Chapter 5 - the last time Toni saw Marc

The last time I spoke to him, he called me at work.

“Hello, Toni.”

Even after years I knew him instantly. I knew by the way all my organs hopped.

“Marc! My God, where are you?”

“I’m in London.”

“Oh, my goodness. Why?”

He laughed. I loved the way he laughed. It bubbled up from his chest and burst out of his mouth, a muddy geyser.

“Gee thanks. You sound really pleased to hear from me.”

“Oh no. No. God, it’s so good to hear your voice. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Where are you? No, you’ve just told me that. You’re in London. What are you doing here?”

“Work. We’re making a commercial.”

“Oh, so that’s what you do these days, is it? Congratulations. Much nearer to your original ambition than me.”

“Well, a computer company might not be investigative journalism, but it’s a good career.”

“There were couple of glitches in my career planning. Like not doing any. Just going to papers and saying I really, really wanted to be a journalist didn’t seem to cut ice. Funny, that.”

I should have worked on the college paper, edited a special interest magazine, done hospital radio… anything. Instead, I just shot my mouth off about how well I was going to do in my journalistic career. To this day it still makes me want to spit.

“Anyway, enough of me. What’s the commercial for?”

“Shoes. They want to emphasise tradition so they send us to Great Britain for the shoot. Hey, I’m not complaining. Anyway, it fitted in with something else. My mom and dad are separating. She decided she wanted to move back to France, so she’s going to the apartment in Paris and they can sling shit across the Atlantic at each other.”

“I’m sorry. Not amicable then.”

“No, not really. Man, seven hours in an aircraft and she’s telling me what a bastard Dad is and I’m going “Yeah Mom”, and trying to think about something pleasant. So that’s why I’m talking to you.”

“I love this man,” I thought, “I will always love this man.”

“How did you find me?”

“Charlotte. I met her in New York. She was on holiday, and shopping as usual. She did love to shop, don’t you recall? Well now she has the money to do it in Bloomingdale’s, rather than in thrift stores. Anyway, she said she’s seen you and told me where you were working. I think she had romantic illusions about us.”

His laugh bubbled up again. I was sorry he found it so funny.

“Well, she always was a romantic, wasn’t she? So what is happening in your love life then? Married?”

“God, no. But I’m dating a real nice girl. She’s a lot younger than me, which has its disadvantages.”

“Oh really? I doubt most men would agree.”

“If they were honest they would. It’s like being in a Woody Allen movie. She laughs when I dance and thinks I dress like a geek. She’d probably tell you Fassbinder was a marital aid.”

“And the up-side?” I asked lightly, not wanting to know.

“Oh, you know, she’s cute and funny. She’s more trusting and less cynical than women my age. She doesn’t overreact when I want to look after her.”

He stopped abruptly. He probably sensed that this was inappropriate conversational territory.

“Do you still carry your little camera, or are you permanently attached to a camcorder these days?”

“Neither. The camera’s somewhere at home. In the basement probably. And I hate camcorders. Too clean. Too clinical. But anyway, Toni. Can we get together? Tomorrow or Sunday? I’m only here until Monday.”

“Sure. Tomorrow night? I’ll collect you from your hotel and show you the hip hang-outs.”
“Hip? God Toni, Either you’re way out of date or you’re trying pathetically to be young?”

We both laughed. We agreed times and hung up.

I’d decided on black trousers, T shirt and loose cotton jumper. Sexy but casual, I thought. I had high-heeled suede boots which were a more modern version of what I used to wear in France. It was a sort of visual allusion to those days. Of course he wouldn’t remember. Seeing myself in the glass doors to the hotel seconds before seeing him I realised the overall effect didn’t work on me. I was the wrong shape.

He opened his hotel room door and stood back smiling to admire the effect.

“My God, you haven’t changed at all!”

“Oh I hope I have. I save a fortune on hair products these days.”

“When he hugged me I held on for a fraction of a second too long and I felt him trying to disengage himself momentarily before he relaxed against me again. It was the first moment of awkwardness. I rubbed his back vigorously and patted him as I released him. As he led the way into his room I looked at him. He looked cool and expensive, dressed in stone coloured chinos and a grey cashmere sweater, his hair glossy and short. He smelled of man and Armani aftershave.

“Do you think I’m hip enough for the places you’re taking me?” he smiled.

“No,” I said, “but you’ll do.”

Over a drink from the mini bar we chatted inconsequentially. When we were in the cab he squeezed my hand.

“I guess you’re not married then. No ring and no mention of anyone you had to consult about tonight.”

“No. I can’t even claim to be dating.”

“Oh?”

“No. I spend time with my mates. I’ve even got women friends now.”

“Really? I always had you down as a man’s woman.”

“Well I was back then. Actually I was more exclusive than that, if you remember. There wasn’t really room for other women.”

I looked meaningfully at him and he looked back with a trace of sadness.

“No, Toni. There wasn’t. Not for a long time afterwards either.”

He patted my hand and looked out of the window.

Six years on and small rebuke notwithstanding I could still be silent more comfortably with him than with anyone else.

After drinks at a fashionable bar, which seemed like a bad idea when I realised I was the shortest, widest female in the place, we went on to dinner. We had aperitifs, a bottle of wine and a digestif too. As the meal progressed our conversation became more and more earnest, we leaned further over the table and occupied our hands moulding the candle wax into an intricate sculpture together. Its flame was a focus for our eyes leaving our mouth free for intimacies and indiscretions. I kissed him over the tarte au citron. It felt like coming home.

We fumbled in the back to the taxi and had inexpert sex in his hotel room. We rolled around and rumpled the sheets; we explored each other thoroughly, renewing our familiarity with each other’s bodies. It didn’t feel as right as either of us thought it should, but then the act was loaded with pent-up expectations. When I woke up the next morning with an appalling hangover and found him sleeping on his side next to me, his face creased by gravity, I rolled over and stroked the outlines which had developed since I remembered them. He’d been working out. His arms were a little more muscular; his tummy had lost its puppy roundness. There were white hairs glistening in his stubble. Hs mousy hair was greying slightly at the temples. I stroked his cheek and he opened his eyes and smiled sleepily.

“Hi, you,” he said.

I shuffled over and pressed my body into his, winding my arms around his neck. I kissed him, tasting old booze in his mouth. He stroked my back and rested his chin on my head.

“I shouldn’t do this, Toni”

“Why not?”

“I told you. I’m seeing someone.”

I’d assumed that she didn’t matter. I’d assumed that we understood that we were more important, that our relationship was the big one for both of us, that being together was our destiny. I’d thought this was a second chance.

“Oh, I see.”

I clung to him for a while until he shifted uneasily.

“Sorry, Toni, I need to scratch my back.”

“Let me do it for you.” I smiled, running my nails up and down.

He laughed.

“No, really.”

He sat up. For the first time, as I watched him giving his back a token theatrical scratch, things didn’t feel right. He kissed me and ran his hand down my body. I put my arm over my head to extend my torso and show it to its best advantage. I closed my eyes, aware not only of pleasure but also of a mild panic. He was going to leave and I hadn’t asked him everything I wanted to ask.

“Tell me more about your girlfriend.”

No, that wasn’t it.

His hand hesitated for a moment over my neck and was withdrawn.

“No, Toni. That wouldn’t be fair.”

I was rebuked.

“I’m sorry, Marc. I’m sorry this happened. I should have thought. Well, I did. I just didn’t think clearly, that’s all. I love you. That’s all.

I felt about two inches small. I didn’t want to whine. I didn’t want him to go back to the States with a picture of me as some desperate, whining woman with an obsession. I tried to laugh.

“Get me! Guess who hasn’t got lucky for ages.”

He smiled at me, stroked my hair and kissed me.

“I love you too, Toni. Of course I do, you know that. That’s why this happened. I guess I knew it would when I contacted you. And it’s my fault. You’re not letting anybody down. I am”

It seemed as if we got over it, though. He had to go off to work but we met later and spent some time together, sober, as friends. He talked about films, waving his arms around, still as enthusiastic as ever. We talked about books; found unsurprisingly that we’d enjoyed the same ones. He entertained me with stories of his work and I talked about my life, made a comedy of it. I went home that night after we’d had a burger and chips in a diner. He had an early start.

An unsigned card arrived in the post a few days later with a few lines of Eluard. It didn’t encourage a response. Then some weeks later I met a chap called Richard at a party and we started going out. He worked for Ford and took tango lessons in his spare time. I learned to tango. It was fun. By the time another card arrived from New York I was embroiled. I thought it was a sweet thought and filed it somewhere Richard wouldn’t come across it.