Chapter 12 #3
He starts to walk again, and I try to resume my commentary and questions about the scenery, but I can’t.
Some of the day’s shine seems to have worn off.
We pass a lady in a tiered prom dress seemingly made out of PVC who’s leading a poodle on a diamond-studded lead.
The poodle looks faintly put out, which is hardly surprising, but I can’t even spare them a second glance.
I don’t even want to go back to our game, even though she’s a prime candidate for speculation.
Mac comes to a stop and raises his hand to flag down a taxi. We climb in, and he gives the driver the name of a street I don’t recognise.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
I abruptly decide to shove away my hurt. The desire to break free of the mould he’s firmly constructed is all on my side. He’d wanted to spend some time with me, and that’s enough of an accomplishment for today.
“Montmartre.”
“Oh, really?” I say eagerly. His face relaxes a little. Was he worried I was upset? “I’ve heard a lot about it. Isn’t that where Van Gogh lived for a while?”
“A lot of artists lived there. It’s a charming place with a quirky feel to it. I’ll point out some of the sights on the way, and you can tell me later what you’ve liked best.”
He keeps me entertained with interesting details about the neighbourhoods, and it’s an obvious ploy to avoid further questions about his personal life.
I go along with it, even though it makes me want to laugh.
He’d given me nuggets of information about himself and so of course I’d want to keep digging.
Montmartre is beautiful, and I immediately fall in love with it. It lacks the polished glamour of the designer shopping area and somehow feels more like me. I wonder if he knew that, and this is why we came here today. My belly warms at the thought.
We walk down winding cobbled streets past little cafes and shops.
Tall buildings with pretty shutters line the roads, and trees rustle overhead.
He obviously knows the place well and I wondered if he’d be bored, but he stays by my side, seemingly happy to go at my pace as I stop to gape at every little thing we see.
The only thing he demurs at is my taking fifty photos of the windmill Mac said is called Moulin Radet.
“No, I will not pose,” he says in a revolted tone. I take another snap, and he grimaces. “It’s not as if the building is moving. You surely could have managed one competent shot by now.”
“I don’t know what it says about me that I enjoy your grouchiness,” I tell him, sliding my phone into my pocket. “Probably nothing good.”
We walk on, and after a while, I dare to slide my arm through his. He directs a speaking glance at me, and I make an innocent face. “What?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“That’s a long word. What does it mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “Look it up in the Da Vinci Code .”
I laugh, and I can feel pleasure in the body close to mine.
“There’s a lot of greenery here. This place feels a bit like the countryside,” I say as we walk past an open area with plants covered by netting. “What’s that?”
“Prime real estate,” he says rather acerbically.
I hide my smile. “So, why is it covered in plants and not very expensive buildings that you own?”
“They’re grapevines. They’re harvested every year, and they make wine from them. They have a big party after the harvest.”
We walk on. “Have you been to the party?” I finally ask.
He smiles as if recalling fond memories. “I’ve been to many of them in my time.”
I wonder if he’d enjoyed those parties with close friends or partners, and a shaft of jealousy sears through me so powerfully that I gasp.
He stops walking. “Are you okay?”
I stare at him. I can’t be jealous. That would imply feelings that were more than just fond. Jealousy would mean I care deeply.
“ Wes ?” he says more insistently. He manoeuvres me to the side of the street so the people behind us can move past. “Do you feel ill?”
Pushing my horrific thoughts aside, I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Maybe we should go back.”
“ No !” It’s far too loud, and some people glance our way, but Mac pays them no mind. “No, I’m fine,” I say more measuredly. “I just had a sudden thought about my finals.”
He stares at me, his brow furrowed, and then a sweet expression crosses his face. “You’ll be fine, Wes. I know you will. And if you’re not, then I’ll help you.”
Pushing my guilt at the lie away, I lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you. You always make me feel better.” His hand strays to where my lips landed, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stare at him. “Alright?” I ask.
“What? Yes, of course.”
I consider questioning him further but dismiss the idea almost immediately. Instead, I link my arm with his, and we resume walking.
He directs me to a set of steep steps divided by black, wrought iron railing.
The sky is darkening overhead, the clouds are moving in with another storm, and the lampposts on the steps’ landings blink on one by one.
“Like magic,” I exclaim, enchanted by the scene.
“This place is more like I always imagined Paris to be.”
He shoots me a look that, on anyone else, I’d class as fond. “It is a charming place. I’ve always loved it.” He gestures to the steps. “Shall we go up? This is the Rue Foyatier leading to the Sacré-C?ur.”
I look up at the vast, bright white church with its instantly recognisable domes. “It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale.”
He checks his watch. “We won’t be able to go in, as there’s a service on now, but the view up there is the best in Paris.”
The trees overhead rustle in a sudden breeze that blows cool against my face. “Let’s go. I can’t believe I’m going to walk up such a pretty set of steps.”
We start up them, and pretty soon they feel a little less charming and a lot more like leg day at the gym. “Why is everything in Montmartre so steep?” I mutter.
He scratches his head. “Well, Montmartre is the highest point of Paris. It’s bound to be steep. People come here to train for marathons.”
“ Willingly ?”
He chuckles, and I step onto a platform obviously designed with people like me in mind to pause and gather their last breaths. “Let’s stop for a minute, or die. I’m happy with either option.”
He stops beside me. “These are the stairs that featured in the film John Wick .”
“You’ve seen that movie. You ?”
“Why that tone of astonishment?”
“I don’t know. I sort of imagined you reading balance sheets in your off time.”
“I’d rather spend my free time fucking you.” He tuts. “Don’t you go to the gym? You’re alarmingly unfit.”
“I do go to the gym,” I say crossly. “I’m just not in training to be a mountain goat. And even Keanu Reeves paused on these steps.”
“Wasn’t that because he was wounded?”
“Oh, now you pay attention to culture.” That sets him off laughing, which never fails to make me smile. “You’re infuriatingly fit for a businessman,” I observe.
“Well, thank you, Wes.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
He offers me his arm. “Come along. I’ve no wish to live out my retirement on these steps.”
When we reach the top, I collapse dramatically against a low wall. “Kill me now.”
He lifts his hand and pushes my sweaty hair off my face. The gentleness of the movement seems to surprise him because he stops dead, his hand still outstretched.
I decide to help him out by stepping into him and holding my face up for a kiss. He drops a light one on my lips and pulls back, but then immediately reconnects again, kissing me deeply. I wind my hands around his neck, feeling his hair silky against my cheek as it flops forward.
When he steps back, I sway towards him. He places a hand on my chest, and I think he’ll turn away, but then his lifts to my face, cupping my cheekbone. We stare at each other, and his eyes are wide and dark. Then he blinks, and I sigh as the moment passes.
“You’re missing the view,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“I’m really not.”
His mouth quirks, and he points behind me.
I turn and gasp. Paris is laid out before me like a magic carpet.
I can see the Eiffel Tower lit up and twinkling and my gaze traces the Seine as it winds through the city.
It’s a sea of roofs and towers, and even as I watch, a ray of sun breaks through the clouds, landing on a church and making the metal dome sparkle and flame.
Mac comes to stand next to me, and I slide my arm through his.
I’m growing to love doing this far too much, and I’m pretty sure he’s humouring me.
Either that or he actually likes the closeness.
That mind-boggling thought is lost as the weather decides to break.
The wind picks up, blowing our jackets open, and rain starts to drizzle down.
“Come along,” he says at once. “Let’s get something to eat. I know a good place nearby. You must be hungry.” His lip quirks. “Especially after that marathon.”
“I’d say triathlon.”
“Isn’t water involved in that?”
“I sweated.”
He laughs, his face alight with amusement. I’m pretty sure that’s laugh number ten. I’m hoarding them like Midas with a gold wallet.
He leads me down a side street just as the rain comes down harder, stinging my face. The wind gusts, slapping the last remaining blossoms from the trees like a spoilt child.
“Shit,” I gasp, and he takes my elbow.
“Let’s run.”
Laughing and occasionally skidding on the slippery cobbles, we race along.
We come to a small square lined with restaurants and bistros.
He heads for one with a jaunty pink and black awning and stops to hold the door open for me.
The smell of something delicious cooking hits me, and I sniff hungrily like a dog at the butcher’s window.
Inside, it’s charming, with dark furniture and comfortable banquettes. The walls are painted scarlet and filled with old French advertising posters showing beauty products.