The Train to Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

could have stepped out of a Fellini film. I tried to believe her. The white trousers were a revelation. I had never owned such an outfit before.
    Ethan would be beside himself with envy or mockery. I thought about him as Élodie leant against the counter to sign her receipt, running her high-heeled shoe up and down her calf. Ethan knew about women. He went out for drinks with them, painting himself as a bohemian wanderer who sought nothing but pleasure. They loved him for it. They shared a bottle of wine and listened, captivated, while he told his stories. Every weekend there was somebody else in his bed. He would tell me of his exploits the next day, and I would feign disapproval when in fact I envied his audacity.
    We had met at school, where we were both oddities for different reasons. Ethan revelled in his own strangeness, while I was too shy to acknowledge mine. But he was genuine. He meant everything he said.
    Since we had started living together, he had taken delight in teasing me, labelling me as the aesthete who read books and visited art galleries all day and went to bed with a cup of tea. But I could take it from him, because it was affectionate, and in turn I could tell him what a poseur he was. It never offended him. On the contrary, he took it as a compliment. He might have been a philanderer, but he had never met a woman like Élodie. How often did anybody meet a woman like Élodie?
    We returned to the taxi a half hour later and drove to the seaside promenade, passing the casino and the first string of hotels. The beachfront was a simple golden slice out of the coastline. It reminded me of an Impressionist painting I had studied, where everything was just the right colour and people walked along the sand in suits and ties. That was a distant time, when society was inscribed with too many rules and conventions to keep track of.
    Now I could not see a single figure on the beach with a shirt on. And there I was in a jacket and tie and white trousers, reinforcing those conventions. The late-season revellers were out in force. They swarmed into the ocean in the shape of a Japanese fan, overwhelming the beach. Élodie was looking out the window, too, but I could tell that she was not thinking the same thoughts.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if I can repay you for this.’
    â€˜You have to stop thanking me, Lawrence. It does not suit you in those clothes.’
    This was true. I pulled the new sunglasses down to block out the late-afternoon beam hanging over the water.
    The hotel was through a set of gates at the end of the promenade, set in the middle of lawns and topiaries. It was awe-inspiring. The Second Empire decadence of the architecture gave it a Napoleonic stiffness that was out of place with its natural surroundings. It was a microcosm of Paris, complete with a mansard roof and flourishes of decorative detail. I tried to guess what lay behind the pastel red walls and the drawn blinds. It was sure to be an improvement on the floor of the Gare d’Hendaye.
    â€˜Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised,’ I said as the taxi deposited us at the entrance. A white-gloved man in uniform took our luggage. ‘You would choose this sort of a hotel, wouldn’t you?’
    â€˜This is the Palais, darling. We must live as well as we can.’
    I stood marvelling at it all while Élodie paid the driver and the porters took our luggage in a golden cart. My eyes moved from the luxury sedans and sports vehicles to the window boxes and potted plants, which were meticulously trimmed. All of the colours were accentuated, as though they had been digitally enhanced for a postcard. Everything that was not reflective was reflected in something else.
    â€˜What’s it to be?’ Élodie asked as we entered through the revolving door. I was straggling behind her open-armed swagger. ‘A Royal Suite, or an Imperial Suite? It’s either Churchill or Wallis