Loving Amélie (22 page)

“Let’s go to Paris. Take your
mum home. See your father. I won’t rush you; but we can talk about how we want
things to be.”

“Oh, Chris…”

“Please.”

The baby was laid back down in her
cot; and their next day began far too early, with cups of milky tea and slices
of lemon.

*

Amélie’s and the baby’s room
remained peaceful.

He was woken by the ringing of
his phone; and as he unfurled himself to find it, his brother Peter came to
mind, who may well have woken in the same cramped state a few hours earlier,
having slept on the kitchen floor at
Skinner’s.

He had answered the call before
a squint at the screen could tell him who it was:

“Hello?”

“She’s pregnant,”
said a
man’s voice, loaded with tension. “And it seems she’s blaming
you
.”

Chris came to, rapidly, and
felt the blood coursing from the core of his body to his extremities. He
pictured Rick’s face at the end of the line, his benevolent features taut with
spite.

“Rick? She swore this wouldn’t
happen...I wasn’t even
involved..
.”

The man’s voice, barely
listening, exploded into laughter; and allowed itself to be interrupted by a
woman:

“Don’t let him tease you!” said
Tash. “He’s got himself carried away with the notion I conceived when we were
staying at your flat; but I’m not absolutely sure of the dates.”

Chris collapsed back onto the
sofa, hot with relief:

“Oh God. Oh Tash. My darling.
That’s wonderful. Just fucking wonderful…”

Chapter Twenty Three

Adrienne Bénoit stepped down
from the train at the
Gare du Nord
with sprightly energy: she had been diligently
occupied in London, but was happier to be back in her true element in Paris.

“Are you two quite sure you
will be OK in this hotel you have found?” she said, assisting with luggage and
the erection of Amélie’s push chair. “It is not one that your father and I are
familiar with.”

“It will be fine,” said Amélie,
with the suggestion of a rolling of her eyes. “Chris has stayed there before.
The owner is ‘good people’.” She looked smart and
Parisienne
; in a belted mackintosh, slim
jeans and flat pumps.

“But first you will let me buy
you lunch,” she insisted. “Let
Grandmere
treat you, somewhere special, before she has to say
au revoir
.”

They took a taxi to a smart
neighbourhood in the city, where Adrienne appeared to be quite at home. The
waitresses gave scrupulous attendance; ensuring a highchair for the baby was
provided with enough support for her only just wobble-free posture. Adrienne
charged the others with ordering from the menu while she fed Amélie some pureed
lunch.

Chris and Amé chose
langoustines and crabcakes; and it was compulsory that they had a bottle of
champagne.

“Only your
second
time in Paris,” Adrienne
declared, as Amélie left briefly to freshen the baby. “How exciting for you.”

“It is,” said Chris. “And what
a delightful restaurant. Is this a regular haunt for you and your husband?”

Adrienne struggled with his
turn of phrase for a moment, and then replied:

“Ah, not really.” She smoothed
the crisp white linen of the table with her hands: she wore a platinum wedding
band and an engagement ring of diamonds and emeralds. “I lunch here alone,
mostly; or with friends. I first came here many years ago with an old
beau.
”

“I see,” said Chris. He was
warm with wine; and the promise of being in Paris with the woman he adored.
“Were you very much in love?”

“Chris,
mon cher
!” she said, with a little
delight; and then scrutinised him more carefully with her blue-grey eyes,
behind the tortoiseshell spectacles that she had donned for reading the menu.
“I
do
believe
I can confide in you, as you are sort of my son-in-law.” She signified her
uncertainty about this notion with a flurry from her wrists.

Chris prepared to listen with
interest.

“When I met Amélie’s father, I was
introduced to his brother, Pierre. You have met Pierre. Quite dashing he was,
then, I can tell you.”

“Oh, I see,” said Chris, a
fascination creeping over him as he remembered his lunch near Hampstead Heath.

“He was determined that I
should consider a life with
him
and not his older brother Claude.”

“My word,” said Chris; and they
both eyed the doorway to the rest rooms in the mutual expectation Amélie might
return any moment.

“But, you see, I was pregnant
with Amélie’s sister.”

“Of which he was unaware?”

“
Mais non
,” said Adrienne. “He was
prepared to be the baby’s father. It is a complicated world we live in. I often
wonder how my life might have been if I had chosen Pierre and not Claude.”

They looked around the
restaurant, with its high ceiling and chandeliers – as busy as
Skinner’s
would be at lunchtime, but with a more select, well-heeled clientele.

“We used to come here, he and
I,” she continued wistfully. “Until my mind was made up.”

“I hope you haven’t been
unhappy,” said Chris, after a time. “Pierre convinced me
he
was a happily married man.”

Adrienne’s pretty eyes returned
from their distant focus, and she said:

“Oh, undoubtedly! He married
well. Sandrine is a very capable and formidable woman.”

They smiled at Amélie, as she
regained her seat, with the shared exaggeration of two people complicit in a
kind of secrecy.

“
Very
capable and formidable,” Adrienne
repeated, clasping Chris’s hand where it rested on the base of his wine glass.

But she wasn’t you,
Chris
thought.

 
His gaze was drawn from the older woman’s alluring profile,
as she bent to kiss her granddaughter, to Amé’s beautiful face - her chocolate
eyes shining, at last, with pleasure - and he felt a pang of pure, raw sympathy
for the brothers Bénoit.

                                                                       
*

“Oh,
la famille
Skinner!”

Paul Bénard stood in the
reception of his hotel with his eyes closed in mock rapture and his hands held
high like a conductor praying silence for the beginning of his recital:

“Let me see you, Amélie; and
congratulate you on the most perfect and beautiful daughter: a remarkable
accident, given the misfortune of her paternity.”

Amélie cast a sideways glance
of momentary alarm at Chris, who shook his head; then she weakened, smiled, and
stepped forward to the Frenchman’s embrace. They exchanged a few words in their
native tongue.

“I managed to convince him he
had chosen the finest hotel in Paris,” Bénard continued, mischievously. “But
you and I know different,
hein
?”

“He had a wonderful time here
with you,” said Amé, with a generous smile to both men. “And so did baby
Amélie. You were very kind to us.”

Paul Bénard waited until she
was focussing on the baby before he exchanged a long, loaded look of approval
with Chris: it conferred his heartfelt satisfaction that his friend was mending
the rift in his life. He encouraged his guests to repair to their room; and to
have a most excellent afternoon, before he and his good friend and confidante
Lucille would invite them back for an evening meal.

Chris was afraid he might
enthuse like a child about the bookcases and the worm-riddled chairs and the
bell with the ‘ping’; so he allowed Amélie to take stock of her surroundings,
discovering the charms of the Hotel Bénard at her own pace.

He was not disappointed: they
deposited their luggage, and she carried the baby to every turn in the
stairway, examining the books, both old – with their flaky spines –
and those newly acquired from guests’ bedrooms, as, Paul had told Chris, he was
a great believer that whatever was left behind at the hotel did
not
want to
leave it. She took stock of the paintings in their various states of grandeur
or shame, depending on the value of their frames. There was nothing valuable,
per se
, she
explained; but the eclectic mix of Matisse and Picasso and Seurat prints;
together with the smattering of works by talented nobodies, lit her up with the
kind of endearing excitement at simple pleasure that he had missed so much.

“Ah,
Guernica
,” she said, tracing her finger
over the Picasso that depicted the chaos of war. “We had this print at school
– it looks like this very one in the exact frame! It used to terrify me.
I had no idea what the significance was; but, in my mind, it was about the
horror of being at school!”

They made sure Amélie was
buttoned up against the October elements – although it was still favourably
mild – complete with her strawberry hat; and they set out for some
sightseeing.

“Let us take her to Notre Dame
today,” said her mother. “She is too small for anything; but maybe she will be affected
by her visit to the spiritual heart of Paris, of France!”

“I wasn’t aware that
you
were
affected by anything spiritual,” Chris teased, gently; aware that any
predilection for the Catholic faith had been watered down to apathy in the
current branch of the Bénoit family; much as observing the practices of the
Church of England had been in his own.

“I am deeply affected by its
majesty and meaning,” said Amélie, adjusting the baby’s hat with a little
self-mockery, but, nonetheless, conviction. “And the gargoyles are
magnifique
!
My grandmother used to tell me and my sister that, if we didn’t eat our
vegetables, the gargoyles of Notre Dame would fly down and eat
us
!”

“Is that what you will tell our
daughter?” he laughed.

“My mother used to listen, and
whisper: ‘Pay no attention, she is a gargoyle herself!’ And we would try not to
giggle…but, do you know what
? Then
we would eat our vegetables!”

They huddled close together on
the busy
Metro
train, headed for the station
St-Michel
; and followed the crowds to the imposing Gothic structure
of the cathedral of Notre Dame, holding court on its island in the Seine.

Chris was torn between taking
in the splendour of his surroundings and the spectacle of his beloved Amélie,
there in his midst, walking around with her eyes like saucers - one hand held
absentmindedly at her daughter’s back as she slept in her papoose - craning her
neck to see beyond the trivial mass of tourists.

He grew a little anxious as the
colour gradually drained from her face and became as sallow as her coat:

“Here, let me take her for a
while; you look done in,” he said.

“I think we should find
something to drink,” she conceded; and gratefully took his arm.

Outside, a man was standing
alone with his hand outstretched, proffering crumbs to a convoy of small birds
coming to feed from him with awe inspiring tameness and trust. They watched him
in his gentle endeavour, somehow more alluring to the two of them than the
‘statue man’ who was covered from head to foot in silver paint, or the North
African attempting to ply them with cheap souvenirs.

They crossed the river and
walked a short distance up the cobbled streets to a café, where they ordered
water and soft croissants filled with cheese and ham. By the time they were
sipping their coffee, Amélie had revived.

“I thought you were going to
faint,” said Chris.

“I have these episodes,” she
said meekly. “Perhaps today I have walked too far.”

“And this is since the birth?”

“Yes. I had a very difficult
labour: it went on for too long. I was given drugs to help the delivery, but it
was no good. I had an emergency Caesarian, and then some other complications.
It is not a pretty story!”

“It is a story you shouldn’t
have to tell me,” said Chris. “I should have been there, with you.”

“Well, at the time, that was not
possible. We cannot turn back a clock.”

They were the only customers,
and the café owner was staring at them with a lugubrious expression from behind
his counter: thin strands of hair combed across his otherwise bald head and a
large distended stomach swelling over the top of his apron.

“Did you not think I had a
right to be there?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little
defiantly. “But I did not want you there: and I felt that my right was
greater.”

She looked at him earnestly,
like a girl much younger than her thirty years, not wishing to be
argumentative, but truthful.