The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Page B

this too seriously.’
    â€˜Oh good. You are learning.’
    Our chairs had moved closer together somehow. She reached around my middle, feeling my abdominals as though she was trying to reach beneath my skin and exhume them.
    â€˜Interesting,’ she said. ‘Very interesting.’
    I could not have resisted her grip, even if I had tried. She moved up to my chest and rubbed it. I could feel her trying to get beneath the buttons of my new shirt. She burrowed her head into the curve of my neck, and I smelt her hair, which was thick with the scents of smoke and lavender.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ I asked, trying not to gasp. I had no way of responding to her touch.
    â€˜I’m unwinding you, I hope. Relax and let it happen.’
    â€˜No.’ I pulled away. Her face was half-lit, which made it hard to tell if she was displeased.
    â€˜I wanted to see how you would react,’ she said. ‘You were mine for a while there.’
    Suddenly I saw that this really was no more than a joke. That moment was meant to have happened with Sophie. Why had we never touched each other in that way? Why had we sat so far apart on the café terrace in Madrid and discussed the meaning of love from such an intellectual perspective? Why had I talked about Goya’s La Maja Desnuda without once mentioning the shape of her breasts or the hint of her pubic hair? I had a sudden sense of how I had let Sophie down, what a stitched-up creature I was with her. That was where I needed to return. I needed to save myself for Sophie.
    â€˜I’m going up to the suite,’ I said. ‘I need to sleep. I need to figure out what I’m going to do with myself tomorrow.’
    I headed for the steps leading to the hotel, stumbling on the tiles. The terrace was empty, although there were some patrons in the poolside restaurant.
    Before I could reach the steps, she called out. ‘If you don’t come back, Lawrence, then I will throw myself in the water and probably drown. Do you want that?’
    She sounded as serious as a drunkard could. I didn’t know how to react. The answer to her question was obvious. But it was her problem, and she wasn’t my responsibility.
    â€˜Whatever, Élodie.’
    It was too late and I was too tired. I returned to my path, passing into the light and starting up the canopied steps. The splash did not come until I had reached the top. I turned around to see a purple satin dress billowing out in the water, consuming her tiny figure.
    This time I did know how to react. I ran down the steps to the water’s edge, peeling off the navy jacket and shirt before I dived in after her.
    The water was surprisingly warm, almost leisurely. Surely I should have been rescuing my beloved from the bottom of an ice-cold lake? She offered no resistance, and this hardly surprised me. After all, I had given in to her desires.
    I began to pull her to the surface when I felt her fingernails tighten around my wrist as she tried to claw me down with her. I opened my eyes and saw her face right before mine. Her mouth would have been grinning, I felt sure, if it had not been filled with water. She could have pulled me to the bottom of the pool, drowning us there together, sharing our last breaths in panic. But I released myself, and tugged her to the surface.
    A crowd had gathered on the terrace, mostly staff from the restaurant. One of them helped us out. Élodie rolled on the tiles beside me and laughed unrestrainedly. I did my best to explain to the waiter that she had drunk too much. This made Élodie laugh harder.
    â€˜Come on,’ I said, taking her by the arm. ‘We need to go up to the room.’
    I apologised to the waiters, gladly taking a towel and my clothes from one of them. It all felt too strange to be true. The onlookers were mesmerised. Élodie’s dress was ruined. It had drawn in around her, revealing how thin she truly was.
    I tried not to let too much water