looking for a way forward. ”
“ And this group, I take it, has a leader? ”
“ Yes, a former teacher. Well, I suppose he still is. He's a philosopher, a communist. Very prestigious, very charismatic. Roland. ”
“ And is he your friend? The one you're with? In the rue Cler? ” This last I hazarded at a venture. It was hardly my business to interrogate her, though she was obviously willing for me to do so.
“ My friend, as you so tactfully put it, is Daniel. And yes, we are together. ” Her smile grew radiant. “ We might even get married. I'd like you to meet him. ”
“ Of course. You must bring him to dinner. We'll be back from Venice on the twenty-fifth. You'll give me a call? ”
“ I'd love to. I have to come to London to put the house up for sale, probably next month. Now that I know I'll be staying in Paris. ” The smile seemed destined never to leave her face. “ It's only small, the rue Cler, I mean; really only an attic with a cabinet de toilette. But when I've sold the house we can look for something a bit more substantial. ”
“ You wanted to be an interpreter, ” I reminded her. “ Has that all gone by the board? What does Daniel do? ”
“ He's still a student. He was very active in the protests. He's a year younger than I am. ”
And you are twenty-five, I reflected. My age. I felt Digby's hand on the small of my back. “ Time to move on, I think, ” he said. Maybe he feared an exchange of confidences.
“ Don't forget, ” I said, as he steered me away. We had both been dismissed. Girlhood friendships were no longer to be my lot. When I got to the door I looked round and waved to her. She must have been waiting for me to do so, for she raised her hand at exactly the same moment. Then I was moved towards the lift that would take us to our room, and to married life. I gave a thought to the discrepancy that Paris had brought about in our respective lives, and briefly regretted the lack of romance in Digby's veined hand unlocking the door.
“ I'd love a cup of tea, ” he said. “ I can't stand champagne in the middle of the afternoon. ” “ I'll order it, ” I said. That was my first attempt to make him comfortable, in what was clearly a relatively uneasy situation. He was tired, and it showed in his face. He looked nearly as old as my father, whom I had not managed to thank for all the fuss. As we drank our tea the strain we both felt slowly dissipated. We had baths, changed into simpler clothes, decided to go out for dinner, and let the rest of the day take care of itself. We were due to catch an early plane the following morning, and would probably appreciate an early night. That was what Digby said. I envisaged a succession of early nights, in which nothing very remarkable would take place. In this I misjudged him, and was pleasantly surprised.
But when I woke briefly in the night, or rather in the early morning, what filled my mental horizon was the image of love in a garret, in the sort of Paris that had not been disclosed to me, or rather that I had been incapable of seeing. This mental Paris was the Paris of those foreign films that had been the main feature of my solitary afternoons. It was those images that returned to me now, with Betsy's face imposed on that of the female lead. And for the next few minutes, or for as long as the scene lasted, I was aware of myself, a spectator, sitting in the audience, while outside the sun shone down on a Paris I had never known.
3
My mother embarked on what promised to be an endless series of cruises and my father decamped to an alternative domestic arrangement in Crouch End. I was left alone with my new husband, whom I continued to find perfectly agreeable though in some ways disconcerting. Given his age he was rather more old-fashioned than I was, and proved to be fussy about his personal comfort, seeming to view his wife largely as an adjunct to what was already a well-regulated life, his business