Shadow Girl (3 page)

‘You're being a bit harsh. I took a course there once and came out all the better for it. You could give it a shot. What have you got to lose?'

‘No way.'

Jenny gives a shrug.

‘Well, I suppose I could put you in touch with a couple of expats I know. Delightful women. Married to engineers and not doing too much at the moment I believe. One of them might be interested.'

‘If you won't do it, I'll take a pro. Someone trained in language teaching.'

‘Then I don't know if I can help you. Try the classifieds. Or check the notice boards on uni campuses. There are always half-starved students hoping to make some extra cash. You can get a good deal, usually.'

Sandra shakes her head in vigorous rejection.

‘Or you might . . .' Jenny pauses. ‘There
is
this guy I heard very good things about, some time ago. A friend of a friend of a friend was taught by him. She was positively raving.'

‘Who? The friend, or the friend of the friend of —'

‘Sandra! I'm trying to help!'

‘I know you are, sweetie. But it's not exactly first-hand feedback, is it?'

‘Well, no, I never talked to him. Or to the friend of the . . . Anyway, it's worth a try.'

‘Do you have a name?'

‘Let me think. She did tell me. It wasn't a very common one. Started with a Y. Yannick maybe. No, more like . . . Yunan. Ah, it's on the tip of my tongue.'

She assumes a concentrated pose.

‘Ya . . . Yaouen. That's it. His name is Yaouen.'

‘Yawin?'

‘Not win. Wen. Spelt o-u-e-n, I think. Ya-ou-en,' she repeats, more slowly.

‘Is that a French name?'

‘Not sure.'

‘Is he a proper language tutor?'

‘I believe so.'

Sandra makes a sound like ‘ahah', then nods. She might as well look into this.

‘How can I get in touch?'

‘Maggy's overseas — that's the friend who passed on the info. So it might be hard to track it up to the source. But I remember something about the guy advertising in the papers. Might pay to do a quick check online. I can have a look if you want, haven't got much planned for this afternoon.'

‘Would you? You're the best.'

‘Whatever are friends for?' says Jenny, touching Sandra lightly on her wrist.

Sandra samples her steaming espresso, then glances at the Cartier watch on her wrist — a Flying Tourbillon model, bought for a small fortune. Another five minutes. She hopes this guy won't be late. He'd better not be.

Although she is at home, she has power dressed as for a business meeting. Classy silk blouse buttoned up high to hide her cleavage, grey pencil skirt sheathing her legs to the knees, black leather boots, hair tied back in a sleek, low bun. The tall boots are a daring departure from her usual attire, something she would not wear at work, but she enjoys the feel of the material against her skin. No tights today then.

Sandra has a good body, a very good body, and she knows it. Unlike the vast majority of women, she does not hate any part of it. She certainly does not hate her stunning face. Neither would she turn up her cute nose at her silhouette, which undulates gorgeously from chest to slim ankle. She is not being vain. Just realistic.

Good old Jenny, her staunch friend and – some would say – polar opposite, once described her as the archetype of bijou glamour. Not the most work-appropriate image but she likes it nonetheless for the slick mix of spunk and class it conveys.

Still, she has learned, over the course of her short but remarkable career, to keep her palpable assets more or less under wraps. She knows all too well what happens if you don't — if you play the coquette card, dress too sexily, sport gypsy-like earrings or paint your lips a shade too bright. You'll discover, come promotion time, that more
serious
male hopefuls are fast-tracked over your lovely head.

Capitalising too obviously on your charms is therefore not an option. She, for one, never fell into that trap. Never flaunted her knockout looks. And always applied, with quasi-religious fervour, rule number three of the business woman's code of conduct: Thou Shalt Not Reveal Too Much Skin At The Office, Or In Any Situation Connected With Work.

That's also rule number one and rule number two, she thinks wryly.

She takes a peek at her reflection in the wall mirror and likes what she sees. A no-nonsense, smoothly professional look. She is not particularly tall but holds herself with great aplomb, which emphasises her height. She gives her skirt a quick tug, straightens herself a fraction more and throws back her padded shoulders.

Yes, she likes what she sees. An alpha female. Talented, clever, ambitious, and a prudent manager of her image. So far, intelligent planning has paid off and she fully intends to stay the course.

Her eyes fly to her watch — two minutes to the hour — then drift to a hot-air balloon floating above the Opera House. A large emoticon face, made of two dots and a bracket smile, is grinning inanely at her from the distance. The word ‘nudelsalat' is spread out in large capitals across a rotund stomach, just below the face. The stomach reminds her vaguely of Mark's growing gut but she brushes aside the thought before it has fully formed.

She glances at her watch again. Spot on eleven o'clock. ‘Mm . . . Where is that tutor?' she mumbles. Is the guy really going to be late? That would not earn him any points in her book. Plan, focus, execute. Keep to the deadline. After all, time
is
money.

The ad sounded promising enough — the ad Jenny managed to pluck from the website of the
Sydney Morning
Herald
. Her eyes wander to the short paragraph on her tablet:

Want to learn French but lead a busy life?

Call or text Yaouen on 0400 666 101 for lightning-fast results.

Innovative teaching method specially tailored for the modern active woman.

Success guaranteed, even for the verbally hesitant.

A bientôt!

Lightning-fast results, exactly what she is looking for. Though when she first read the ad, she did find the reference to the modern woman intriguing. She had no idea what it meant. A specific type of vocabulary? A chance to discuss —
en français
— how to balance your job and family? How to negotiate the pitfalls of a society that remains by and large sexist?

In any case, she thought, there was no danger of sitting through boring conversation pieces designed for tea-sipping retirees. She texted a short enquiry and got — to paraphrase the ad — a lightning-fast answer. She took this as a good sign and promptly set up a meeting.

She turns away from the panoramic bow window and reaches for her phone. She has already begun to dial Yaouen's number when the crystalline chime of her doorbell echoes through the lounge. She hurries to the door and opens it with an assertive hand swing.

The words ‘you're a bit late', which she fully intended to target at her visitor, do not make it past her lips.

She is, in truth, taken aback by what she sees: a tall, athletic-looking man, dressed in an impeccable white linen suit that contrasts sharply with his dark hair and light-brown skin. He exudes elegance and quiet strength. From the thin lines etched around his mouth and the creases lengthening his eyes, she judges him to be in his late thirties. Possibly early forties. There is no trace of the soft belly often visible among the men in his age group.

He holds what looks like a large box of sweets under one arm. A box brightened by art deco motifs and adorned with a belt of colourful tassels.

She had formed in her mind a different, more traditional picture of a French tutor. Someone younger, shorter and lighter-framed — scruffier too, with unruly hair and a cooking manual poking out of his pocket, figuratively speaking. This guy ticks none of the boxes.

The man picks up on the hesitation in her eyes.

‘You are Sandra Banks, no?' he enquires.

‘Yes, yes,' she responds, her poise restored. ‘And you are Yaouen, of course.'

He takes a slight bow.

‘Indeed, madam. Yaouen Bellepeau, from Mauritius.'

‘You do speak French, don't you? I mean, French is your native tongue, isn't it?' She asks, suddenly suspicious.

Yaouen chuckles. ‘Please, have no fear,
chère madame
, my mother is French and my father Creole. I speak perfect French, as well as Creole like all my fellow islanders. And very commendable English, since, after all, it is the language used by the teachers and politicians of our small island. I also possess a smattering of Hindi, Mandarin and Spanish, which I picked up while on business in Mumbai, Shanghai and Panama, during an earlier phase of my life. I have travelled quite a bit.'

His eyes, she notices, are puzzlingly iridescent, reflecting as it were ambient light and colours.

‘Sorry for asking,' she says, ‘but I am on a very tight schedule and I can't afford to waste time with . . . with . . .' — she searches for the right word — ‘with an amateur.'

‘I can assure you, Sandra — may I call you Sandra? — I am anything, anything but an amateur.' He punctuates his statement with a broad smile and a slight wave of the box he is holding.

She lets him in, and makes a beeline for the small mahogany desk by the bow window.

‘Please sit down, I'm very keen to begin. As I explained in my texts, I'm taking a business trip to France in three weeks, my French is in tatters and I need to brush up fast. Very fast. But you'll find me an eager student.' She pauses. ‘Let's call this a trial session, shall we? If either party's not happy, we call it quits.'

Yaouen gives a courteous nod but seems in rather less of a hurry than his hostess. He looks around the lounge, casts a seemingly appreciative eye at the harbour scene, then takes in the expansive open-plan lounge and kitchen. His gaze roams from the plush leather sofa to the potted hibiscus on the coffee table, from the potted hibiscus to the trendy honeycomb bookshelves on the far wall. Then it comes to rest on the framed print of a young blonde woman lying on her side in dazed abandon.

The girl is smiling, entranced by some inner vision. She does not see her golden surroundings — the sun-drenched eucalypts and the sea behind her. Nor is she conscious of her own nudity, only half clothed by a thin muslin veil. Her curvaceous hip, softly rounded shoulder and delicate neck flow across the frame like sensual landforms, tapering to the fine weave of her scattered hair. Her right arm has collapsed behind her back, out of sight, leaving her breast exposed. Vulnerable.

Yaouen has stepped closer to the picture.

‘A beautiful collector's item, if I may say.' He leans over slightly. ‘There is something curiously contented about her, don't you think?'

Sandra has no desire to discuss her choice of art but suppresses her impatience.

‘Arthur Streeton's
Oblivion
,' she says tersely. ‘One of his lesser known paintings. It's just a print.' Just a high quality reproduction she picked up from a city gallery, on an impulse. Not the sort of thing she usually goes for.

She glances at the mesmerised lotus eater of Tennyson's poem — the inspiration for Streeton's nude. Enthralled, bereft of the will to act or protect herself, the girl offers such a sharp counterpoint to her own life. A weird inversion of herself. Sandra has a sneaky feeling that's why she bought the print.

Or perhaps it was the title that resonated with her. Oblivion. Like that hole in her past. That monstrous blank which has stolen the better part of her life.

But now is not the time to dwell on her amnesia again. To engage in that fruitless exercise. There is pressing business to attend to.

She turns back to Yaouen and shows him the chair. The man, however, has raised a finger.

‘May I be so bold as to request a cup of coffee? Strong, very strong, no sugar. I find this always clears my mind before a session. Besides, I would welcome the opportunity to expound my strategy before we start in earnest.'

A whiff of annoyance tickles Sandra's nose. The fellow is clearly the cheeky sort. But she checks herself. He has a point. She'd better find out more about this lightning-fast program with the guaranteed results.

‘Sure,' she responds grudgingly. ‘I'll make a cup.' She walks over to the kitchen bench and busies herself with the coffee machine. ‘So, what about this foolproof method? And how exactly does it meet the needs of the modern active woman? That's what your ad says.'

‘Ah yes, the active woman,' he echoes. ‘That part will become clear to you as we proceed, I promise, so I will not dwell upon this at present. But in general terms, the program I have devised' — his voice quivers with pride momentarily — ‘draws upon the latest neurolinguistics research, as well as tried and tested techniques. It would take too long to give you a full account of the theory behind my approach, and this would be quite beyond the scope of this conversation' — Sandra glances at her watch — ‘but the main idea is that if you master a small number of core phonemes in a language, you can also control its grammar and syntax. Given the right kind of stimulus.'

Sandra stares at him blankly.

‘Put simply,' he clarifies, ‘get a few sounds right and you'll be able to make not just correct sentences but speak as fluently as a native!'

This sounds to Sandra far too good to be true.

‘Are you telling me,' she asks, suspicious again, ‘that if I repeat a few sounds, I won't have to bother to learn the grammar? It'll all come to me automatically?' She hands him the requested espresso.

‘
C'est exactement ça!
' confirms Yaouen, barely keeping the excitement from his voice. ‘No more lengthy manuals detailing countless rules of verbal agreement! No more plodding through the gullies of French conjugation! No more tedious ruminations over lists of cryptic phrases! The core sounds of French will give you access to the universal signs underlying all languages, through a process of neurolingual resonance. And those signs will in turn deliver the key to the specific grammar of French! Incredibly simple and effective!'

He takes a sip of his coffee, closing his eyes in silent appreciation.

Too bloody simple if you ask me
, thinks Sandra. ‘So if I understand you correctly,' she says, ‘the key to gaining instant command of French is to tap into some sort of universal structure, which presumably is embedded in all of us.'

‘
Oui oui
, that's it.'

‘But if I follow your logic, why do I need to practise French sounds at all? Why can't I start with English sounds? Shouldn't that also allow me to plug into that deep structure and then, by implication, into French?'

‘Good point, but unfortunately it does not work like that. You need to prime the connection between the target language and the universal grammar, and the only way to do that is to begin with the sounds of French, I'm afraid. No short cut here.'

Sandra eyes him warily.

‘I already know the basic French sounds.'

‘With respect, you only think you do. Precision is paramount — no short cut here either. And that's what we'll be focusing on.'

His eyes drift back to the Streeton painting.

‘But the beauty of it is,' he adds, ‘you can learn in one day.'

‘One day?' She cannot believe her ears.

‘Yes, one day. One session to be precise and you'll be babbling away happily in the language of Monsieur Molière, as the French have nicknamed their native tongue. You see, the sounds have to be mastered in a very short timeframe. That is why I make use of auxiliary techniques to help focus the mind. Some yogic breathing, but also a good old-fashioned system of rewards and penalties.'

He brings his cup back to his lips.

‘Penalties?' asks Sandra, puzzled.

‘The rewards come in the form of small but delicious Belgian chocolates,' he continues, smiling. He motions at the box he has set down on the mahogany table.

She notices one of the tassels tied to the box is longer than the others, and a creamy colour. Made of natural fibres, perhaps.

‘As for the penalties, they are purely symbolic. Small taps on the back of the hand.'