Shadow Girl Read Free Page A

no money, no money. Not much anyway. For you, special deel.’ He was talking about my face but his eyes were aiming lower and literally undressing me. And can you believe a Parisian sketch artist would know a word like ‘beseech’? How quaint! Anyway, I couldn’t say no, could I, so I sat there trying to look cool and sophisticated, like the model of a Grand Maître or something except I had all my clothes on. And he kept waving and swiping his charcoal stick like a wizard’s wand — swish, whizz, make a wish! Turned out in the end the portrait didn’t look anything like me. Far too beautiful really. My eyes had this terribly sultry look and my lips looked like they’d been botoxed — nicely. But I kept the drawing and it still hangs above my bed, as a reminder of what could have been if the gods of procreation had been kinder.’
    She pauses for half a breath, then powers on.
    â€˜But it wasn’t just the art, in Paris I mean. I spent so much time meandering . I don’t think it’s a concept you’re familiar with, Sandra, but you should give it a go. It’s good for the soul and the Parisians are world experts. People there don’t just walk from A to B. They saunter. They stroll. They perambulate. To the bakery to pick up their morning flute. To the brasserie to meet their lovers. To the park at sunset to air the family dog. They amble and they wind whenever they get the chance. So I did the same. Canal St Martin, Place des Vosges, Pont des Arts, Quartier Latin . . . My dainty feet led me all over in tireless loops. Cobbled streets, chic avenues, narrow passageways, I did everything. Saw everything. Strolled from old to modern, from green to high tech. Watched the Seine from those cute bridges crumbling under their love padlocks. It was wonderful, simply wonderful! And don’t even get me started on the trendy cafés.’
    Sandra lays a light palm on Jenny’s forearm. She has no desire to hear another rant about trendy cafés.
    â€˜Jenny . . .’
    â€˜The Palette, for instance. Full of art students of the attic-dwelling type — some of them irresistibly scrumptious. Full of poets with gifted tongues too. Visionaries who can do wonders with words and certain parts of the female anatomy. I speak from experience. And there’s the Procope, the oldest tavern in the city. Positively reeking with history. Did you know that Voltaire and Rousseau used to hang out there? And Oscar Wilde when he was in need of some stimulation? I’m talking intellectually, of course.’
    Sandra’s hand gives a little squeeze.
    â€˜Jenny . . .’
    â€˜And Napoleon’s hat is still sitting there in its pretty glass case. The poor man couldn’t settle his tab apparently — that’s before he got famous. So he had to leave his bicorne behind as payment. Wonder if drinks were the only thing he had to answer for. I hear there were a few cocottes hanging out there sometimes. Ah, and did I mention Benjamin Franklin, another famous visitor, who scribbled away at the American constitution at a table there. Spilled some coffee on the draft too apparently. At least that’s what the history books . . . Ouch!’
    Sandra has gone for a frank pinch.
    â€˜I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’
    â€˜Listen, sweetheart, that’s all fascinating stuff no doubt and I’d love to hear more another time, but I’m not staying in Paris.’
    â€˜You’re not?’
    â€˜Just hopping off the plane and hopping on the train.’
    â€˜But you can’t! You’ve never been to Paris. You can’t just skip it! That’s crazy! That’s . . . That’s a crime against history, against art, against savoir-vivre and savoir-love !’
    â€˜Jenny, read my lips. Off the plane and straight onto the train. No Paris. I’m going to Toulouse.’
    â€˜To lose? To lose what? Even more of your mind? No need