The Train to Paris Read Online Free PDF

even though I knew that she would not approve. I might as well have told a joke at my own expense.
    â€˜On sale, no doubt. But it will do. The rest needs work.’
    â€˜The rest?’
    â€˜Yes, the rest.’ My suitcase was small. I had packed three changes of clothes, and I had not provided for this disruption, so I was awash with stale sweat. The shirt was accompanied by an old pair of jeans and shoes that were falling apart. Perhaps she had a point.
    â€˜So what do you suggest?’
    â€˜I hardly need to think about it, in your case. White shirt with a subtle pattern, and cufflinks that are neither too showy nor too silly. Too many men wear bad cufflinks. And a thin black tie. Do you have a pair of sunglasses? In fact, no, I don’t want to know. We will buy a pair.’
    I had never worn cufflinks before, and my striped school tie was the only one that I had ever owned.
    â€˜How charitable of you,’ I said.
    â€˜It is for a good cause. And it is not my charity, remember.’
    â€˜Won’t your husband wonder about all these purchases on his credit card?’
    She returned her sunglasses to her nose. ‘Not to worry. I always have a story for these things.’
    The road passed through Saint-Jean-de-Luz, with its postcard-worthy fishing port and little else. This part of the world was once the place to be. The Modernists and the Romantics all described it in detail: the perfect climate and beaches, the rugged beauty of the landscape. It was hard to deny that all of this existed now, but it was preserved and distorted. I thought that whatever spirit I had seen in paintings and read about in books was no longer there.
    â€˜I am happy to have met you, Lawrence,’ Élodie said as the taxi passed the town limits, where the traffic was thinning. ‘You are so much more interesting than the bores that I am usually exposed to. And you are handsome, too, under the bad haircut.’
    I had never thought of myself in this way before.
    â€˜Not in a normal way,’ she continued with surprising earnestness. ‘But then, nor would I want you to be. You do need work, though. We can fix you yet.’
    â€˜For a moment there I thought you might have been complimenting me.’
    â€˜No, it was a compliment. You have potential. Most people do not.’

4
    She kept silent as we drove north along the bay. Soon huts and villas on the seaside were replaced by terraced apartment blocks. The increase in wealth, if not taste, was conspicuous. The cafés had big wicker chairs and opened onto a terrace. There were galleries and clothes shops and pâtisseries with window displays and warm golden lights.
    Ã‰lodie waited until we were on the main shopping street before instructing the driver to pull over. He left the meter running.
    â€˜This is just the place,’ she said. The pavement was cobbled and lined with a heavy set of trees, all of which were manicured.
    â€˜It’s a playground for the rich, isn’t it?’
    â€˜I have always liked playgrounds. They are a lot of fun.’
    The street could have been a miniature of the Rue de Rivoli, but without any clochards or cigarette ends clogging the gutters. The café terraces and charcuteries were all there, as were any number of international chain stores with their familiar labels. Élodie bypassed them. Her destination was more discreet, hidden away in an arcade. I imagined that nobody but frequent visitors to Biarritz would know of it.
    She could not find exactly what she wanted, but as I faced myself in the mirror, I saw somebody else. There was something exhilarating about it, though it was frightening too. The tie was a match to her specifications—long, thin and black—while the shirt was a light shade of blue. In the end she did buy a navy blue jacket and white trousers as well, and a pair of reflective sunglasses with a light frame. She said that this jet-set look suited me better—that I