Q A Lonely Crowd

A Lonely Crowd.
Emma sipped her coffee and leaned back casually in the wicker chair,
trying hard to look as though she didn't mind that she was the only
unaccompanied customer sitting on the terrace of the bustling
restaurant overlooking the Place du Teutre. The spring evening was warm
and she allowed her light cotton cardigan to slip from her shoulders
onto the back of the chair, enjoying the feel of the balmy breeze as it
skimmed lightly over her bare skin. Certain things compensated for
being alone, she reminded herself&;#8230;..
Above her head a swarm of gnats arced and dived around the orange
lanterns suspended from the beams supporting the awning. Emma watched,
fascinated, as the tiny insects danced together in perfect harmony,
enjoying each other's company on this lovely evening that promised an
early summer.
She closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. The air on the
terrace was thick with the mingled aromas of coffee, garlic and
Gitanes, and lively chatter accompanied the familiar sounds of glasses
clinking, espresso machines hissing and corks popping. Handsome young
waiters of various nationalities shouted orders in broken French as
they hurried past her corner, skilfully balancing trays heaped with
food destined for one of the twenty or so tables on the terrace. And at
each of those tables sat a couple. Everyone around her had companions.
Even the gnats.
Ripples of laughter and the melody of an accordion wafted across the
brightly-lit terrace, hovering above the silent corner in which she sat
toying with her spoon. Suddenly she wanted someone to laugh with and
loneliness swelled her throat. Abstractedly she crumbled a piece of
bread left over from the delicious meal that she had just eaten, and
sadness joined her loneliness. She was like the bread, she thought -
desired for a while and then discarded and lonely when the rest of the
loaf had gone.
Tears of self-pity pricked her eyes as she averted her gaze from the
cosy little tables draped with red and white chequered tablecloths. The
sight of the bowed heads of their occupants as they smiled across the
dripping candles and murmured sweet nonsense to each other was
unbearable. Instead she stared determinedly down onto the square,
vibrant now with swirling colours as artists displayed their talents in
the hope that tourists would be impressed. And they were.
Money was exchanged for portraits, compliments were exchanged for
smiles and the thronging crowds jostled for vantage positions nearest
the canvases. She would have loved to go down and buy a painting - but
she couldn't without Tony. She couldn't do anything without Tony.
Surreptitiously she flicked away a tear and tried to look interested
in what was written on the wrapping of the sugar cube on her saucer.
Anything was better than thinking about Tony. But the memory of him
wouldn't go away. He was here somewhere - in this romantic city of
lights that had inspired so many love stories.
Was he nearby - in the shadow of the majestic and strangely exotic
Sacr? Coeur cathedral, illuminated now and starkly white against the
navy blue velvet sky? Was he strolling along the Boulevard Saint
Germain in the Latin Quarter, where all the students congregated in the
evenings, intoxicated by their carefree university days in the most
romantic city in the world? Perhaps a pretty young student had already
caught his eye&;#8230;&;#8230; It was late spring and the trees
were laden with blossom now. The Champs Elys?es frothed in pink and
white lace and the banks of the Seine were burnished with forsythia.
Would Tony be fired by the passion that this great city inspired? Would
it carry him into the arms of a pretty stranger?
Pulling herself together mentally, she attracted a waiter's attention
and ordered a third cup of fragrant caf?-cr?me. On impulse she also
ordered a glass of the Calvados that Tony loved. She hated it, but the
apple scented brandy would remind her of him - and maybe even make her
believe that he was with her now. When the drinks arrived she placed
the tiny glass of amber liquid in the empty space across the table
where he would have sat. She imagined him raising the glass to his lips
and proposing a toast to their future together. Together.
Not like now.
She lifted her cup, annoyed that her fingers trembled as they gripped
the small handle. Why couldn't they make cups with handles you could
hold in this country, she wondered crossly? But it was a minor
irritation. She couldn't be cross with anything in Paris for long. She
had been happier here than anywhere else in the world.
But that was because Tony had been here. And now he was probably
chatting to some pretty student who studied something clever at the
Sorbonne whilst Emma sat alone smiling politely at inarticulate
waiters, squeezing breadcrumbs between her fingers and reading
sugar-cube wrappings.
"Would Madame care to join me?"
He spoke in lilting French.
A momentary shock of satisfaction swelled her bosom before deflating
into annoyance. Was her loneliness so obvious? She supposed that she
should be flattered that she had been noticed. But the man, though
handsome, wasn't Tony - and Emma shook her head.
"Please go away," she replied. The man nodded and bowed politely in
that charming fashion that comes so naturally to French men. There was
a look of genuine regret on his face and for one crazy moment she was
tempted to accept. But as she watched his retreating back she knew that
her desire sprang from loneliness and not real attraction to him. One
night stands had never appealed to her. And she had never been picked
up in her life. She was too&;#8230;British, she supposed.
But this is Paris! A voice in her head reminded her. Finding romance
in Paris is as natural as breathing air.
And suddenly - inexplicably she didn't feel quite so unhappy. Somebody
had fancied her! It didn't matter that he had probably searched the
city for a woman alone. It didn't matter that he was only looking for
sex. He had seen her. He had decided that he wanted her. She was
desirable. She was still lonely - but, thanks to the stranger, the
enormity of it had diminished slightly - because now she didn't have to
be. Her wound had stopped bleeding and begun to harden, allowing the
healing process to begin. She found that she could look around at the
other diners without experiencing a knot in her stomach. Without having
to swallow a lump in her throat. She didn't want to cry any more. Paris
had plunged her into the depths of misery. But then it had lifted her
to the dizzy heights of pleasure. It had woven its unique magic.
She drained her cup and summoned the waiter again.
"Un Armagnac, s'il vous plait," she said recklessly. She knew what
alcohol did to her common sense - but she was overwhelmed by a wholly
sensual urge. When it arrived she picked up the glass and clinked it to
the untouched Calvados opposite.
"Cheers, Tony," she whispered. "I'm missing you my darling - but I'm
coping." She reached inside her handbag for a cigarette. Tony hated
smoking. But Tony wasn't here now - and she could do what she liked.
She lit it and sat back in her chair again, her contentment restored,
to enjoy the warm spring night in the city she loved.
Then someone changed the music.
The voice of Jacques Brel imploring his lover not to leave him
replaced the cheerful accordion music of earlier. The heart-rending
lyrics made her think of Tony - and how he had left her. And the knot
in her stomach was back. Along with the lump in her throat. She
swallowed hard.
How could he do this to me? How could he leave me alone like this?
Another tear trickled down her cheek and she brushed it away angrily,
drawing hard on her cigarette and gulping her Armagnac.
Through her tears she saw one of the waiters staring at her. He was
probably wondering what a tearful woman was doing on her own in a city
that was designed for lovers. She stifled a hysterical giggle as the
thought occurred to her that he might imagine her to be one of the
ladies of the night who openly flaunted their services a few hundred
metres down the road in the cobbled back streets of Montmartre. For a
moment she almost imagined that she was&;#8230;&;#8230;..But then
she would never have met Tony.
"Would Madame care to order another Armagnac?" Emma nodded. One more
couldn't do any harm&;#8230;..
"Please put it on the bill," she murmured as the young man placed the
glass before her.

The bill! That was what had caused all this in the first place, she
remembered. It had arrived and Tony had left. He had left and the
loneliness had arrived. How much more could she stand?

Suddenly she saw a familiar head bobbing above all the others in the
square. The knot and the lump disappeared. And all her loneliness
evaporated as Tony took his seat opposite hers.
"Sorry I've been so long, darling," he said apologetically. "It took
me ages to find the wallet. I'd left it in the jacket I wore this
afternoon." He summoned the waiter and his eyes were alight with all
the love that he felt for his new bride.
"Let's settle the bill and stroll down to the square," he said,
reaching across the table to take her hand. "I want to buy you a
painting."
END