What became of us

Liam offered half-heartedly.
    ‘Thank you, no,’ she said.
    ‘To the station at least?’
    A brief image of herself as a student puffing frantically up the road to the station flew through her mind. It was always a longer walk than you expected.
    ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘I have to stop off at the Randolph first.’

    She took one look back at the shabby room as she closed the door, wondering whether she would be able to shut away what had happened there as easily.
    ‘I could do with a coffee...’ Liam looked longingly at the Maison Blanc as they drove past it.
    It would only take five minutes and he was saving her time by driving her to the station, she told herself.
    ‘OK, then,’ she relented.
    He pulled up opposite.
    ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to park here,’ she told him.
    ‘I doubt if there are any traffic wardens about at this ungodly hour of the Sabbath,’ he replied.
    The patisserie smelt of buttery pastry.
    He ordered two cappuccinos, and they perched on high stools waiting for the scalding coffee to cool. She went to the counter to get a bottle of fizzy mineral water and took a sip from the neck. The bubbles seemed to reactivate the champagne from the night before.
    Liam’s eyes travelled along the rows of gleaming chocolate mousse cakes and tartlets of downy crimson raspberries dusted with icing sugar. His face was like a child’s trying to weigh up the advantages of each indulgence against the next. Eventually he chose a palmier, then was unable to resist an almond croissant to take away as well.
    ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked, breaking the rounded heart of flaking pastry and popping a little piece into his mouth.
    She imagined the sensation of the sweet pastry melting to butter on her alcohol-soured tongue.
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘no thank you.’
    There was something quintessentially French about the smell of fine baking, the mirrored walls, the perfection of the presentation of everything from simple sandwiches to long clear tubes of pink and white sugared almonds.
    When Liam had talked of a weekend away, a weekend she had never seriously thought that they would share, she had imagined Paris, because that was where lovers went, and here they were, she thought, in a little bit of Paris transported to the centre of Oxford. She watched him eating, a few crumbly flakes of palmier clinging to his unshaven chin, but she could not reclaim the overwhelming excitement that the Paris fantasy had always given her. This morning he seemed an entirely separate being from her, just a good-looking man eating a pastry at the same table. Before, she had felt as if their souls were intertwined.
    ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’d better go.’
    He got the assistant to pour his coffee into a polystyrene cup which Ursula held for him as he drove down St Giles. At the Randolph Hotel, she left him drinking the scalding coffee in the car then walked quickly through the lobby and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and ran down the corridor to Annie’s room.
    A do not disturb notice dangled from the door handle.
    Ursula knocked, then looked at her watch. Half an hour had passed since she had talked to Barry. Come on! She knocked again, harder.
    Annie opened the door looking cross and bleary-eyed.
    ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said.
    ‘George is ill, I’m going home. Can I have my dress? I’ve got yours in my bag. I’ll have it cleaned and send it to you.’
    She would buy another one, she thought.
    ‘Of course,’ Annie said, waking up a little. ‘Is it serious?’
    ‘Chickenpox. But it’s horrible to be ill without your mum, isn’t it? Look, I’ve got to run, I’ve got a train to catch.’ She wondered if Annie was sleepy enough not to ask questions.
    ‘Can’t I drive you home? I’m sure it would be quicker.’
    Ursula just looked at her.
    ‘You’re right. It probably wouldn’t,’ Annie admitted.
    ‘Thanks for the offer, though,’ Ursula said. She knew how much Annie hated driving.
    Annie went inside and got the dress. Then she stepped forward and gave her friend a long, tight hug.
    ‘Hey, I hope Georgie’s OK. Ring me, won’t you, and let me know?’
    ‘Of course I will,’ Ursula said, squeezing her back, drawing strength from the embrace, then breaking away. ‘Look, will you say sorry to Roy for me? Tell him I’ll call later. My mobile’s not charged, you see.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘And, Annie, you won’t tell anyone about last night, will you?