Chapter 27
27
6 DECEMBER
Christmas lights twinkle festively up and down Rue de Vaugirard . Manon and I shuffle from foot to foot in the blistering rain awaiting delivery of our Christmas tree that was supposed to be here an hour ago. ‘Should we wait inside?’ Manon asks, her breath coming out like fog.
I check my phone again. ‘His text says he’s a few minutes away.’
Manon groans. ‘He probably can’t find parking.’
‘Here he is!’ I point to a truck laden with fresh fir trees. The man pulls up over the kerb and jumps from the cab. ‘ Bonsoir , sorry I’m late. Traffic.’
He unties the tree and hefts it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. ‘Where do you want it?’
I direct him into Library Ana?s, by the window where we’ve placed a mat to protect the wooden flooring. JP’s crew finished the library room yesterday, the parquetry is polished to a shine and the space is almost empty, bar the fresh tree, ready for us to paint the walls tomorrow.
The man gives us instructions on how to care for the tree and is off before we can even offer him some vin chaud .
‘Now the fun part!’ I say. ‘Decorating the tree. I suppose you’re going to fight me to be the one to put the star on the top.’
‘Ah – oui .’
‘Shall we make a Christmas platter before we start decorating? Earlier today I bought a wedge of double crème brie and gingerbread macarons and…’
She lets out a string of sighs. Usually, Manon and I spend a whole evening decorating the tree. We space it out with glasses of eggnog and eat our bodyweight in aged fromage and spicy saucisson before indulging in sweets. Now, she’s looking everywhere but at me, as if she doesn’t want to be here.
I narrow my eyes as she steals a glance at her watch. ‘Got somewhere to be?’ I ask.
She averts her gaze.
‘ Manon .’
She toys with a Gui donkey ornament. ‘Fine, fine . I’ve got a date, but I didn’t want you to make a big deal about my cancelling on you for it, especially on our traditional decorating-the-Christmas-tree day.’
I take the Gui donkey from her hand because she’s about to decapitate it with all her handwringing. ‘We can decorate another day, that’s no problem. Honestly, I’m happy to write instead because I’ve got such a long way to go with the first draft. Why didn’t you tell me you had a date?’
‘Because you’re going to fuss and ask me questions relentlessly until I give you every last detail.’
‘ Oui! Isn’t that my job as older cousin? Who is he?’
‘Never you mind!’
This is always the way it is with Manon and men. She is not the commitment type, so I will always quiz her relentlessly, fascinated by the fact she doesn’t want long-term relationships, doesn’t subscribe to committing to only one man, and is very open and honest about it. It’s not like her to try and keep it from me.
‘OK, I won’t ask about him. Where are you going?’
She looks under her lashes at me. Coy Manon is not a Manon I’m familiar with. ‘Jardin des Plantes, the winter festival of lights.’
The botanical gardens are in the Latin Quarter in the 5th arrondissement. Every winter, the gardens are illuminated in a grandiose fashion, and each year there’s a different theme, usually relating to conservation. It’s quite the spectacular immersive experience and is popular among locals and tourists alike.
‘ Bonne journée .’
She gives me a hard stare. ‘That’s it?’
‘What?’
‘Come on, Anais. You never give up so easily. Aren’t you curious?’
‘But you said…’
‘When do you ever listen to me? You normally browbeat me into submission.’
‘I’m getting whiplash here, Manon. All these twists and turns.’
‘Fine, if you’re not going to let this go. I’m going on a date with JP and I don’t want to hear a word about why it’s a bad idea.’
I gulp. ‘JP, our building supervisor JP?’
‘The very same.’
I hold up a palm. ‘I trust you to make good choices that won’t affect the working relationship we have with JP.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t trust me one little bit.’
I frown. ‘What’s going on, Manon? You’re speaking in riddles.’
The wringing of her hands continues. She’s fidgety and distracted; it’s so unlike her.
As she struggles to respond, I say, ‘Ah. This isn’t your first date, is it?’ I recall all those times recently where I’ve been holed up in the secret library and she’s stepped out to meet ‘friends’. I never thought much of it, because Manon does have a lot of Parisian friends.
‘ Non , it’s our third. And’ – Manon’s face is pinched – ‘he’s very sweet. A real gentleman. I, uh, I haven’t quite felt this way before, and I don’t really like it.’
‘What do you mean you haven’t felt like this? Why don’t you like it?’ I consider the fall out if Manon breaks JP’s heart. It won’t be ideal, but we can deal with any awkwardness if we have to.
‘I like… love him?’ She covers her face with her hands. ‘It’s insane. He’s cast some spell over me, and I absolutely despise it.’
My jaw drops. Manon in love? My wayward cousin who claims love is a concept for romance novels? Who says she’d never commit to one person because the world is full of too many options? ‘You love him? After three dates?’
‘ Oui , and I hate him in equal measure for making me feel this way.’ She cups her face and wails. I’m so shocked I don’t quite know how to react, or what to say. This has never happened before. Manon always casts men away as soon as they get love hearts for eyes. She’s ruthless and I’ve been on the end of many a call when her significant other has reached out and asked why she’s disappeared and if there’s any hope.
Too many times I’ve had to be the bearer of bad news and enlighten the poor men that if they’ve received the obligatory break-up text I’m not into this , then there is no hope. I’ve never faced a lovelorn Manon before, so I grapple with how to navigate this.
‘But… but… how do you fall in love with a guy after three dates?’
She shrugs and pulls at the sleeve of her jumper. ‘It just happened. I felt all gooey and dazed and sort of struck by him. How do I turn it off?’
‘You cannot! You’re love drunk. Mon Dieu! This is serious.’ She nods sadly. ‘And how does JP feel?’
Her face is a picture of angst. Only Manon could fall in love and hate it. ‘I’m not sure. Probably the opposite, because suddenly I can’t form cohesive sentences in his presence. I blush and stumble when I try to arrange my thoughts. It’s the worst!’
I can’t help but laugh and pull her in for a hug, even though she has issues with anyone encroaching on her personal space. Breaking the rules in this instance is warranted. She collapses into my arms like a ragdoll. ‘How long until this feeling goes away? I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I’m going to waste away and die. He’s on my mind when I wake up, when I eventually fall into an exhausted sleep. I wish I’d never played all those practical jokes on him! Men love that stuff, and now look what I’ve done.’
‘Not that you’re dramatic or anything, Manon. Most people enjoy the sensation of falling in love.’
‘That’s the biggest issue: I feel simultaneously like I’m literally falling and floating, like I’m unmoored, unanchored, unsafe! Why him, why now?’
‘You poor thing.’ I bite down on laughter.
‘I know,’ she mumbles against my shoulder. ‘And now he’s coming to take me out to some spectacular light show where I’ll spend another evening unable to make cutting sarcastic remarks or to keep him at arm’s length. I’ll probably kiss him again and feel like I can’t breathe for how good it makes me feel.’
‘Have you found the hero in your own love story, Manon?’ She wiggles out of my grasp and steps back, smoothing down her hair.
‘I don’t believe in all that romance novel gibberish. I only said that to hype you up after your divorce, and because you do believe in all that schmaltzy heart-on-sleeve, soulmates, love at first sight nonsense.’
‘Ah – merci? ’
With a grimace she says, ‘I better get this over with.’
I laugh and give her arm a supportive tap. ‘That’s the spirit. Go and have fun and we can decorate another time.’
Manon leaves, her shoulders slumped as if she’s walking to her death. I shake my head, as always perplexed by her, and put the donkey ornament safely back in the box.
Time to write. Back in my suite, as I review my earlier attempts, it occurs to me the reason I’m struggling to have my heroes remain alive is because I doubt their motivations, even though they’re fictional and my own creation. How wild is that? My own trust has been broken so completely that it’s seeped into the very men I conjure in my imagination!
So why don’t I create men who aren’t like my previous heroes? Men who’ve also had their hearts broken, men like the surly, gruff guy next door who wears that bluster as a shield but deep down has faced the very same betrayal as my heroine has? Thus can relate and also be trustworthy.
Snow fell thick and fast as Hilary snuggled under a blanket in front of a roaring fire, wondering not for the first time what her neighbour, the plain-speaking, literature-loving Joel, was doing this evening. Not that he mattered in her world. Not at all, in fact. She was simply curious as their paths kept crossing, and what else was there to ponder about on a cold wintry evening such as this? Since her divorce, she found the evenings the hardest to cope with. The stretch of night when couples usually dined together, snuggled in front of a movie or shared a bottle of wine. Alone, it felt like a great big void of time, a hole, where loneliness crept into her heart. She should call a girlfriend, go out, but it felt like too much effort. They’d question her about the end of her marriage, that same shameful story of her ex-husband’s cheating, and who could be bothered retelling all of that and seeing pity reflected back at her?
No, instead she’d watch a Christmas romantic comedy and dream of her neighbour, Noah.
I read it back, remembering Margaret’s advice about getting the word count up. And then I spot the great whopping big typo and correct it:
No, instead she’d watch a Christmas romantic comedy and dream of her neighbour, Noah Joel.
Why is he on my mind, when really it’s not so much that I’m taken with him, not at all! It’s more that we share a common bond, in that both our marriages imploded due to our spouses’ infidelity, so there’s an affinity between us now. Or is that a lie I’m telling myself to protect my fragile heart? On paper, Noah is perfect, despite his obvious flaws, but all heroes have flaws and his are surface level, petty grievances, like getting the last word in, or being bossy. Not great big character flaws like cheating, or being duplicitous. Still, I don’t have time for love. I have to get this manuscript done, save the hotel and solve a hundred-year-old mystery!
I get back to work, typing whatever comes to mind, trying not to edit as I go. Every word matters as the clock ticks, loud and clear.
Make it messy but make it happen.