Paris

Through the tunnel with Jeff

Kate Hatch

Imet Jeff at Groucho's before we head- ed off to Paris. To my surprise he asked if I knew he was confined to a wheelchair, as though he weren't a living legend. He also seemed to be under the impression that everyone is rude about him, which they're not.

En route I suggested an excursion to the Invalides and the idea was met by an expression of such pitying disbelief that we collapsed with laughter, my tour operator's hat felled in one swoop. Jeff preferred not to arrive at his destination, so we flirted with the notion of staying on the train and travelling back and forth under the ocean, like Babar going up and down in the lift.

We arrived at the Crillon Hotel, Paris's answer to Harrods furniture department. I flew upstairs to powder my nose before zip- ping back to Jeff's room, where my gentle rap on the door soon accelerated to batter- ing. . . . No answer. Jeff's done a runner. I gave the door my best shoulder and pan- icked: The Spectator's favourite columnist, lost by me on arrival. And then I remem- bered: the lift on our floor had direct access to the bar below.

Jeff regally beckoned me over to where he was drinking with a female friend. 'I knew you'd know where to fmd me,' he said calmly as I crumpled into a chair. I'm Alice in Wonderland and Jeff's the White Rabbit, I thought to myself.

Suzanne Lowry was frightening him with tales of silver salvers at the restaurant where we were to dine. Immediately, Jeff's suspicious eye was upon me. 'This is a Low Life we're doing, not the Sloane's Guide to Paris,' he muttered disgustedly. I mumbled something about 'expenses'. It seemed to do the trick.

L'Arpege is so chic that there's no name outside. Not a silver salver in sight, though, and the Vodka was Absolut, meriting a nod of approval from Jeff. Suddenly he accused me of having been there before with anoth- er man and there was a frisson of jealousy in the air. I denied it and he seemed placat- ed. 'So when do you want me to start behaving badly?' he asked. He seemed to think this expected of him.

Jeff's starter of lobster, resting beneath a shroud of spindle-thin ravioli and spliced thrice across the body so the flesh topples out from the shell, was 'very good and far too much for one'. When I turned back from the sommelier, though, it was all gone. The only leaden weight was anticipa- tion of the bill, and we glanced guiltily at one another as we swallowed sea bass and pigeon respectively.

Jeff pronounced the bird over-salty, as indeed it was, and I realised then that it was not good living he eschews, but the expense of it, which is fair enough. A folded card was discreetly placed before M. Bernard. I could only smile encouragingly as he opened it with a tremulous hand.

`I bet I wouldn't be cold in the fucking Ritz,' he expostulated the next morning. I offered him my nice cashmere shawl and he flashed, 'You'll be offering me a fucking ear-trumpet next!' which put me in my place.

Jeff regarded the fleshy magret de canard at La Sourdiere, where we had lunch with Patrick Mamham, and smacked his lips as he recalled his weekly filth-talk sessions with the district nurse. Patrick smiled politely, I helped myself to another drink and Jeff sat back to enjoy the show.

A lout was dribbling in my direction at the Select Café that evening, but Jeff was my protector and judiciously kept count of my drinks. After oysters at La Coupole he sat solicitously holding my hand as I lay on his bed and the room spun.

It was our last day and at the Tartine I persuaded Jeff to try some fromage fort which blew the roof off our mouths and soured our mood. Jeff reminisced about better days in Antibes with Graham Greene, and lunch at Terminus Nord was almost The End of the Affair.

At the station I was officiously told by the guards to clear customs alone. I dashed along to the compartment and my heart expanded with relief when Jeff looked up unperturbed. He thanked me so graciously for the postcards I bought him, it almost made me cry.

We had tea in the Berwick Street Tower on our return. 'That's the cream for my skin.' He gestured towards a bottle conspic- uously positioned on the table, and I gave him a back-rub and christened him 'Gold Flake', because all his surface dryness can- not hide the national treasure beneath.