Chapter 11
eleven
Paris is beautiful. I think I was expecting something like London, but it’s completely different.
It has an elegance to it, a pure beauty.
Shops and restaurants line the busy streets, and the sound of people speaking French gives me a surprising thrill.
I’m actually in another country. Me. Wes Archer.
Our cab stops at a traffic light, and I crane to look out the window.
At first, the streets were grubby and packed, but we’ve moved into a different neighbourhood now, where it seems much more well-to-do.
Tall, honey-coloured buildings with sloping roofs surround us.
They’re five or six storeys tall with black wrought iron balconies, stripy awnings, and flower baskets.
I watch a woman come onto her balcony with a watering can and start to water her flowers.
I wonder who she is. Does she go to work?
What is her life like living in her picture-perfect home? I wonder what she’d think of mine.
The taxi moves forward again, and there’s something reassuringly familiar about the busy traffic. It’s just like being in London. We pass a florist where bright flowers spill from buckets, and I open the window. I catch a sweet floral scent mingling with diesel, and then we’re onwards again.
We pass occasional courtyards guarded by wrought iron gates, and I peer intently, trying to glimpse through them.
The driver takes a left, and we come into a square.
He tuts as the traffic lights turn red, but I smile in delight.
Cherry trees rich with blossoms line the square, the pink almost psychedelic against the old stone of the ancient-looking buildings.
They’d usually have lost their blossoms by this time of the year, but I suppose the cool weather has made them cling onto their brilliance a bit longer.
Paris has obviously had the same dismal spring as London.
Cars beep in front of us, and our taxi driver jerks like he’s been shot and instantly lays his hand on the horn. I’m almost positive he doesn’t know what he’s beeping at.
“What do you think?”
I turn and smile at Mac. When we started our drive from the airport, he very pointedly got his laptop out, obviously so I wouldn’t extract any more bargains from him.
It made me want to smile, but I’d happily focussed my attention on the city.
Now, his laptop is closed, and I get the sense he’s been watching me for a while.
“It’s beautiful,” I say simply.
He smiles. “La Ville Lumière. The City of Light,” he elaborates at my questioning look. His accent seems very good to me.
“Why do they call it that?”
He shrugs. “It’s quite a prosaic explanation for such a beautiful name. It was the first city in Europe to use gas lighting on the streets.”
“You know Paris well?”
“Very well,” he says, the finality of the tone underscoring the brevity of his response. I think I’ve concealed my disappointment, but maybe I haven’t because his face softens a little.
“There’s the Seine. We’re nearly at the hotel.”
The wide river is moving fast and looks brown in the dimming light. “Like the Thames,” I say, and then add loyally, “Probably not as good, though.”
He makes a soft sound of amusement. “Spoken like a true London boy.”
“Taylor Swift would definitely approve of me.”
We turn onto a bustling road that runs alongside the river.
Cafes and crepe restaurants with bright awnings jostle for space with little tourist shops.
Trees line the road, and people are everywhere.
I can hear different languages spoken through the window and car horns blaring.
I take a deep breath to calm my excitement and appear a little more sophisticated in front of Mac.
Then I realise I shouldn’t bother because it won’t fool him.
The driver stops the cab outside a huge building.
It’s easily nine or ten storeys tall and faces the river.
It’s modern-looking with a glass facade, but when I crane my neck, I can see ancient-looking gargoyles set into the balconies at the top of the hotel.
The gargoyles look like they’re peeping down at us.
Uniformed hotel staff immediately approach and help our driver unload the luggage.
Mac climbs out of the car, and I scramble to join him. Then, I stand still and look at the river. An old bridge catches my eye. It’s ornately carved with antique lampposts lining either side.
“That’s the Pont Neuf Bridge,” Mac says, coming to stand next to me. The wind blows our hair back, and I smell exhaust fumes and a faint trace of river water that reminds me of the Thames.
“It’s so beautiful,” I say softly. “Like something from a dream, Mac. Thank you so much for bringing me here.”
He looks almost pleased for a second, and then his familiar shuttered expression comes down, and he gestures to the hotel. “Let’s go in. I need a shower before I start my meetings.”
“Is that because you spent the journey over here rolling around on a plane floor?”
He laughs. It’s a shame he doesn’t do it more because the sound is contagious. “Please let’s never speak of that again. My tailor doesn’t intend his suits to be worn for that purpose.”
“Maybe he should.”
A woman is waiting for us, dressed in the hotel’s beige and green uniform. She smiles charmingly at Mac. “Welcome back to the hotel, Mr Reilly. Your bags will be taken up to your suite.”
Suite ? My eyebrow rises. I bet that cost a pretty penny.
I amend that figure and add a few noughts when we get inside the hotel.
It’s full of light from the enormous windows and it’s stunning.
Large pillars rise from the foyer, and sofas and chairs are dotted around, upholstered in lime greens and reds.
Bold patterned rugs lie on the floor, and the white walls are lined with huge abstract artwork.
I can smell coffee and something else expensive—probably people’s money evaporating on entry.
Everyone looks like they just stepped off a runway at a fashion show for business chic, and I edge closer to Mac, very aware of my battered jeans and old uni hoodie.
“Let me show you up,” the woman continues. “Are you here for business?”
She and Mac obviously know each other, and within a few seconds, they’re speaking French.
I sneak a glance at Mac as we walk towards the lifts.
His French is fast, his accent beautiful, and he seems fluent even to my untrained ear.
They rattle off a conversation I have no hope of following, and I look around catching sight of myself in a big mirror opposite the lifts.
My reflection stares back at me. My hair is a little messy, my face is tired, but my eyes glow excitedly.
I think of the stuff I’d looked up on my iPad.
There’s so much I want to see—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Orsay Museum, and the Arc de Triomphe.
Familiar names that always seemed like distant dreams to me before.
Four days seems almost too short a time to fit all of it in.
“Wes?”
When Mac says my name, I look up and find they’re both looking at me. “Sorry. I was deep in thought,” I say quickly.
“The world quivers in fear.”
I laugh and shove him lightly, noticing the lady’s glance of amazement before she glances away. “Shut up,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I’m sorry we were speaking in French.”
The lift doors open and we step in. I smile at him. “Well, I suppose it’s handy seeing as we’re in France.”
“Nevertheless, it was rude of me when you don’t speak the language.”
The lift moves upwards smoothly. “I wish I did. It’s beautiful.” I eye him thoughtfully. “You don’t need to entertain me.”
“God forbid. I’d need a whip and a circus tent to do that.”
“And little dancing dogs in tutus. Don’t ever forget that,” I say earnestly, and he laughs.
The lift stops, and I follow them out into a corridor. It’s panelled in light wood, and the lighting is bright and warm. Our footsteps make no sound at all on the checked carpet, and there’s only one door, which is carved and made of the same wood as the panelling.
The lady stops at the door. “This is yours,” she says, producing a keycard and letting us in. “There are two floors in the suite, so you have plenty of space.”
I step inside, and my mouth drops open. We’re in a huge room with polished wooden flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows that show Paris stretched out in front of us.
The walls are painted in cream, and there’s more of the same abstract art as downstairs.
A dining table with seating for ten people is set to one side on a big cream rug.
On the other side of the room is a lounge area with an oversized sectional and very comfy-looking chairs around a marble coffee table. On one wall is an enormous TV.
The lady smiles at us and then gestures to a wide entrance to the side of the room.
We follow her and I tag along at their heels as she shows us a meeting room with a table big enough to chair a board meeting, and an office set up with seemingly everything a business tycoon would need.
A big desk sits in front of a stunning view, but Mac gives Paris the same cursory glance as I’d do for my local Tesco car park.
“Perfect,” he says politely, but obviously keen to get the pleasantries over.
The woman smiles in acknowledgement. “I’ll show you the bedrooms and then leave you to it,” she says. “Your luggage is being brought up, and you have the same butler as before.”
Mac nods. “Thank you.”
“Butler?” I breathe.
She smiles. “You have access to service twenty-four hours a day, so please feel free to ring anytime for anything you need, Mr Archer.”