finally?’
‘Fuck you, Sally. No. She’s gone to Paris with Rachael. Did she tell you her plans?’ Shit. I heard the weakness in my voice – the doubt, the desperation. This was a mistake.
Sally sniffed it out like a hound dog. ‘I always thought she could do better.’
‘Jeez . . . this isn’t about us. It’s about Rachael. She’s . . .’ There was more sniggering on the line. ‘Oh, forget it.’ I hung up.
Camille
It was lunchtime when we arrived in Paris. The sky was autumnal: bright blue, clear and crisp; the limestone buildings shone like a gift in gold foil.
‘Pinch me,’ Rachael said, leaning into the taxi window. ‘I can’t believe we’re here.’ She craned her neck to see barges put-putting down the river, tourist buses lurching, mopeds buzzing in and out of traffic, pale faces squinting against the cold, and through the buildings, above the mansard rooftops, pointing like a large spear, the iron spoke of the Eiffel Tower.
‘I thought it would be taller,’ Rachael said.
*
We waited on the narrow footpath outside my aunt’s apartment building, Rach carrying my mother’s ashes, our bags dumped on the pavement. Above us a woman cleaned the elaborate wrought iron of the balcony, her ample arm jiggling; a moped mounted the pavement, its driver popping into the cafe; a sheer net curtain shook in the window on the ground floor, a watchful eye disappearing: here was Paris. My palms felt damp.
The gate opened automatically. I pushed an orange glow on the wall, the place lit up, and we dragged our things over the cobblestoned foyer towards a set of glass doors. I pressed a second buzzer inscribed with the names
M. et Mme Drake
.
‘’Allo?’ came the voice.
‘It’s Camille.’
‘
Dernier étage
. Top floor.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
The lift rattled to the sixth floor and stopped with a thud. We pushed the grate back. I could smell jasmine and vanilla.
Chamade, I recalled, was the name of my aunt’s perfume. It wafted in the air long after she had left a room. She used to carry a small bottle of concentrate in her bag and absently dab it behind her ears throughout the day. If she hugged me I would smell of it for hours. She had torn shreds off me once and afterwards had presented me with a bottle as a gift – an apology. I’d taken it and worn the perfume until someone told me later, ‘I can’t smell
you
with that stuff on.’ I never wore it again.
The door to the apartment clicked open. An outline of my aunt’s figure was backlit on the threshold, thin and tall, her hair the shape of a halo. She was flawless. She was smiling.
‘Camille,’ she said, the French way. A gold bracelet clattered on her wrist as she touched her cheeks either side of mine. She stood back, taking a lengthy look at me ‘It’s been too long.’ She squeezed my wrists and the corners of her eyes welled up.
Twenty-one years ago, fresh off the plane, I had waited for her for one hour in the street outside the train station. It had been so cold my eyes had watered.
‘Was it a terrible journey?’ Francine asked.
I shook my head, struck by the strangeness of being here. I’d forgotten the grandness of the apartment.
‘Business class wasn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be.’ Rachael leant in and kissed her great-aunt on both cheeks. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
I heard the lie slip out of her mouth with ease. ‘Rach, we weren’t in business.’
‘It was a joke, Camille.’
Right, I thought. Sometimes I missed these things completely.
Francine gripped Rachael’s shoulders. ‘Rachelle – you’re so grown up.’ She looked from me to Rachael. ‘You must look like your father, no?’
I nodded, watching Francine, and then looked around for something with which to ground myself. A point of reference. It was a shock to see how much she looked like my mother.
‘That’s what they say,’ Rachael piped up. ‘But it’s just the hair that throws you.’ She flicked a bunch of
‘Fuck you, Sally. No. She’s gone to Paris with Rachael. Did she tell you her plans?’ Shit. I heard the weakness in my voice – the doubt, the desperation. This was a mistake.
Sally sniffed it out like a hound dog. ‘I always thought she could do better.’
‘Jeez . . . this isn’t about us. It’s about Rachael. She’s . . .’ There was more sniggering on the line. ‘Oh, forget it.’ I hung up.
Camille
It was lunchtime when we arrived in Paris. The sky was autumnal: bright blue, clear and crisp; the limestone buildings shone like a gift in gold foil.
‘Pinch me,’ Rachael said, leaning into the taxi window. ‘I can’t believe we’re here.’ She craned her neck to see barges put-putting down the river, tourist buses lurching, mopeds buzzing in and out of traffic, pale faces squinting against the cold, and through the buildings, above the mansard rooftops, pointing like a large spear, the iron spoke of the Eiffel Tower.
‘I thought it would be taller,’ Rachael said.
*
We waited on the narrow footpath outside my aunt’s apartment building, Rach carrying my mother’s ashes, our bags dumped on the pavement. Above us a woman cleaned the elaborate wrought iron of the balcony, her ample arm jiggling; a moped mounted the pavement, its driver popping into the cafe; a sheer net curtain shook in the window on the ground floor, a watchful eye disappearing: here was Paris. My palms felt damp.
The gate opened automatically. I pushed an orange glow on the wall, the place lit up, and we dragged our things over the cobblestoned foyer towards a set of glass doors. I pressed a second buzzer inscribed with the names
M. et Mme Drake
.
‘’Allo?’ came the voice.
‘It’s Camille.’
‘
Dernier étage
. Top floor.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
The lift rattled to the sixth floor and stopped with a thud. We pushed the grate back. I could smell jasmine and vanilla.
Chamade, I recalled, was the name of my aunt’s perfume. It wafted in the air long after she had left a room. She used to carry a small bottle of concentrate in her bag and absently dab it behind her ears throughout the day. If she hugged me I would smell of it for hours. She had torn shreds off me once and afterwards had presented me with a bottle as a gift – an apology. I’d taken it and worn the perfume until someone told me later, ‘I can’t smell
you
with that stuff on.’ I never wore it again.
The door to the apartment clicked open. An outline of my aunt’s figure was backlit on the threshold, thin and tall, her hair the shape of a halo. She was flawless. She was smiling.
‘Camille,’ she said, the French way. A gold bracelet clattered on her wrist as she touched her cheeks either side of mine. She stood back, taking a lengthy look at me ‘It’s been too long.’ She squeezed my wrists and the corners of her eyes welled up.
Twenty-one years ago, fresh off the plane, I had waited for her for one hour in the street outside the train station. It had been so cold my eyes had watered.
‘Was it a terrible journey?’ Francine asked.
I shook my head, struck by the strangeness of being here. I’d forgotten the grandness of the apartment.
‘Business class wasn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be.’ Rachael leant in and kissed her great-aunt on both cheeks. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
I heard the lie slip out of her mouth with ease. ‘Rach, we weren’t in business.’
‘It was a joke, Camille.’
Right, I thought. Sometimes I missed these things completely.
Francine gripped Rachael’s shoulders. ‘Rachelle – you’re so grown up.’ She looked from me to Rachael. ‘You must look like your father, no?’
I nodded, watching Francine, and then looked around for something with which to ground myself. A point of reference. It was a shock to see how much she looked like my mother.
‘That’s what they say,’ Rachael piped up. ‘But it’s just the hair that throws you.’ She flicked a bunch of
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