The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson

the last clear image. After that, the memories became hazy and dislocated. It was undeniable that we had made love. We had made love . I wanted to say the words aloud, to shout them from the rooftop, because it was true. I was no longer the boy who could never muster the courage to follow his desires. I was the man who slept with beautiful women and drank champagne with them and wore a navy blue jacket and white trousers. Nobody would believe me. Ethan would dismiss it as a joke. He might have loved talking to girls, but he had never done anything like this.
    On the other hand, I also wished that none of it had happened. Or that she had at least stayed the night. Clearly I was nothing but another toy. She would much rather play with Ed Selvin. Would Selvin have jumped into the swimming pool after her? No, I thought: only I could ever be that foolish.
    I reached the end of the queue. The ticket hall was echoic. It felt as though I was standing on a stage before those lined up behind me. The ticket officer was a woman this time, and I thought she would be helpful.
    â€˜Hello,’ I said in French. ‘I need to get up to Paris today, urgently. Is there anything?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir, but there is nothing. All booked out.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I continued. ‘Well, its essential that I get up to Paris today. I have an important meeting.’
    â€˜But if you did not book there is nothing to be done.’
    â€˜Please,’ I said. I sounded unpleasant to my own ear. ‘This is very important. There has to be something.’
    She stared at her screen and typed while I waited, rapping my fingers on the desk.
    â€˜All right, I do have something here,’ she said. ‘It is the last seat. First class. One hundred and thirty euros.’
    I was aware of the queue growing behind me. I presented her with the remaining eighty euros from Élodie’s contribution, and twenty that I had withdrawn in Madrid. I counted my coins and found that they amounted to a mere three euros. My hand shook as I laid them on the counter.
    â€˜Can I get a discount on the rail pass?’
    â€˜Give it here.’
    I reached into the front pocket of my suitcase. There was nothing in it. I fossicked, wondering if this were a tasteless joke the gods of travel were playing on me. In desperation I placed the case out on the floor and searched through all of my clothes and toiletries. I returned to the officer’s desk without the pass, and now she was neither friendly nor helpful.
    â€˜I must have left it somewhere,’ I said. ‘Can I go and search for it?’
    â€˜You may, but I will probably sell this seat if you leave the queue.’
    I had tumbled headfirst into a Fuseli canvas, with carnal fantasy replaced by a lady trying to do her job. I turned to the young man behind me, and asked in English if he could lend me thirty euros. He appeared to be an experienced traveller, with his backpack and hiking boots, and I hoped that my distress would attract his sympathy.
    â€˜Please,’ I begged. ‘I will pay you back. But I need this now, very badly.’
    The young man took the notes out of his wallet with some reluctance. I gushed a stream of thanks and apologies and sorted out the ticket with the officer. No doubt she and everybody else in the queue were planning my execution.
    Shocked by how comprehensively I had lost my dignity before a group of strangers, I found a seat on the main concourse. The train that I had booked was the last of the day, and it seemed likely that I had indeed procured the last ticket. I would not be in Paris until at least seven o’clock, meaning I would be stuck with tortuous thoughts of Élodie Lavelle until then.
    Images of her were playing through my mind. I could still see her dancing on the terrace, with the darkened cityscape as her backdrop. And I could still feel her wet body beneath my fingers, responding to my touch. It felt impossible that such