A few months after arriving in Batignolles I’m introduced to Lucien. That was also how I got to meet Amy.
Lucien – a freelance photographer, who rents a totally cluttered apartment overlooking the Square de Batignolles itself. This was only his studio, he lives up on the hill at Montmartre. We’re introduced by Victor, the artist downstairs, on one of the occasions when, as was often so, we’re drinking Russian coffee in a café on the Rue des Dames.
Lucien - tall, lean, thick black curly hair, stubble, large brown eyes, check shirts, frayed jeans, dirty trainers, perpetually smoking. A genius behind the lens though.
He’s always on the lookout for models, so he says. Maybe it’s true, but he never seems to be that interested in me, not sexually I mean. He used to say, the camera likes you, but really, it was just him. He liked me, a lot, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it’d have progressed further, but there always was this reluctance on his part. I knew he was married , but I didn’t reckon that made any difference.
It’s only when I meet his wife, that I discover why he’s always so infuriatingly happy. Lucky Lucien, I’d call him.
One afternoon I meet him in the Square, and he invites me to dinner at his house in Montmartre. It’s here that I meet her – Amy, this stunning English girl, with a mane of glossy golden hair, blue eyes, T shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. Shy but friendly, a great hostess, with superb taste in décor. Their house is beautifully understated, plain white walls and modern art prints, lots of house plants, plenty of light. I loved it.
Besides myself, there are three other dinner guests - friends of Lucien, I guess.
Emilie, aspiring young actress, tall, slender, elegant, fair skinned, raven haired, assured but no doubt hard work; Jacques, centre left political journalist, dark, suave, crumpled, intense; and Raoul, self important film producer, opinionated, tousled blond hair, penetrating gaze, goatee beard, open necked shirt, tendency to touch people [especially girls], sleazy.
The meal itself is outstanding, almost cordon bleu standard. Amy has produced a very expensive Chateau Lafitte in our honour, from their cellar. She’s been saving it for a special occasion, she says, a wicked smile on her lips.
These are sophisticated upwardly mobile people, and much of the talk is of property, careers, money. I’m soon feeling rather intimidated by them. Raoul seems to notice this for he pauses mid sentence and addresses me.
What about you, mademoiselle, are you in the money?
I glare at him. Of course, I say, I have a flat in the 6th, near the Jardin Luxembourg.
Really, he says, though I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
I also have a flat in Bordeaux, and a crumbling house in the Dordogne.
Raoul swills his wine.
Al this and you’re only what – nineteen?
Twenty, monsieur.
Quite a portfolio, you must be worth a million euros? What’s your secret?
That’s easy, I said, I killed all my relatives.
There is a stunned silence, then Raoul bursts into laughter.
Sandrine, he says, you really are such a tease.
The funny thing is, they all think I’m joking. It’s only Amy who’s staring at me, coolly sipping her wine.
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