Ooh, I’m all red from the wine.
Margaret pointed at the midden of beef on the side of my plate.
– But that’s the best part!
– I’m a vegetarian.
– Oh god, I don’t know why you bother. You’re not one of those animal liberationists, are you?
– That’d be a big job in this city. No thanks.
– Well, why then? Why don’t you eat meat?
– No reason. I don’t really know, I just don’t. Except for fish.
I wished I couldn’t smell her chicken tagine. She cut a piece and held it forth like an insult. That was what was making my mouth water, because the food I was eating didn’t seem to be what my mouth really wanted. I suddenly found the person with the same hairstyle – that boozy ex-prime minister of Australia. I felt a lot better.
– Really! In Paris of all places. I can’t imagine what you do when you eat out. Just think, Un steak-frites, s’il vous plait, sans steak.
I hunched over my dinner.
– I don’t eat out.
Margaret’s mouth went down at the corners.
– Oh, that’s a bit triste, isn’t it?
– It’s just practical. When you haven’t got much money.
– I do have money. I don’t know, I’m just trying to make it last.
– Ah dear, another bohemian, young and poor in Paris, as we all once were.
– How romantic.
– Well, what are you doing here then, my dear? What are you doing here? What do you do? What do you want to do with your life? No question irritated me more. I only knew what I didn’t want to do. I figured it was a process of crossing things off the list. The prisoner in her cell, crossing off the days.
I chewed, trying to think of something to say to Margaret. The only things that came to mind were insults in an accent as plummy as hers, the accent I myself had been using for the last five minutes.
Where was my voice? Was it really this prim, this sharp? Had I been teaching too much, too conscious of the right way to say things? What was the right way anyway?
Margaret’s head wagged from side to side.
– I don’t know this, I don’t know that.
There was a tense silence. A rose seller appeared and inserted his wares into it. Margaret shooed him off.
– Non merci, je suis allergique.
A fantasy that Grover would buy me one crept into the back of my mind. I chased it away. I comforted myself with how little Libby ate. The mound on her plate made mine look insignificant.
Grover put a spoonful of harissa on the side of his plate and took up his cutlery. He had black hairs on the first and second joints of each finger. He inhaled deeply and regarded his huge second helping. Deftly, Margaret scooped the harissa back off his plate. With her other hand she pressed the ladle into the stew, allowing it to fill with stock. She flicked the harissa into the ladle and stirred vigorously till it dissolved, then she poured the stock over Grover’s plate. Bemused, he sat back and let her do it.
– There you are, my boy, she said, I hope your head doesn’t explode. That’s rather a lot of harissa you helped yourself to, though who am I to say?
Harrrr-issa. The ‘r’ lingered at the back of her throat like something that needed to be spat out. My teeth ground on a clove. Sweet astringency filled my mouth and I screwed up my face, thinking of pain and Matthew’s bush remedies. I glanced at Grover. He rewarded me with a wink, and I urged the blush downwards. It obeyed, but down there it just got hotter. Libby asked after my family. I shrugged indifferently, I said I didn’t really know how they were. She asked after my mother. She told the table, Six children, and she works, and produces the most wonderful meals in a flash.
– Seven children, I corrected. One died.
Everybody looked at me with reverence.
– How tragic, said Margaret.
– Not really. She didn’t make it past a few months. Anyhow, six is more than enough, I reckon.
I drained my glass in an effort to elude the stony look Libby was giving me. Pain, shame, mischief and couscous fought in my stomach.
– I think it’s a great achievement, said Libby. Achievement. As though we were products that had turned out rather well. I said, trying for that even, ambivalent tone of hers, Yes. I couldn’t do it, that’s for sure.
Margaret’s eyes were looking beadily over the spectacles from Libby to me and back again.
– And you used to work with her, Libby?
– Oh, Libby waved a hand, she just did some voice-overs when I was first producing advertisements. That was a long time ago.
I didn’t like to see my mother explained away with a mere wave of the hand. I returned Libby’s steely glance. She drew patterns in her couscous.
– Your family must miss you, Siobhan.
I excused myself and walked out to the toilets. I sat on the toilet seat, unable to piss, my belly full of wine-soaked couscous. I wished Grover weren’t so boring. Did that urge to go and straddle him and undo his fly increase throughout the dinner in spite of his boringness or because of it? I sat there and closed my eyes, imagining how his bristle would tickle as he kissed my breasts. Oh dear, my incurable attraction to bearish, boring men.
Wine and lust and anger rushed around inside me.
The air-conditioner outside the window moaned into action. The sound it made, combined with the smell of frying garlic, provoked a sudden memory of Kree Townsend and I had to move around on the seat. Kree was not bearish, or boring. Kree was smooth-chested, small and lithe. He was my anthropology tutor and my first good fuck. Kree gave me good marks, though I never did any work. I gave Kree marks across his lower back which got him into trouble with his wife. We had a hot grope one night, standing under the air-conditioner in the toilets of a Chinatown restaurant.
I had to put the seat up and my pants down and remember this properly. I was wet. I spat on my fingers and got wetter, drawing circles on my clitoris. I thought about Kree and his big uncircumcised dick, about Grover coming in here to have my legs wrapped around him; I thought about how cold my thighs were getting and what a wanker that Margaret woman was. Oh god, it was taking me ages. At least I had my female excuses of periods and powdering my nose. I put those people out of my mind and focussed on my own anatomy. I wondered briefly if I should change my tampon. I thought about it, and about putting other things up there. I felt hot twinges beginning and my head thickening, and I listened to the throb of the air-conditioner gain momentum as my fingers worked.
When I got back to the table it had been cleared and relaid with mint tea and pastries. Libby was telling Margaret about Grover’s work in computer graphics.
– He’s making quite a name for himself, aren’t you, Grover?
Margaret wore an expression of perplexed boredom.
– Well, I won’t be much use to you, Grover. Margaret folded her arms. I’m the only translator left without a computer.
– One of the primitives, eh? I said.
This remark came out in a broad Australian accent, the kind of accent that seemed the most contrary in Margaret’s company. It was the red wine that was speaking now. My hand went to my glass for diversion and in my haste I knocked it over. Luckily it was empty. I noticed with alarm that the bottles were too. I told myself I was drunk enough already. I propped my chin on my hands and took solace from the smell of toilet bliss that lingered there.
– Grover works in film too, said Libby.
– Of course, said Margaret, most Australian films simply don’t work.
Nobody said anything. Margaret cleaned the outline of her mouth with the napkin corner.
She began to talk about the film industry. The air grew cluttered with illustrious names attached to dirty deeds. I couldn’t repeat them even if I could remember them. A couple of the names were great friends of hers. The rest owed her money. A rich and successful TV personality still owed her lord knows how much from about twenty years ago.
She looked around the table. Grover was busy with the Turkish delight, powdering his chin with icing sugar. I picked at my baklava. Libby said suddenly, Well why don’t you go and get it from him, Margaret?
Margaret patted her belly and declared in French that she had eaten far too much. She added she’d never seen anyone eat the way Grover did.
I resisted an impulse to prod Grover under the table. I wished he had one to prod me.
– We should get the bill, said Libby.
I walked to the métro with Libby, stooping to share her umbrella. Libby was so petite, so calm, she walked as though her path had been marked out for her. I felt like an oaf lumbering alongside her. I felt like Grover.
– Margaret has a good heart, you know, she mused.
I said nothing, hoping this would express indifference.
– I think she likes you, Siobhan.
Taken aback, I apologised for my rudeness. I blamed it on the wine.
Libby nodded and folded her umbrella. We went down the steps into the métro.
A beggar with his head in his hands, a gypsy woman with two sickly children and the usual sign, ‘Sans Toit’. Further along, another beggar, stumps for arms and one leg, sitting in a puddle of his own urine. Misery, misery, it was all I saw. I thought of my hotel room, the bed, the little heater, how cosy it seemed. Then I remembered the bag of prawns. I’d forgotten to take them out. My hotel room would be a bubble of putrid air when I got back there tonight.
Libby took off her cape as we waited for the métro. She shook the rain from it and stared at her shoes. Then she looked at me pensively.
– I might be able to help you, Siobhan.