I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Anna Gavalda

  Title Page

  I Wish Someone Were Waiting for me Somewhere

  Dedication

  Courting Rituals of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés

  Pregnant

  This Man and This Woman

  The Opel Touch

  Amber

  Leave

  Lead Story

  Catgut

  Junior

  For Years

  Clic-Clac

  Epilogue

  Someone I Loved

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Following the publication of Anna Gavalda’s international bestseller, Hunting and Gathering, this book introduces us to Anna Gavalda’s witty and dazzling collection of stories, I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere, together with her heartbreaking and poignant novella, Someone I Loved – both published in the UK for the first time.

  I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere explores how a life can be changed irrevocably in just one fateful moment. A pregnant mother’s plans for the future unravel at the hospital; a travelling salesman learns the consequences of an almost-missed exit on the motorway in the newspaper the next morning; while a perfect date is spoilt by a single act of thoughtlessness. In those crucial moments Gavalda demonstrates her almost magical skill in conveying love, lust, longing, and loneliness.

  Someone I Loved is a hauntingly intimate look at the intolerably painful, yet sometimes valuable consequences that adultery can have on a marriage and the individuals involved. A simple tale, yet long in substance, Someone I Loved ends like most great love affairs, forever leaving you wanting just one more moment.

  About the Author

  Born in 1970, Anna Gavalda was a teacher whose collection of stories, I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere, shot her to fame in her native France. Hunting and Gathering (Ensemble, c’est tout) has sold over a million copies in France, has been made into a film starring Audrey Tautou and is a bestseller in several countries. Gavalda’s work, including Someone I Loved, has been translated into thirty-six languages. The mother of two young children, she lives and writes just outside Paris.

  Also by Anna Gavalda

  Hunting and Gathering

  I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere

  For my sister Marianne.

  Courting Rituals of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés

  SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-Prés? … I know what you’re going to say: ‘God, that whole Left Bank thing is such a cliché. Françoise Sagan did it long before you – and sooo much better! Haven’t you read Bonjour Tristesse!?’

  I know.

  But what do you expect? … I’m not sure any of this would’ve happened to me on Boulevard de Clichy or in some other part of Paris. That’s just the way it is. C’est la vie.

  So keep your thoughts to yourself and hear me out, because something tells me this story’s going to amuse you.

  You love this kind of sentimental fluff – having someone make your heart beat faster with these evenings full of promise, these men who want you to think they’re single and a little uphappy.

  I know you love it. It’s perfectly normal. Still, you can’t read Harlequin romances while you’re sitting at Café Lipp or Deux Magots. No, of course you can’t.

  So, this morning, I passed a man on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  I was going up the street and he was coming down it. We were on the even-numbered side, which is more elegant.

  I saw him coming from a distance. I don’t know just what it was, maybe the nonchalant way he walked, or the flaps of his coat swinging casually out in front of him … anyhow, I was twenty metres away and I already knew I couldn’t go wrong.

  Sure enough, when he passes, I see him look at me. I shoot him a mischievous smile – kind of like one of Cupid’s arrows, only more discreet.

  He smiles back.

  I keep walking, still smiling, and think of Baudelaire’s To a Passerby. (What with that reference to Sagan earlier, by now you must have realized I’m what they call the literary type!) I slow down, trying to remember the lines of the poem … Tall, slender, in deep mourning … after that I don’t know what … then … A woman passed, with a sumptuous hand, raising, dangling the embroidered hem … and at the end … O you whom I had loved, O you who knew it.

  That gets me every time.

  And during all this, pure and simple, I can sense the gaze of my Saint Sebastian (a reference to the arrow, see? stay with me, okay?!) still on my back. It warms my shoulder blades deliciously, but I’d rather die than turn around. That would ruin the poem.

  I’d stopped at the curb up by rue des Saints-Pères, watching the stream of cars for a chance to cross.

  For the record: No self-respecting Parisian woman on Boulevard Saint-Germain would ever cross at the crossing when the traffic light is red. A self-respecting Parisian woman watches the stream of cars and steps out, fully aware of the risk she’s taking.

  To die for the window display at Paule Ka. Delicious.

  I’m finally stepping out when a voice holds me back. I’m not going to say, ‘a warm, virile voice’ just to make you happy, because that’s not how it was. Just a voice.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  I turn around. And who’s there? … Why, my scrumptious prey from a minute ago.

  I might as well tell you right now, from that moment on: screw Baudelaire.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight. …’

  In my head, I think, ‘How romantic …’ But I answer:

  ‘That’s a little fast, don’t you think?’

  Without missing a beat, he says (and I swear this is the truth):

  ‘Well, yes, I’ll grant you that. But when I saw you walking away, I said to myself, “This is ridiculous. Here’s this woman I pass in the street. I smile at her, she smiles at me, we brush past one another, and we’re about to lose each other. … It’s ridiculous – no, really, it’s absurd.”’

  ‘…’

  ‘What do you think? Does that seem like total nonsense to you, what I just said?’

  ‘No, no, not at all.’

  I was beginning to feel a little uneasy. …

  ‘Well, then? … What do you say? Let’s say we meet here, tonight, at nine o’clock? Right at this spot.’

  Get hold of yourself, girl. If you’re going to have dinner with every man you smile at, you’ll never get out of the starting gate. …

  ‘Give me one good reason to say yes.’

  ‘One good reason … God … that’s hard. …’

  I watch him, amused.

  And then, without warning, he takes my hand. ‘I think I’ve found a more or less suitable reason. …’

  He passes my hand over his scruffy cheek.

  ‘One good reason. There: Say yes so I’ll have a reason to shave. … You know, I think I look a lot better when I’ve shaved.’

  And he gives me back my arm.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Good, then we’re on! Can I walk you across the street? I don’t want to lose you now.’

  This time I’m the one watching him walk off. He must be stroking his cheeks like a guy who’s struck a good deal. …
<
br />   I’m sure he’s enormously pleased with himself. He should be.

  Late afternoon and a little nervous, I have to admit.

  Beaten at my own game. Should’ve read the rule book.

  A little nervous, like a debutante having a bad-hair day.

  A little nervous, like someone on the threshold of a love story.

  At work, I answer the phone, I send faxes, I finish a mock-up for the photo researcher (what did you expect … a pretty, vivacious girl who sends faxes from Saint-Germain-des-Prés works in publishing, naturally …).

  The tips of my fingers are ice-cold and everyone has to tell me everything twice.

  Breathe, girl, breathe. …

  At dusk, the street is quieter and the cars all have their headlights on.

  The café tables are being brought in from the pavements. There are people on the church square waiting to meet up with friends, and at the Beauregard people are lining up to see the latest Woody Allen film.

  I don’t want to be the first one there. It wouldn’t be right. In fact, I decide to go a little late. Better to make him want me a little.

  So I go and have a little pick-me-up to get the blood flowing back to my fingers.

  Not at the Deux Magots, it’s a little uncouth in the evenings – no one but fat American women on the lookout for the ghost of Simone de Beauvoir. I take rue Saint-Benoît. The Chiquito will do just fine.

  I push the door open, and right away there’s the smell of beer and stale tobacco … the ding ding of the pinball machine … the hieratic bar owner with her dyed hair and nylon blouse, support bra showing … the sound of the Vincennes night race playing in the background … some builders in stained overalls, putting off the hour of solitude or the old ball and chain … and the old regulars, with yellowed fingers, annoying everyone with their rents that have been fixed since ’48. Bliss.

  The men at the bar turn around from time to time and giggle among themselves like a bunch of schoolboys. My legs are in the aisle. They’re very long. The aisle is kind of narrow and my skirt is very short. I see their stooped backs jiggling in fits and jerks.

  I smoke a cigarette, sending the smoke out far in front of me. I stare off into space. Beautiful Day has won in the final straight, ten-to-one odds, I learn.

  I remember I’ve got Kennedy and Me in my bag, and I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off staying here.

  Salt pork with lentils and a half pitcher of rosé … wouldn’t that be nice. …

  But I pull myself together. You’re there, over my shoulder, hoping for love (or less? or more? or not exactly?) with me, and I’m not going to leave you stranded with the owner of the Chiquito. That would be a little harsh.

  I go out, cheeks rosy, and the cold whips my legs.

  He’s there, at the corner of rue des Saint-Pères, waiting for me. He sees me and walks over.

  ‘I was worried – I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I saw my reflection in a window, and I couldn’t help but admire my cheeks, all nice and smooth. So I was worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was waiting for the end of the Vincennes race and I lost track of time.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘Do you bet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Beautiful Day.’

  ‘Of course. I should’ve known.’ He smiles, taking my arm.

  We walk in silence as far as rue Saint-Jacques. From time to time, he steals a look at me, examining my profile, but I know what he’s really wondering just then is whether I’m wearing tights or stockings.

  Patience, my good man, patience. …

  *

  ‘I’m going to take you to a place I really like.’

  I can picture it now … the kind of place where the waiters are relaxed but obsequious, smiling at him with a knowing air: ‘Good eeevening, monsieur … (there she is then, the latest … you know, I liked the brunette from last time better …) … the little table in the back as usual, monsieur?’ … bowing as he shows the way (… but where does he dig up all these babes? …), ‘… May I take your coats? Veeery well.’

  He digs them up in the street, stupid.

  But it’s nothing like that.

  He holds the door, letting me lead the way into a little wine bistro, and a bored-looking waiter asks us if we smoke. That’s all.

  He hung our things on a coat rack. In the half second he paused when he caught sight of the round softness of my cleavage, I knew he didn’t regret the little nick he’d given himself under the chin earlier, when his hands betrayed him while he was shaving.

  We drank extraordinary wine out of fat wine glasses. We ate relatively subtle things, conceived precisely so as not to spoil the aroma of our nectars.

  A bottle of Côte de Nuits, Gevrey-Chambertin 1986. Baby Jesus in velvet britches.

  The man sitting across from me crinkles his eyes as he drinks.

  I’m getting to know him better now.

  He’s wearing a grey cashmere turtleneck sweater. An old one. It’s got elbow patches and a small tear near the right wrist. His twentieth birthday present, maybe … I can just see his mother, troubled by his disappointed pout, telling him, ‘You won’t be sorry, go ahead, try it on …’ as she kisses him and strokes his back.

  His jacket is unpretentious – it looks like any old tweed – but, as it’s me and my lynx eyes, I can tell it’s tailor-made. At Old England, the labels are bigger when the merchandise goes out straight from the Capucines workshops, and I saw the label when he leaned down to pick up his napkin.

  His napkin that he’d dropped on purpose in order to settle once and for all this question of stockings, or not, I imagine.

  He talks to me about a lot of things but never about himself. He always has a little trouble holding on to his train of thought when I let my fingers trail across my neck. He says, ‘And you?’ and I don’t ever talk about myself, either.

  As we wait for dessert, my foot touches his ankle.

  He puts his hand on mine and pulls it back suddenly because the sorbets have arrived.

  He says something, but his words don’t make a sound and I don’t hear anything.

  We’re all worked up.

  *

  Horrors. His mobile phone just rang.

  As though they were one, all eyes in the restaurant fix on him as he deftly switches it off. He’s certainly just wasted a lot of very good wine. Half-gulped mouthfuls caught in rasping throats. People choking, their fingers clenching knife handles or the creases of starched napkins.

  Those damn things. There always has to be one, no matter where, no matter when.

  The boor.

  He’s embarrassed. He’s suddenly a little warm in his mummy’s cashmere.

  He nods his head at this group and that, as though to express his dismay. He looks at me and his shoulders have slumped a little.

  ‘I’m sorry. …’ He smiles at me again, but it’s less self-assured, you could say.

  I tell him, ‘It’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re at the cinema. Someday I’m going to kill someone. Some man or woman who answers the phone in the middle of the show. When you read it in the news reports, you’ll know it was me. …’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You read the news reports?’

  ‘No. But I’m going to start, now that I have a chance of finding you there.’

  *

  The sorbets were, how should I put it … delicious.

  Reinvigorated, my prince charming came to sit next to me when the coffee was served.

  So close that now he’s sure: I’m wearing stockings. He felt the little hook at the top of my thigh.

  I know that at that moment, he doesn’t know where he lives anymore.

  He lifts my hair and kisses my neck, in the little hollow spot at the nape.

  He whispers into my ear that he loves Boulevard Saint-Germain, he loves burgundy and blackcurrant sorbets.

  I kiss his little cut. After all the time I’ve waited for this moment, I really get into it.

&
nbsp; The coffee, the bill, the tip, our coats, all that is just details, details, details. Details that get in our way.

  Our hearts are slamming against our chests.

  He hands me my black coat and then …

  I admire the work of the artist, hats off, it’s very discreet, barely noticeable, it’s very well calculated and perfectly executed: in placing the coat on my bare shoulders, proffered to him and soft as silk, he finds the half second necessary and the perfect tilt toward the inside pocket of his jacket to glance at the message screen on his mobile.

  *

  I come to my senses. All at once.

  Traitor.

  Ingrate.

  What in heaven’s name were you thinking?!

  What could possibly have distracted you when my shoulders were so round and warm and your hand was so close!?

  What business was more important than my breasts offered to your view?

  How could you let yourself be sidetracked while I was waiting for your breath on my back?

  Couldn’t you have waited to mess with the damn thing later, after you’d made love to me?

  I button my coat all the way up.

  In the street, I’m cold, I’m tired, and I feel sick.

  I ask him to walk me to the nearest taxi stand.

  He’s in a panic.

  Call 999, buddy, you’ve got what you need.

  But no. He’s a stoic.

  As if nothing has happened. As in, I’m walking a good friend to her taxi, I’m rubbing her sleeves to warm her, and I’m chatting about the Paris night.

  Classy almost to the end, I have to grant him that.

  Before I climb into a black Mercedes taxi with Val-de-Marne plates, he says:

  ‘But … we’ll see each other again, won’t we? I don’t even know where you live. … Give me something, an address, a phone number. …’

  He tears a scrap of paper out of his diary and scribbles some numbers.

  ‘Take this. The first number, that’s home, the second, that’s my mobile, you can reach me there anytime. …’

  That much I’d figured out.

  ‘Don’t hesitate, no matter when, okay? … I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’

  I ask the driver to let me out at the top of the boulevard. I need to walk.