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Authors: Isabel Wolff
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fall on their swings.
‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’
‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.
‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men werehunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.
‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.
‘– hors-jeu !’
‘– c’est nul !’
‘– veux-tu ?!’
‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Aah! Putain !’
‘ Espèce de con !’
‘Especially that one, there.’
‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’
‘ Bof !’ said his opponent. ‘ Alors … ’
‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes !’
‘ D’accord, d’accord ! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.
A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.
‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.
‘ Vous voulez jouer ?’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.
‘You play with them,’ I said to her.
‘Not without you.’
‘Go on. I’ll watch.’
‘No, no – we’ll both play.’
‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’
‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’
‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?
‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.
Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.
‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.
‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone , by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was
‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’
‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.
‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men werehunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.
‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.
‘– hors-jeu !’
‘– c’est nul !’
‘– veux-tu ?!’
‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Aah! Putain !’
‘ Espèce de con !’
‘Especially that one, there.’
‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’
‘ Bof !’ said his opponent. ‘ Alors … ’
‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes !’
‘ D’accord, d’accord ! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.
A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.
‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.
‘ Vous voulez jouer ?’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.
‘You play with them,’ I said to her.
‘Not without you.’
‘Go on. I’ll watch.’
‘No, no – we’ll both play.’
‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’
‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’
‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?
‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.
Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.
‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.
‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone , by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was
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