Free The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Page A

cycling home through the dark. The drink tasted sweeter this time. The new barman must have put more sugar in it.
    â€˜Where the hell is he?’ Élodie muttered. ‘I can’t stand this waiting. I might have to get properly drunk if he takes much longer.’
    â€˜Please don’t.’
    â€˜I will do as I please, you silly boy. You are too young to understand what this means to me.’
    â€˜So tell me what it means.’
    Before she could answer my question, I saw that Selvin had come through to the bar. He looked livelier than before, and he grinned at us in a way that seemed to be saying something else entirely.
    â€˜How are we, kids?’ he said. ‘Vanessa’s not feeling too well. She might come down later.’
    â€˜No matter,’ Élodie said in a dismissive way. ‘Have a drink. Did you have dinner up in the room?’
    â€˜I did. We did. How was yours?’
    â€˜It would have been wonderful if there weren’t so many tourists around here. I used to love going out to dinner, but how can I enjoy it when I have to share it with them?’
    â€˜You used to be so enthusiastic about things like that,’ Selvin said, mockingly wistful. ‘What happened? I miss the old Élodie.’
    â€˜She’s dead,’ she said, and they both found this amusing. It must have been another in-joke. ‘Come on, darling, have a drink.’
    He asked for a cocktail that neither the barman nor I had ever heard of, and he had to explain that it consisted of Pernod and coffee liqueur. He grinned again, and this time he directed it at me.
    â€˜Still on the same daiquirí, huh kid?’
    I considered leaving again. Neither Ed Selvin nor Élodie had welcomed me into this conversation—they might as well have been on their own. But I told myself to be patient, and to withstand Selvin’s company in the hope that Élodie still wanted me. This suspicion was confirmed as she asked the barman for more champagne and foie gras to be delivered up to the suite in an hour, while Selvin went to find a table. Resolving to follow their lead, I reinforced my smile and armed myself with the cocktail glass.

8
    Ã‰lodie continued to drink enthusiastically, while I treated my cocktail with more caution. My mouth was drying up. But I felt compelled to quench it by drinking more. I could see why Élodie had fallen into this trap. A chilled cocktail was more refreshing than a glass of water.
    Selvin somehow managed to keep himself composed, despite the potency of his liquid death. I could smell it from the other side of the table, and it was a cloud of mismatched flavours. He and Élodie were talking about Vanessa who, true to her prediction, was indeed his newfound bride. It made me think that something was amiss if she stayed in the suite while he had a drink with a female friend.
    â€˜How did you meet?’ Élodie asked in a voice that did little to mask her bitter anticipation. ‘I demand all the details, or I will have to punish you.’
    â€˜We met on the shoot for The Hollow Cave . She was a last-minute casting choice. Her predecessor was involved with the scripting, so we had to throw her in at the deep end. It became a little less than professional. She’s one hell of a minx.’
    â€˜I can imagine. Are you hopelessly in love with her, silly man?’
    â€˜She works for me. Like how you work for Marcel. Or is it the other way around? I can never remember.’
    Ã‰lodie’s expression froze, with her mouth half-open and her teeth showing. I was reminded of a Modigliani painting, in which the subject’s long face and vacant stare suggested her disapproval.
    â€˜Lawrence, do tell Ed about your studies in art history. It must be fascinating.’
    Normally, I would have relished this conversation starter, but now it felt as though my every word was being judged. I started in on the rivalry between Ingres and Delacroix, which I had