The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper (18 page)

“How interesting that she lived in Paris but didn't tell us about it. Do you have any idea why not?”

Arthur shook his head. “But I now know the story behind another charm.”

Their drinks and Arthur's soup arrived minutes later. He peered into the brown earthenware bowl. The soup had a thick Gruyère crouton on top. “I think that waiter likes you,” he said as he blew on his spoon. “I saw him watching you as I crossed the road.”

“He just wants me to leave a big tip.” Lucy blushed.

“That is probably not the case.”

“I'm not sure why else he would be looking at me.”

Arthur lifted his eyes. His daughter looked so pretty, with her pinkened collarbone and freckles. It was as though a veil had been lifted from her face, taking her strain and upset with it. He wondered for a moment if he should tell her as much, but he couldn't form the right words. Instead, he looked back into his bowl. “This soup really is fine,” he said. “I don't know how they get the onions to go so soft.”

They sat in silence while he finished. Lucy picked up a newspaper left behind by an old man with a black poodle from the table beside them and browsed through it.

Arthur tilted his bowl to ensure he got the very last spoonful of soup. The warmness in his belly and the sun streaking through the trees made him feel calm and relaxed. His shoulders didn't feel as tight. Being here with Lucy had given him time to reflect on the past couple of weeks. He looked back over to the boutique. “You know, through my travels and meeting people who were part of Miriam's life, I'm learning that it's the things you say and do that people remember you for. She is no longer here but she lives on in people's hearts and minds.”

“That's a nice thought.”

“I'm not sure if anyone will remember me so kindly.”

“Don't be silly, Dad.”

“I'm not being. The more I find out about your mother's remarkable life before me, the more it emphasizes that I've never done anything adventurous, or traveled, or met anyone that I might have had an impact on...”

“But you are doing that now. It's not too late.”

Arthur hitched his shoulders.

Lucy shook her head. “You're feeling emotional, Dad. It's bound to be the case. It's been a long journey here and you're hearing stories about Mum that you've never heard before. But, I assure you, you will always be part of my life. You'll always be special to me.”

Arthur gave a small nod, grateful for her sensible words. “Thanks.” He felt he should say something in return. He wanted to tell Lucy how he loved her from the minute she was born. He had listened to Miriam say it over and over again with such ease. But the words had never come easily to him. When Lucy was a child and asleep, then he could kiss her forehead and whisper, “I love you,” but here, in public, in a café, well, he couldn't respond. “I, er...well. Ditto.”

“Oh, Dad.”

He felt Lucy suddenly wrap her arms around his neck “Are you okay? Whatever's the matter?”

Lucy sniffed. “I just miss Mum, that's all. It would be lovely if she was here with us.”

“I know.” He patted her back not knowing what to say that could change things.

Lucy broke away first. She felt around in her bag for a tissue.

“Madame?” The waiter appeared at her side. He raised one of his eyebrows. “Are you okay?” He shot a glance at Arthur as if accusing him of upsetting his young companion.

“Yes. I am fine. This is my father. We are happy.”

“You are
'appy
?”

“Yes. Very. Thank you for asking. I just need a tissue,” Lucy said.

The waiter vanished and then slid a box of tissues onto the table. “For you.”

“
Merci.
You are very kind.”

“Claude,” the waiter said. “My name is Claude.”

“This is my treat,” Lucy insisted when she had dabbed her eyes and blown her nose. “It's my money to spend on what I want. Remember?”

“Yes, darling.” Arthur smiled, making out that he was henpecked.

He went to the bathroom and when he came out saw that Claude was talking to his daughter. The waiter had a tray tucked under his arm and Lucy was smiling and twirling a strand of hair in her hand. Arthur bent down to retie his shoelaces and, when he saw they were still chatting, he checked how many euros he had in his wallet. When Claude moved away from the table, Arthur walked back. “Okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Good,” Lucy said. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I saw you talking to the waiter.”

“Ah, yes. He, er...” She cleared her throat. “He asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with him this evening. It was a little unexpected.”

“That's a coincidence because Sylvie asked me to join her for dinner.”

They both looked at each other and laughed.

“I hope you said yes,” Arthur said.

Paris Match

ARTHUR LATHERED HIS
chin with shaving foam and took hold of his razor. He paused in front of the hotel bathroom mirror and studied his reflection. It felt strange to be making an effort with his appearance. He was meeting a stranger for dinner, on a Friday night in Paris. He was surprised that someone as lovely as Sylvie had nothing else planned for her evening.

His fingers tingled. He didn't want to think too deeply about this in case he tried to talk himself out of it. Friday night was when he and Miriam used to have their chippy tea in front of the TV. But he told himself that he and Sylvie were going out to talk about Miriam, to share their memories and stories. It was something he should want to do, not shy away from.

One thing he was trying not to worry about was
what
they might eat. Did all French restaurants serve frog legs and cook everything in garlic? He hoped not. For a moment he had a longing for one of Bernadette's pies. He was missing her home cooking and also her company. He hoped that Sylvie would be gentle on him.

After lunch in the little café across the road from the bridal boutique, he and Lucy had been out shopping. He rarely went shopping with Miriam. If they did, he would end up loitering outside changing rooms, looking at his watch. Miriam would hold up shirts and trousers against him, then she would either nod and put them in the basket or whisk them away to hang back on the rail. The clothes would then appear as if by magic in his wardrobe, with the shop creases ironed out and the labels snipped off, ready for him to wear. Likewise, when he had a birthday in the family or at Christmas, well-chosen presents would appear on the kitchen worktop neatly wrapped in brightly colored paper, with ribbon bows and gift tags signed “From Miriam and Arthur.” He actually liked the idea of shopping for his family, to pick something out that he thought they might like, but gift buying was Miriam's domain. She took to it with relish.

This time he found the experience joyous. He and Lucy strolled around the streets in no hurry. They tried different French cheeses and sampled olive oils together. They found a clothes shop with a closing-down sale and Lucy insisted that he buy five new shirts, two jumpers and a new pair of trousers. As he stood in the changing room and looked at his reflection in the new clothes, even he had to admit that he looked younger.

He bought a small bunch of freesias for Sylvie and an enameled black cat brooch for Lucy when she wasn't looking. In the window of an antiques shop he saw a simple string of pearls and pointed them out. “I think your mother would have loved those,” he said.

Lucy agreed. “You knew her so well,” she said.

* * *

Arthur wore his new clothes as he stood outside the bridal shop once more, waiting for Sylvie. The lights inside were switched off and for a brief moment he half hoped she'd had a change of heart, that she had reconsidered. He walked up and down outside the shop trying not to grip the little bunch of freesias too tightly.

Friday night seemed to be couples night in Paris. An array of well-dressed, gorgeous couples of all ages sashayed past him. They smiled as they saw him waiting.
Don't worry
, they seemed to be thinking,
she will be here for you soon
.

Ten minutes later, he heard the shop door rattle and Sylvie appeared. “My apologies, Arthur. I was ready to leave when I took a phone call. A young bride was panicking about her dress. She has been starving herself for her wedding and has lost too much weight so that her bosom no longer fills the dress so well. I told her not to worry and that she should come and see me tomorrow. Her wedding is in three weeks' time so she may put weight back on. I do not think alterations are the answer. Maybe a little more padding in her bra... Anyway—” she brushed her hair with her hand “—what am I telling you all this for? I am sorry to keep you waiting—that is what I am trying to say.”

She smiled as she took the flowers. She bent her head to smell them, took them inside the shop and then locked the door. He noticed that she was wearing the same suit as when he'd met her earlier, but she had added a sparkly turquoise necklace and a cream crocheted shawl. He felt less nervous now that she hadn't changed especially for dinner.

They walked together down the cobbled streets, winding down toward the river. At one point Sylvie lost her footing and he held out the crook of his elbow so she could steady herself. As they walked, her hand remained there, linking him. Arthur felt his arm stiffen. They were walking along arm in arm. It was more familiar than he was comfortable with. He wondered if anyone passing would think they were together and this made him feel self-conscious. He hoped Sylvie didn't think their outing was anything more than friendly.
This is just the French way
, he told himself.
Being tactile and friendly is the norm.

He glanced at her. She smiled and had a dance in her step as she pointed out a dove on a telephone wire, a mural of a girl being pulled into the air by the bunch of balloons she was carrying. Sylvie reached out to pluck a couple of olives from a bowl outside a shop. She waved to the shopkeeper inside, then passed one to Arthur. He took it and the oil dribbled down his hand. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket. Then he kept his arm pinned to his side.

They walked to a tiny bistro with just eight tables. Chez Rupert. Sylvie explained that she was a friend of the owner. “I have told them to bring us whatever dishes they feel we will enjoy. I have explained that you are an Englishman with simple tastes.” She laughed. “We can try a little of everything.”

“A bit like tapas?” Arthur said. He and Miriam had once gone to Spanish night at the local village hall in aid of raising funds for the church roof. They had each received a glass of sangria piled high with chunks of apple and orange. “It's kind of like a boozy fruit salad,” he said after taking a sip. Each table then received around six small terra-cotta dishes with different foods in each. He and Miriam had peered at each of them in turn. There were things that he didn't recognize but they had eaten the whole lot. It had been an enjoyable evening, even if they had to call at the chippy on the way home because they were still hungry.

“Yes. Like tapas,” Sylvie agreed.

While they waited for their food they finished a nice bottle of merlot with ease and ordered another. Arthur's head felt lighter, as if any worries he had were drifting away.

He surprised himself by trying mussels cooked in garlic butter and a thick French fish soup called bouillabaisse. He ate veal and a mushroom stew and quaffed more red wine. And he tried not to think about why he hadn't been open about trying new things in the past.

When a passing musician stepped into the bar and played the accordion, Sylvie insisted that they stand and dance. Even though the people around them laughed at the pathetic dancing efforts of this Englishman, Arthur bowed and laughed with them.

After dinner, Sylvie took his arm again and this time it felt more natural. They walked alongside the Seine. The sunset was spectacular, making the sky look like it was on fire. Arthur found her charming company but he couldn't help wishing that it was his wife he was with, was laughing with, was admiring the sunset with. He felt the need to speak her name, to remind himself that he was here because of her. “Miriam would love it here,” he said.

“She did love it here,” Sylvie said. “We came here a few times to walk and talk and plan our futures. We were full of youthful confidence. I was going to be the best wedding dress designer in the world. All the celebrities and film stars would want to wear a Sylvie Bourdin dress. But then, as the weeks and months and years pass, you become more sensible. You recognize that dreams are just that.”

“But you have your shop. You've done amazingly well. You help to make dreams come true.”

“Did Miriam's dreams come true? She talked of meeting a man and having lots of children and living in the country with a big garden.”

“She said those things? Nothing about tigers and being swept off her feet by a rich novelist?”

“You are teasing me, yes?”

“A little.” They stopped and watched a rowboat sail past, cutting through the water that looked like mercury in the fading light. “We had a small house, two children and lived on the outskirts of the country. I worry that her life with me didn't match up to her dreams.”

“I think that out of the two of us, she is the one who got it right. I didn't have children, you see. I was always too busy with work. I have a beautiful shop instead of babies. The ladies who come to see me are like my daughters. I have many, many daughters.” Sylvie laughed. “Hopefully some remember me after their big day. I sometimes wish my dreams had been simpler or that I had time for both a family and my shop.”

They found a small bar that rang with laughter and sat at a black wrought-iron table on the pavement. “Even I do not know this place,” Sylvie exclaimed. “You are making an explorer out of me, Arthur.”

It was past two in the morning by the time they returned to the wedding boutique. It was with some guilt that Arthur realized they hadn't talked very much about Miriam. They chatted about York and about Lucy and Dan. He told Sylvie about Bernadette and Frederica and more of the stories behind the charms. In turn Sylvie told him of her lovers over the years and how she had nearly left Paris to live in a rural watermill with a penniless artist but had come to her senses before she walked down the aisle. “I own a bridal shop but have never been a bride myself,” she said.

As they neared the boutique Arthur's pulse quickened. What was the etiquette in these matters—a kiss to the cheek? Both cheeks? A hug? He wasn't sure. He grew silent as they stood in front of the bay window.

“I have had a lovely time, Arthur. I have not laughed so much in a long time.”

“Me, neither.” He felt he didn't have to try too hard with Sylvie. There was a natural ease between them that he hadn't felt with anyone other than with his wife. She was connected to his wife and that made him want to be close to her. He wanted to touch the lines around her eyes, to stroke her cheek. Sylvie moved a little nearer. He could feel her breath on his neck, see how the ends of her eyelashes curled up and notice the small furrow between her eyebrows.

He wanted to kiss her.

Kiss her?

Where had this thought come from? He should only want to kiss his wife.

Sylvie smiled at him, as if she could read his thoughts.

He felt his own hand slip around her waist. Should he pull away before it was too late?

In the time he had considered, their lips met.

It felt strange to be kissing someone else. It was something that he wanted to stop and reflect upon before he continued, but he could not pull away. He needed human contact, to feel wanted again. Her lips were soft and warm. Time slipped away.

Sylvie pulled away first. “It is getting cold now.” She shivered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Would you like to come up for a coffee?”

It was a question that he hadn't expected. But it was a natural end to the evening, to sit and talk some more. He could ask her more questions, the ones he had forgotten to ask already. But it would be dangerous, too. Might she be thinking of more than just coffee?

“I really must get back to the hotel,” he said. “Lucy may wonder where I am.” This sounded silly as soon as he said it. Of course they had separate rooms. He wouldn't see her until breakfast.

“But Lucy met with her waiter friend?”

“Yes. Claude.”

“I am sure that your daughter is a big girl now.”

“Yes, but I will always worry about her.”

“I am sure that Claude will make sure she gets home safely. And she has a mobile phone, yes?”

“Yes.” Arthur took his own phone from his pocket. “Oh, look. She has left a message.” He opened it up. Lucy had sent it twenty-five minutes ago. It told him not to worry, that she was on her way back to the hotel and would see him in the breakfast room at nine in the morning. “Ah, that's good.” He smiled.

“So you would like coffee, yes?”

Arthur put his phone back into his pocket. He let his hand linger there. “I...” he started.

Sylvie interjected. She lifted her chin proudly. “The thing is, Arthur, I am lonely sometimes. I feel that time is passing me by. I would very much like you to join me for coffee and perhaps spend the night. I meet men who are young and who are bridegrooms. I meet fathers of the bride who sometimes propose to me what they shouldn't propose. I am professional and I say no. I do not meet many people whom I like, who I feel something for.”

Arthur felt longing ache within his belly. He hadn't expected to feel like this about anyone ever again. It was delicious but also made him feel sick with guilt. This wasn't lusting over a film star or someone unobtainable, which might be acceptable in a marriage. Sylvie was flesh and blood. She was beautiful and she was here, asking him to go to her room.