Author's note: You know who you are, my muse, my sweet editor. This story is complete fiction.
*****
He relaxed as the Eurostar glided through the rolling countryside of northern France. It was cool in the train, but outside the sun beat down relentlessly on wheatfields and orchards.
He was too excited to focus on anything, and a bit tired. He could never normally get enough kip on the overnight sleeper from Glasgow to London, and on this occasion the excitement of the trip had kept him awake half the night. Only six months after the publication of his first novel, he had been invited to read at a prestigious literary festival in Paris's Citée Universitaire.
He must have finally dozed in the comfort of the crack express, was only jolted back to reality by the bustle of other passengers, as the train rattled over the junctions that heralded arrival at Gare du Nord.
Fifteen minutes later he was on the Metro for the cross-city ride to his destination. As ever in a Paris summer, it was crowded and hot. He listened to the chatter of his fellow-passengers as they hung on the straps around him, breathed mingled scents and sweat. It was three years since he had last been in France, a camping holiday in Bretagne with his son. He knew his French was rusty as he struggled to follow fragmented conversations.
Finally the train squealed to a halt, and he followed the crowd of students up under the elaborate art-nouveau iron gate of the station, and onto the blistering heat of the boulevard. Hot though it was outside, it was a relief after the sweaty ride in the Metro, and there was breeze enough to cool him as he stood trying to get his bearings.
He realised he'd have to consult the map and directions the organisers had sent him, and settled for a beer in a pavement café, careful to choose a seat shaded by one of the plane-trees which fringed the street. He had of course forgotten his sun-cream.
Christ, he loved this city. He had first visited Paris over forty years before, as a schoolboy of seventeen, and had fallen in love with it then. The affection had never died: he still felt the same excitement as on his first visit, just being in the place. He sipped beer contentedly, then realised it was early afternoon, and he hadn't eaten since a hasty breakfast at London Euston, after he'd got off the sleeper. Ordered a couple of hot filled croissants and another beer. Sat for a while eating, just absorbing the sights and sounds and scents around him. Paris even smelled wonderful, he thought, then smiled at his own silly romanticism.
It was after three by the time he checked into the festival and found his room. It was a bit basic, just student accommodation. The festival had given him the option of a nearby hotel, but that would have cost money. The student room came with the invitation, and he was content with it. The small balcony faced east and he stood for awhile there, letting the breeze cool him in the welcome shade, before he turned to unpack.
*****
By seven he was rested, showered, dressed, and ready for dinner. He'd brought his highland dress, as there were two black-tie dinners, and he didn't possess any other formal wear. Tonight was the opening dinner of the festival, and he wandered through the campus buildings – mostly unremarkable sixties architecture, same as many campuses round the world. He had always wondered what had hit architects in the sixties – mass system-building might be functional, but it was rarely good-looking.
He took a glass of Moet as he entered the reception and stood at the side of the room, looking and listening. He really wasn't good at the stiff-lipped nonsense of such events, and didn't expect to meet anyone he knew. He wasn't comfortable at meeting and greeting in a strange setting, and here there was no reason to do so. So he stood on the edge, L'Etranger, and conducted a wee informal anthropology of the event, speculating about who was there.
The only person he recognised was Margaret Atwood, though of course he'd never met her. She was the star of the show, and he'd followed her writing with relish for thirty years, since he had first discovered her. Her distinctive face was surrounded by a flock of hangers-on and admirers, and he wondered how someone as brilliant – and sensitive - could put up with it. He smiled: at least that would never be his problem!
A ponderous announcement boomed over the speakers, and the congregation started drifting to the dining-room. There must have been two hundred people crowded round the placing-maps, and it took him a while to find his own table, and make his way to it.
There were a dozen seats at the round table, and he was the last to find his place. He was beside a stately Malian woman, who turned out to be an author well-known in the Francophone world. After greeting Sandy politely, she returned to conversation with the man on her other side.
On his right was a French poet, a younger man, maybe early thirties. He was very pleasant, and spoke poor English, so their conversation was in French. They chatted through the first course, but it became clear that the poet was gay. No problem with that, but it was obvious that he was more interested in making a play for Sandy, than chatting about literature, or anything else. Their conversation withered as the poet turned his attention elsewhere.
Sandy focused on his food: standard mass-production conference stuff. And sipped the very potable Merlot as he glanced around the table attentively. He had noticed a very attractive woman opposite him when he sat down. She was engaged in lively conversation with her neighbour, in what sounded like Russian. She was striking-looking and quite dark, maybe middle-eastern. He speculated, as she was speaking Russian smoothly, that she was perhaps Armenian.
She glanced across the table and caught his eye as it examined her shamelessly. His instinct was to look away, disconcerted at being caught studying her, but she held his gaze and smiled. Politely, but with maybe a hint of warmth. Sandy smiled back, embarrassed, and raised his glass to her. She laughed, followed suit.
- Hi, she said across the space. I'm Melanie.
- Hello Melanie. I'm Sandy, from Scotland.
- I'd never have worked that out. I'm Australian, but excuse me for now, I don't want to be rude to Igor here. She smiled again and returned to her conversation.
He ate and sipped wine alone in silence for a while, but his eyes were constantly drawn back to Melanie. There was something about her that excited him. Though he had had no thought of any sexual adventures on his visit to the festival – he was too preoccupied with his reading, knew that his appearance here could be important to his stumbling new literary career – he couldn't help speculating about her. Felt the first flutterings of a possible chemistry.
As the sweets were cleared and the port and cognac placed on the table, the formal seating arrangement started to fragment. The Russian guy moved away, and Melanie was alone, looking pensive. Sandy moved round the table:
- Hello again lass. Mind if I sit beside you?
She started slightly from her thoughts, then smiled. More than just politely, he allowed himself to think.
- Please do Sandy. Sorry, my head was miles away. She leaned towards him and he caught a whiff of her light scent. Not overstated, just the hint of a fragrance.
- I'm so glad Igor has moved, she murmured. He was a bit boring I'm afraid, full of self-importance. He hardly asked me a question. I just can't be bothered with men like that. And unfortunately, I seem to be one of the few Russian-speakers around, so I was kind of trapped. But you have my full attention now.
She smiled a bit shyly.
