Paris Dreaming Page 24

  Jake laughed. ‘You are the funniest woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said seriously.

  He squeezed my hand, still laughing.

  ‘Do you think you could walk faster, please? Now you’re just holding me back with your handholding exercise.’ I laughed.

  Later that day, we cruised the Seine. The tour was like the water version of the Le Tour bus, and it was romantic to see the city from a different perspective, even though the skies were grey. The cold weather just made us cuddle more.

  As Christmas fast approached, it was getting increasingly more difficult to keep our relationship a secret at work, but I convinced Jake it was still for the best.

  I’d helped to organise Judith’s farewell party and we were going to the Moulin Rouge before she took off for a new job in Barcelona. I would miss working with her. She was a fair boss, allowing me time to duck out to check on Sorina occasionally, as long as all my tasks were completed. Judith had also come to appreciate Roma Designs and wanted to support the struggling artist.

  I organised the tickets for the Moulin Rouge and on Friday night Judith, Jake and I, and a few other staff went off to the boulevard de Clichy in Montmartre.

  We queued for forty minutes to get into the show, but I passed the time taking photos of the crowds, the lights around the venue and the busloads of tourists arriving. I watched the bouncers trying to keep the masses on the footpath and deal with cheeky people trying to push in.

  I liked the crush of the crowds though: it forced Jake and me to stand closer together and we both smiled, looking in different directions as I felt him hard against me. I’d already decided that tonight was the night we’d get down and dirty for the first time.

  Jake slipped his hand with mine into my jacket pocket and squeezed. We were in the red-light area and the street was lined with sex shops and peep shows. I wasn’t sure if I was turning Jake on or if what was going on around us was.

  Seediness aside, I was excited to see the nightclub that was so famous. I knew the girls would expect me to keep clicking photos to send back to them, especially since we’d all watched Moulin Rouge before I left Canberra. As we finally reached the entrance, I took a photo of the signage inside and my camera was confiscated.

  ‘Aucune caméra n’est permis,’ a doorman said.

  ‘No cameras allowed,’ Jake whispered to me.

  I begrudgingly handed it over and was given a hat-check ticket to collect it when the show was finished. We hurried into the venue and took a table right near the stage.

  ‘So this is Moulin Rouge,’ I said excitedly to Jake, who was sitting next to me, looking everywhere but in my direction, acting like we’d never had a personal conversation before. It was the first time I really resented not being able to just ‘be’ the couple we were when alone.

  Our waiter Antoine arrived with champagne and the show began soon after. In the first routine, the men were completely covered in white sequinned long pants and jackets and the women were all half-naked.

  The show was spectacular, but it bothered me that the men were almost always fully clothed and the women were nearly always mostly naked. And there was only one Black woman amongst them.

  ‘It’s hard to believe the first complete striptease was performed at the Moulin Rouge in 1936,’ Jake said. ‘It seems like they’ve been doing it forever!’

  ‘Stripping is the national dance,’ Judith laughed. ‘You do know most of the girls are Australian, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Jake said, not taking his eyes from the stage. His stare hit me like a bolt of jealousy.

  ‘I knew,’ I answered, remembering Denise, Lauren, Caro and I watching the film back in Canberra.

  The acts in between the dance routines were incredible: a juggler, pirates, sultans, clowns, a ringmaster and tiny Shetland ponies.

  ‘What did you like breast?’ Dan, an admin officer from the embassy asked at the end of the show, having enjoyed the dancing and the drinking.

  ‘Well, clearly I know what you liked best!’ Jake responded. ‘I actually liked the juggler. God he was impressive with those batons, what was it, six?’

  ‘Seven,’ I said. ‘I liked the ventriloquist. How did he actually make it look like that dog was talking?’

  ‘And what about when it looked like he was singing “Feelings”?’ Jake added.

  ‘I know.’ Judith too was impressed with the singing dog.

  ‘I actually think the men were far better dancers than the women,’ I said, being honest and, I thought, objective.

  ‘How do you figure that?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Let’s face it: no-one’s actually watching the women dance, are they?’ I eyeballed Jake. ‘And the men, if they’re fully clothed, then they have to be good dancers.’

  ‘Ouch, are you jealous?’ Dan accused me, and then gulped his beer.

  ‘Jealous of what?’ I could hear how defensive I sounded. ‘I wouldn’t dance around naked in public anyway, even if I did have a body like those girls.’

  I got up and went to the toilet. I was jealous. It was crazy. I just didn’t want Jake fantasising about those women who had beautiful faces and great bodies. I’d not been worried about my body with Jake, but it certainly wasn’t good enough for public disclosure.

  After the show we all went for a drink. Jake and I sat at the bar trying to look like colleagues and hiding any sense of electricity that sparked when our legs brushed. We made the most inane conversation in case the other staff listened in.

  ‘I like walking,’ I said.

  ‘Me too, can’t get enough of walking,’ Jake joked, having walked miles with me around Paris. ‘I walk as much as possible because there is so much to discover in this city by foot.’

  ‘Oh, I know, little mini-markets, little parks tucked away.’ I winked and we both laughed at how ridiculous the conversation was getting.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Walking.’ We echoed each other.

  ‘As if. I know you were talking about some poor bastard in the office. I don’t care if it’s me,’ he slurred. ‘I’m outta here.’

  He skolled the last of his drink and walked off with a wobble.

  ‘Wait up,’ Judith said, ‘I’ll split a cab back to the residence with you.’

  And she left also.

  In our own cab on the way back to my place, Jake and I were all over each other and could barely manage to keep it publicly decent. I tried to temper the situation with conversation but Jake kept sticking his tongue in my mouth whenever I opened it.

  Fumbling up the stairwell, we ended up writhing enthusiastically on the stairs with the edges of the carpeted-yet-still-painful steps hard against my back.

  ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ Jake said.

  ‘Can we get into the flat do you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ he breathed heavily into my ear, ushering me with determination to my door.

  Inside he started peeling my layers off straightaway.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I have to get organised. I’ll call you in when I’m ready.’

  He pulled me against him hard and kissed me passionately. I didn’t want to stop but I had a plan.

  ‘Wait in the bathroom. I’ll be one minute, I promise.’

  He walked the few steps to the bathroom.

  ‘And don’t start without me,’ I said, cheekily.

  I grabbed the premeditated-sexy-underwear-for-the-first-time outfit I had prepared earlier that day: a black satin bustier and the tiniest of black lace panties with red roses on them.

  I carefully slipped on some black lace-top stay-ups and hoped they stayed up long enough for Jake to appreciate them. My thighs were thin and I’d had a number of embarrassing experiences where my stockings fell down in public places. They were not sexy moments.

  I slipped my feet into my killer black patent heels and looked quickly in the mirror. I looked okay, but as soon as I threw a red scarf over my bedlamp, I looked better.r />
  ‘You can come out now,’ I called to Jake, hitting the button on the CD player.

  I sat cross-legged on the edge of my bed. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, or should be doing, but I was trying to look seductive. Piaf’s ‘Les Amants de Paris’ came on. It wasn’t a classic burlesque or striptease song but it didn’t matter.

  ‘Wow,’ is all Jake said as he came towards me.

  I was grateful that no high-kicks were required as he was all over me immediately. He used his mouth to pull down my stay-ups which, for the first time in my life, didn’t want to move, and we both giggled.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ I asked with a smile in my voice.

  ‘I think I can manage,’ he said, using his hands and his mouth. ‘You are sexier than all those women combined, Libby.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because I’m here and they’re not.’ I pretended I wasn’t grateful for his words.

  ‘You should learn to trust,’ he said seriously, ‘and take a compliment.’

  He kissed my ankles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘You are sexy because you are dignified and smart. And that is sexy,’ he said, as he kissed his way up my legs.

  ‘And this underwear is sexy,’ he mumbled as he slid off my knickers. ‘This is sexy,’ he whispered as he kissed me.

  Jake and I spent much of the next day in bed and Sunday at Montmartre, taking the stairs to the top to work off some of the buttery pastries we’d had for breakfast.

  There was a busker sitting on the steps leading up to the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur, the Roman Catholic Church housing one of the largest mosaics in the world and the place for one of the best panoramic views in Paris. Hundreds of people sat and stood, clapping along to the English songs. Then the busker sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to a backpacker in French, English and German.

  As he started singing his next tune – Eric Clapton’s ‘Layla’ – Jake and I turned to face the city. It was an unusually warm day for December. Paris, it seemed, hadn’t escaped the evils of global warming either.

  Jake placed his arm over my shoulder and I couldn’t have been happier. I thought briefly about life back in Canberra and watching Amélie with the girls and seeing Montmartre for the first time in the film. I was conscious that I didn’t feel homesick at all. But I wasn’t a traitor to my family, my friends or my country, because I was keeping it all alive with Jake and my work.

  ‘Lunch?’ Jake asked, always ready to eat.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, hesitating to suggest The Two Windmills Café from Amélie because he was already leading me in a specific direction.

  ‘I know a spot where we can sit and just watch people walk by, how does that sound?’ Jake smiled enthusiastically.

  ‘Sounds great!’

  We sat with dozens of others at Au Cadet de Gascogne at Tertre, enjoying soupe à l’oignon gratinée and more bread. I seemed to appreciate the flirty waiters more than Jake did, and I liked that he looked a tad jealous when they said how beautiful I was.

  After lunch, we strolled the markets, admiring the travelling artists showcasing their wares: many did portraits, others did caricatures. I wondered if Sorina would end up here also one day. We weaved our way through the tourists, the families and kids, and the gendarmerie – the French military police.

  The first time Jake told me he loved me, I panicked. We were walking across the Pont des Arts bridge at night. It had been raining and the streets had a sheen as the light from the antique street lamps bounced off them. We stopped in the middle of the bridge.

  He kissed me and said, ‘Je t’aime.’

  I froze, kissed him to buy time and then whispered in his ear, ‘Thank you.’

  Even I knew how lame it sounded but I couldn’t offer anything else. Although I believed I was in love with Jake, I couldn’t say it back. There was still some fear of possible abandonment, rejection and humiliation because of the past. What if I told him I loved him, and then he changed his mind, like Peter or Andy or Ames?

  I believed I had met my soul mate, but it was something I wanted to keep pure and to myself a little while longer. I believed Jake’s proclamations, and I appreciated all his good qualities that I’d been saturated with. But there was time, wasn’t there?

  I wanted to be absolutely sure. I would wait until it was the right time for me.

  I was loving my life in all its oohlala glory. Everything made me smile, especially the surprises Jake would give me regularly: the French macarons from Ladurée were apparently the best in the city, the chocolates from Maxim’s reminded me of home, a glass of champagne on the fifty-ninth floor of Montparnasse Tower at dusk was so romantic it left me weak in awe.

  Everything he did to express his appreciation for me, I loved. Everything we did together, I loved even more. Mostly, I loved being around Jake because he respected me and he made me laugh at simple things, at him, at myself. I never knew that a man could be respectful and romantic.

  The week before Christmas, he texted me.

  I left work early as most of the contacts I’d been dealing with were already on holiday leave. Jake and I were having Christmas in my apartment and we were going to kill ourselves with laughter trying to cook a turkey.

  I raced home and changed into a black skirt and red-and-gold top, black stockings and a new pair of black boots. I wrapped myself in my black coat and a red cashmere scarf Jake had given me. And I carried a Roma Designs bag. I looked like a million dollars, just like I belonged in Paris with my new style. How proud Lauren would’ve been of me.

  I met Jake at La Chapelle where he was waiting with six red roses. He kissed my cheeks: left, right, left; one, two, three. I couldn’t stop smiling at how my life had become so romantic, so peaceful, so fulfilling, so wonderful in Paris.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we strolled arm-in-arm through Paris’ biggest Indian neighbourhood.

  ‘I read about this designer hotel and I wanted to take you there,’ Jake said, holding my hand as we walked. ‘You know what today is, don’t you?’

  ‘Friday,’ I said dryly.

  ‘You’re hilarious,’ he responded with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘Why? Isn’t it Friday?’ I asked childlike.

  ‘Yes it’s Friday, smartarse. It’s also nearly six months since we met outside Nomad’s. That’s why I gave you six roses.’

  ‘Right.’ I was trying to calculate backwards in my head.

  ‘You already know I fell for you that night.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, trying to take the seriousness out of the moment for fear he would declare his love again and all I would be able to do was pat the lovesick puppy on the head.

  I pulled him close and kissed him passionately, not only because he was so sexy at that moment but because I wanted the subject changed.

  ‘Happy anniversary of the night we met,’ he whispered as he hugged me afterwards.

  We walked on, closely pressed together without speaking. True happiness it seemed could come in simple forms. Holding hands, six flowers, a warm smile, an honest disclosure. But I still couldn’t tell Jake I loved him. I just wanted things to stay as they were.

  The air was chilly but my heart was warm as we entered the bare courtyard of the hotel with its white moulded designer lounges positioned like installation art. I went and propped myself up on one immediately.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Jake said, trying to get me up. ‘Come on, my nuts are freezing.’

  ‘Charming,’ I said, conscious that Jake was rarely crude, but funny when he was.

  Inside the restaurant at the base of the hotel we found photos of burlesque girls lining the walls, fibre-optic lamps from the seventies barely lighting the space, huge wineglasses hanging above the bar and long velvet curtains falling against the windows, making it very dark.

  ‘It’s like a boudoir in here,’ I whispered to Jake, who squeezed my hand tight.

  ‘Welcome to Le Kube,’ a young waiter greeted us.

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bsp; ‘Table for Ross, please,’ Jake said to the waiter, who looked disturbingly boyish to be working in such an adult venue.

  ‘Is he even the legal age to wait?’ I whispered to Jake.

  ‘This way.’

  The boy ushered us to a table with black bench seats.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

  ‘Frédéric, mademoiselle.’

  Jake just looked at me and laughed. ‘Must you always ask the waiter’s name?’

  ‘I must. Because I’m counting how many Frédérics I can meet in Paris.’

  Jake and I decided on the tasting plate for dinner and while we waited for the food, we commented on all the glamorous people filing in and out of the bar and restaurant, imagining they were models and politicians and actors.

  ‘I bet the models from Fashion Week don’t eat this well,’ I said as Jake and I shared our meal by the glow of tea-light candles and music being played by a DJ that we barely noticed above us on the mezzanine.

  After we’d finished eating Jake got his trademark thin-lipped sexy grin on his face, one I had grown to like seeing on him.

  ‘I booked us a room here tonight,’ he said coyly.

  ‘Really?’ I replied seductively, uncrossing my legs, kicking off one shoe and pushing my stockinged foot into his crotch. He jumped.

  ‘Libby, this is a public place.’ Jake was embarrassed but smiling.

  ‘Well, where’s the room then?’ I said, trying not to sound impatient.

  As soon as the bill was paid, we were in a colourful lift with orange-and-black carpet on its walls, both giddy with love and liquor. I ran my hands over the carpet and Jake ran his hands over my body.

  Christmas in Paris was enchanting. The city was adorned with festive lights and colour and the French knew how to celebrate with food, wine and decorations. Canelle invited Jake and me to her place for a pre-Christmas dinner and to meet her new man Pierre.

  ‘This is Pierre.’ Canelle introduced us as we entered her first floor apartment.