Paris Dreaming Read online

  My enthusiasm for the P4P was mounting internally and I was aiming to pitch to Emma as soon as all my research had been finished. Late one night, I sat up in bed reading an essay by Hetti Perkins titled ‘Seeing and Seaming: Contemporary Aboriginal Art’ and tried to develop further the concept for a potential temporary exhibition the NAG could offer the musée.

  I closed my eyes momentarily and a text arrived from Lauren telling me to check my email. I put a pillow on my lap, rested my laptop on it and read her message which had Denise cc’d in.

  On Saturday I was up and running before my body even had a chance to realise it was morning. I pounded the pavements around Braddon, seeing only a couple of other runners. I had my iPod on and listened to the soundtrack from The Sapphires. I loved Casey Donovan’s voice: strong, gutsy, and perfect for running to.

  As I took each step, I mentally scripted the pitch I would deliver to Emma as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  I arrived at Lauren’s at 10 am to a kitchen full of almond and chocolate croissants, éclairs, Brésiliennes, petits choux chantilly and even a bottle of French champagne. The smell of coffee wafted around my nose.

  ‘Did you get a pay rise? I’m talking to Emma because I haven’t seen one.’ I picked up a tiny chocolate croissant.

  ‘You won’t believe this …’ Lauren said, pouring bubbles into a flute.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all from Wyatt.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Denise and I said concurrently.

  ‘No, I’m not kidding. I told him about how you threw me the Manhattan Movie Marathon and he was so grateful to you for making me go to New York – which meant meeting him of course – that when I said I was going to get croissants this morning for your French film fest, he handed me some cash and said buy something.’ She held up a bottle of Mumm. ‘So I did.’

  We all ‘aahhed’ with the knowledge of how truly thoughtful – and apparently cashed up – Wyatt was.

  ‘He is wonderful, isn’t he?’ Lauren said, more as an acclamation than a question.

  ‘And very generous,’ I added, holding out my glass.

  ‘With great taste,’ Denise said, reading the label. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of this, only the usual suspects like Moét et Chandon. And sorry, but this is the best I could do.’ She put a bottle of Australian sparkling on the table.

  ‘This is great!’ I hugged her. ‘This is how every Saturday should be spent. Who said Canberra was boring?’

  ‘Everyone!’ Caro said, seriously.

  ‘Hahaha, it’s true everyone says Canberra’s boring, but they don’t know how to live, that’s all.’ I raised my glass and clinked it to Lauren’s and Denise’s, but Caro waved her hand at me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, having never seen Caro turn down a drink, even if it was 10 am on Saturday morning.

  ‘I’m still seedy from last night. I’m sticking to café au lait,’ she said, as Lauren fluffed around the shiny new coffee maker.

  ‘That’s the first appliance Wyatt and I bought together, it’s already earned itself out.’

  ‘Gee, that sounds romantic,’ Caro said, with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you counting the cost of every cup?’

  ‘Of course not. It is romantic because every morning I make the toast and he makes the coffee and we have breakfast together.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to put up with me making the coffee today, Loz, and while I’ll make it with love, there’ll be no romance,’ Caro said dryly.

  As the machine coughed and spluttered and the milk frothed, Lauren and I carried trays of fattening pastries into the living room. Denise brought the bottle in with her.

  With the curtains pulled and two red bucket chairs on either end of her sofa all lined up square in front of the television, it looked like a row of very comfortable seats at the cinema. Lauren put a side table at each end of the row for the bubbly and food, and there were two footstools for our feet to share.

  ‘I may never go to a public theatre ever again. This is better than gold class,’ Denise said.

  ‘It’s platinum class,’ I replied.

  ‘I’ve got a whole bag of flicks for us ladies, and this one is an absolute must!’ Denise held up a DVD case like a prized trophy. ‘Most of the teachers at school have seen it and it comes highly recommended. Apparently, it’s the French version of Gone with the Wind.’

  ‘Oh god, is it going to be all soppy? You know I don’t do soppy.’ I was interested in seeing Parisian scenery and culture and even some comedy if that were possible, but I wasn’t remotely interested in a weekend of French love stories.

  ‘Libs, show a bit of respect, please. This was voted the best film ever by the French Film Academy.’ Caro also seemed to know a little about it.

  ‘I’m not good with foreign films, either,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not a good start or a smart confession for someone wanting to work in Paris.’

  ‘But,’ I added, ‘I am willing to learn. Now hand it over.’ I took the cover from Denise as she put the DVD into the player. I did my best French accent as I read the title out loud. ‘Les Enfants du Paradis.’

  ‘You just massacred that with your Aussie-fied French accent,’ Caro said. She was partially fluent in the language.

  ‘The Children of Paradise,’ I read the translation. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Much.’ She raised her coffee in a toast to me.

  We watched the classic three-hour black-and-white film and I was surprised by how much I loved it, even though it was about relationships. When it was over we dissected the script and characters.

  ‘The line, “Life is beautiful and so are you”, shits me,’ Caro said seriously. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I heard that when I was in Paris, it’s a standard pick-up line. And it was all bullshit!’

  No-one commented. Caro was clearly in a bad mood.

  ‘I liked Garance, she’s a flirt but she is so elegant and subtle,’ Denise said.

  ‘A lot like me,’ I laughed.

  ‘My favourite bloke was Baptiste, he loved Garance before he even met her.’ Lauren looked all misty-eyed. ‘He loved her all along, just like Wyatt loved me, even when I was with Cash Brannigan and he-who-shall-remain-nameless.’

  ‘All this lurve talk is making me more nauseous.’ Caro picked up her empty coffee mug to refill. ‘I wouldn’t have trusted Baptiste at all.’

  ‘Why not!?’ Lauren was mortified.

  ‘He kissed her with his eyes open,’ Caro said, as if we should know what that meant.

  ‘So?’ I asked.

  ‘You never, ever trust someone who kisses with their eyes open. And there was no tongue. What is French kissing without tongue?’

  ‘Fair point, Caro.’ I raised my eyebrows at the other girls.

  ‘I brought something too. Libs, if you’re not Garance, perhaps you are … Amélie!’ Lauren handed me the case after removing the disc.

  ‘Well, at least it’s a modern film.’ I took the cover and read the blurb, with attempted interest. ‘It says she’s introverted and obsessed, thanks heaps! Just because I like solitude and I’m passionate about my work, does that make me introverted and obsessed?’ I could hear how defensive I sounded.

  ‘Hang on, she also thinks she can control fate, and that, my dear tidda, is you down to a tee, it’s one of your best qualities. And that’s what you’re doing with planning Paris – twisting fate to suit you.’ I could tell Caro was channelling her life coach then, it was the kind of affirmation she’d no doubt heard before.

  ‘Fate needs a bloody good kick up the butt sometimes.’ I pushed my size nine foot into the air.

  ‘Fate isn’t going to help you with your fashion sense though, is it?’ Lauren, the Queen of Fashion, said.

  ‘Right, so I’m an obsessed, introverted bad dresser. I’ll die in Paris, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Caro tried not to smile.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Lauren attempted to defend me. ‘You’ve got a f
antastic shoe collection and that’s the best place to start your wardrobe from.’

  ‘See, it’s just your fashion sense from the ankles up that is the problem.’ Caro pressed ‘play’ on the remote.

  ‘Truth be known, I often dress down to help make you girls look better.’ I said it with a straight face so they had no idea if I was serious or joking.

  My butt was growing numb from sitting down so much and I was glad the day, although warm, had turned overcast and progressively darker. At least I wasn’t missing out on beautiful sunshine. We needed rain desperately so no-one in Canberra would ever complain about a storm brewing.

  As we watched the film, I liked Amélie – the character – immediately. She was full of hope and belief in what was possible. That was definitely me, although I couldn’t imagine trying to manipulate fate to meet a fella who collected discarded pics from a photo booth. After watching Lauren’s desperate and stalker-like attempts to make Adam want her years ago, I became less and less interested in trying to meet and/or manipulate men in any way. Perhaps that wisdom came through Lauren’s mistakes, or perhaps it came through my own failed relationships, or maybe it was just something that came with age.

  ‘I can tell you women now, I will never plot or strategise to meet a man or to try and win him over. No blue arrows on the ground giving them directions to find me, no batting of the eyelashes, no going to deportment classes.’ I stood up as if giving a public speech. ‘I am Libby Cutmore, I am a champagne-drinking Black woman, and if they don’t like what they see, then they don’t get it!’

  I had no problem being me. At least I knew I was without obsessions or delusions, but I was also without Lauren’s fashion flair and Garance’s flirting tactics. By my standards though, and they were the only standards I cared about, I was still doing just fine.

  ‘Now,’ Caro said, ignoring the speech, ‘I brought this one with me, but I’m not sure if you’ll be into it.’ She showed us the cover and we all turned our noses up at Last Tango in Paris.

  ‘Doesn’t he shove cheese, you know …’ Denise didn’t make any hand gestures but we all knew what she meant.

  ‘Yeah, I can pass on that one I think, really. I like my cheese,’ I said adamantly.

  ‘Actually, it was butter,’ Caro clarified, ‘and it was groundbreaking at the time, I just thought …’

  ‘Look, I’m not going abroad to get any dairy product shoved anywhere other than my mouth, thank you very much.’ I took the DVD from Caro’s hand and put it firmly back in her tote. ‘Nice bag by the way,’ I stroked the black patent leather, ‘I wouldn’t mind one of these, or another cup of coffee.’

  ‘Café au lait, café noir and café crème for you,’ Caro listed our orders and went to the coffee machine again.

  ‘You’re the best barista in the ’Berra,’ I said, grateful for another hit.

  ‘You’ll have to make your own mocha, Loz, it’s not in my repertoire.’ Caro shrugged her shoulders in apology.

  ‘Your French is pretty good, Caro.’ I was impressed with her accent as well.

  ‘I was married to a Frenchman for a couple of years, remember?’ Caro rarely made reference to her ex. ‘That is, until I realised what everyone had tried to tell me all along, that Burnel was shagging every other woman he could get his hands on.’

  ‘Ouch.’ I didn’t want to look at Lauren in case it triggered something from the days of Adam.

  ‘Burnel … I’ve never heard of that name before,’ Denise said.

  I’d never heard Caro call her ex by his name before either. On the rare occasion she did refer to him, it was as ‘scumbag’, ‘lowlife’ or ‘the Bastard’, but never Burnel.

  ‘The name’s not common, even though he was. It means little brown child, which he was also.’

  ‘I think you need some sugar in your coffee to deal with that bitterness.’ Denise tried to lighten the moment.

  ‘I’m good. I am.’ Caro was trying to convince us as much as herself. ‘I just think every woman should date a Frenchman because it can only go up from there!’

  ‘That’s very harsh, Caro,’ Lauren said.

  ‘And racist, I might add.’ Denise gave Caro her stern-teacher face. ‘And perhaps for an alternative experience to Caro’s, Libs, you could read Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French. She’s an Australian who fell in love with a Frenchman named Frédéric and they’re very happy.’ Denise gave Caro another stern glare.

  Caro looked suitably chastised. ‘You’re right, I apologise. Let me rephrase it. All women should just date Burnel, because everything can only go up from there. My memories of him make me appreciate my singledom and life without lies even more.’

  The room was silent. Caro didn’t talk about her past much, probably because she was older and wiser. Since Lauren and Wyatt were setting up home and planning a wedding, and Denise was thick with Dave, and I was working a million hours a week and now planning my French adventure, we girls were rarely all together at the one time, so serious conversations were scarce. Caro’s words now were a stark reminder of how we had all moved on and our lives were now heading in different directions.

  ‘What are we watching?’ Caro changed the subject.

  ‘We can’t end the festival without …’ Denise pulled a DVD out of her bag. ‘Moulin Rouge.’

  ‘I love Ewan McGregor!’ Lauren exclaimed, and Denise and I ‘mmmmed’ in agreement.

  ‘I could listen to him sing “Come What May” all day, I kid you not. He is so sexy when he’s singing that.’ Denise was almost drooling.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind vanishing inside his kiss.’ The song words rang in my head.

  I thought I’d said it to myself, but realised I’d said it out loud when the girls looked at me surprised. My research on Paris had reawakened my interest, at least physically, in the opposite sex, but I was not going to admit it to anyone else.

  ‘Let’s just watch the movie.’ I tried to move on from the moment.

  As Nicole Kidman did her cancan striptease scene for the duke, we all cringed.

  ‘Getting tips are you Libs?’ Denise joked.

  ‘Yeah, my version would be the can’t-can’t, or should I say, won’t-won’t!’

  ‘The most important tip from this movie, girls, is the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and to be loved in return,’ Lauren said, finishing with a warm sigh.

  I took out my pen and my everyday Moleskine for random notes and lists.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Denise asked.

  ‘Making a list, of course.’ I hadn’t stopped making them since I decided I was going to Paris.

  ‘On what? Tips on how to have affairs?’ Caro continued to stare at the screen.

  ‘No, tips on flirting, of course.’ Lauren was hopeful.

  ‘Neither. I’m actually making a list of commonly used French words that I can throw into my vocab on a daily basis quite easily to seem a little French-like. The movies reminded me of some I hadn’t even thought about. I’ve got a bigger vocab than I imagined.’

  ‘What have you got so far?’ Lauren asked with genuine interest.

  ‘Give me a minute, I’m doing something … with the words.’ I was writing as fast as possible. I looked at my short list and read them out slowly to nods of recognition, making little sentences where I could.

  ‘We had a weekend rendezvous at Lauren’s, the food was à la carte, and she also provided us with an apéritif.’

  ‘Nice,’ Lauren said.

  ‘Apropos of food, it wasn’t cordon bleu, but the crème caramel smelled better than the potpourri,’ I went on. ‘It was déjà vu, because I realised I’d been in this cul-de-sac before and the soup du jour arrived long before the femme fatale found a fiancé in America.’

  The girls were cheering me on, Lauren laughing the hardest.

  ‘There were four of us, one too many for a ménage à trois, so we had a film matinée, and the curator wanted to talk about the objet d’art, which I thought was a tad passé but she was petite so I di
dn’t hassle her.’

  Now they were laughing hard.

  ‘I have RSVP’d to a soirée tonight but I want to stay here and learn more before I become the perfect protégé and say bon voyage and go to Paris, the city of amour.’

  By this stage I was wriggling in my seat, desperate to go to the bathroom.

  ‘Voilà! I can’t do any more; I need to go to the toilette.’ I stood up. ‘Here’s the rest of my list, you can make your own sentences.’

  As I left, I handed Caro the list of remaining words which read:

  au contraire

  avant-garde

  c’est la vie

  coup d’état

  décolletage

  encore

  laissez-faire

  maître d’

  mardi gras

  souvenir

  hors d’œuvre

  When I returned, Caro handed me back the sheet.

  ‘We added a few more words to your daily list: bistrot, which means a bar in Paris, and café which is where you go for your café au lait and pain au chocolat.’

  Caro’s French connection, albeit painful for her, was going to prove helpful to me. Her accent also made me realise how much work I had to do just to perfect the few words and phrases I did have.

  Denise interrupted. ‘Now, I’ve also got something for us to watch.’ She held up The Devil Wears Prada.

  ‘Do we really need to see this?’ I sighed at the thought of another film. ‘Especially since it’s only minimally set in Paris.’

  ‘Okay, just take it with you for Parisian fashion tips.’

  I looked down at my standard black look. ‘What? You don’t like the shift-dress style?’

  ‘The dress is fine, but your whole wardrobe is black and grey. You belong in Melbourne.’

  ‘I like black and grey. It’s simple and conservative, but not lacking style.’

  I thought I always looked professional, tidy, clean. I didn’t fuss with colours and accessories like Lauren did. I wasn’t raised in a house where style was about your clothes. It was about how you carried yourself in public places. Dignity was style, that’s what I learned from Mum. My whole life was about what I said, not what I wore.