Chapter 17 Fran
FRAN
With Frank settled in the wheelchair, Elsa by his side, and Carly and Flynn going on ahead, I’m quietly thankful for the distraction; it gives me a moment to gather my thoughts on the platform.
The last time I stepped off the train in Paris was thirty years ago, and rather than feeling long ago or like yesterday, it feels more as if I’ve been time-travelled back to the day itself.
I remember vividly the heavy aroma of city air mingled with warm baguettes and croissants.
And I remember too, the feeling of uneasy excitement of visiting a new place alone.
‘Mum, hurry up!’ Carly calls from the barriers, pulling me back to the here and now, and I realise I’ve not moved from where Frank fell.
‘Coming,’ I reply, gathering myself, Notre-Dame shoved under my arm.
‘Are you OK?’ Carly asks when I reach them.
‘Absolutely,’ I beam, trying desperately to be fine, to be in this moment, as Elsa taught me, in the excitement of Paris today rather than Paris of the past.
We follow Flynn, who’s up ahead with Frank and Elsa and another man whom I haven’t seen before but whose gait is strangely familiar.
I try to watch him but he’s quickly swallowed by the crowd, and by the time I reach the taxi rank, where the rest of the passengers have gathered, I’ve lost sight of him completely.
As we wait under the glass awning, I gaze at the imposing limestone building opposite with its intricate wrap-around iron balcony and twelve-foot wooden doors.
Staring into the middle distance, my thoughts take me back to this morning, to Alistair’s flat, where he must have waited for my postcard that never came.
What would I have done if he’d answered the door, what would I have said?
I feel foolish and disloyal for putting myself in the situation.
But still, if I’m honest, I’m curious about who Alistair might have become.
Would he be just the same, or changed by the years, and would the spark between us still exist?
‘Where are your thoughts?’ Elsa asks once we’re settled in the back of the taxi, and I’ve stowed Notre-Dame away in my bag.
‘I’m questioning my motives for being here, ’ I say, the taxi setting off through the centre of Paris.
‘Sometimes we just have to follow our instinct,’ says Elsa.
I nod even though I’m not quite sure that’s all there is to it.
Up until a week ago I was confident in my marriage, and yes, I’ve thought of Alistair over the years, and wondered about how his life turned out and how we might have been together if I’d pursued the relationship.
I’ve remembered fondly our time together whenever Paris came up, but in no way have I felt the need to retrace our journey or to go to his front door.
Part of me wishes the book never turned up, that Robin hadn’t acted as he did; the other part feels it was destined, a gateway, but to where, I don’t know.
‘Rue de Maubeuge,’ says Carly as we turn left at a busy hexagonal intersection. Limestone apartment buildings face each other, a beautiful balcony at every window, bicycles and mopeds meander past everyday shops, and the occasional café spills on to the pavement.
‘Maybe you’re exploring something else,’ says Carly with a shrug, her gaze still out of the cab window.
‘Like what?’ I ask, her perceptiveness never failing to impress me, her generation’s emotional intelligence far ahead of my own.
‘Like what you said on the train, how losing your mum so young coloured you and therefore me. Maybe it’s more to do with that?’
‘Maybe,’ I sigh.
It occurs to me that possibly the reason I’m so keen to explore my time with Alistair is because of a worry that I clung to Robin after the loss of my mother, that Robin was the closest rock at the time rather than the securest one.
We pass down a narrow street that ends with a boulangerie with dark wood and cream paint that looks as if it’s been there for two hundred years, then cross over an intersection where canopied restaurants cover pavements lined with small tables and wicker chairs.
Carly’s comment sits with me and I wonder about my fear of loss, how I hold people at arm’s length, and I question, do I do that with Robin? Am I part of his feeling unloved and trapped?
We travel along wider streets with shuttered buildings and more restaurants, eventually travelling round a roundabout and into an area that feels smarter, leading to the magnificent opera house, the Palais Garnier.
‘It’s not unusual in midlife to want to check you’ve made the right choices,’ says Elsa as we turn on to a broad, tree-lined boulevard filled with tourist buses, unaware of the memory I’m caught in.
‘Nor is it unusual to carry an old love with you through life, particularly one that didn’t end mutually or satisfactorily. ’
The cobbles of the street make me think of home, and of Robin, so solid and true, of how certain I was in my choice, no one, not even Alistair, ever having given me such a strong sense of peace and home. But still, if my mother had been well, would life have played out differently?
We pass a colonnaded church, almost white against the clear blue sky, and down an apartment-lined street, the gold dome of the H?tel des Invalides in the distance. Suddenly we’re in the vast open space of the Place de la Concorde, the Louvre in the distance, and my mind tumbles back into memories.
‘So, I think I’ll head off,’ I say hesitantly, standing at the base of the statue to stretch, then gather my things.
‘Right,’ he replies, watching me ready myself. ‘Why don’t I walk with you for a while?’
He gets up and positions the strap of his camera bag diagonally across his chest.
‘Sure,’ I answer, and we weave our way through the other tourists, his fleece-lined denim jacket rubbing occasionally against the arm of my corduroy coat, causing a tingle of electricity to run through me.
‘What’s your plan for the rest of the day?’ he asks when we’ve found a corner by the main road, next to a small boulangerie counter, the scent of croissants and baguettes warm and inviting.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. Mum and I had planned to be spontaneous, to see what we saw then stumble on a hotel when we needed one. ‘You?’
‘No plans,’ he shrugs. ‘I’m not meeting my colleague until tomorrow, on the train to Vienna.’
He shifts the strap of his bag, redistributing the weight, and a moment hangs between us where I want to ask him to have coffee but my confidence deserts me.
‘Should we . . .?’ he begins.
I can’t tell if he means hang out or part ways.
‘Find a coffee?’ he asks.
‘I’d like that.’ I smile shyly, just as the heavens open.
‘Where shall we go?’ he asks, taking refuge in a large arched doorway and digging out a map. As he does, two tired old bikes, clearly abandoned, catch my attention. I eye them and then Alistair.
‘Coffee at the Louvre?’ he suggests, a twinkle in his eye, and the two of us grab the bikes and jump into the traffic.
‘This way!’ he hollers, and I follow him down a road that leads to a charming bridge, with intricate metal balustrades, across the Seine, and on through a tree-filled square and a network of streets, the buildings ablaze with red geraniums on wrought-iron balconies.
‘God, that was fun!’ I laugh when we reach the Louvre, the rain passing, leaning my bike against a tree.
He laughs too, placing an arm round my shoulder and drawing me in for a squeeze, which both calms my mind and raises my heart rate. ‘It reminds me of the freedom of riding my bike as a child.’
‘Where did you grow up?’ I ask, as we walk towards the pyramid of the museum.
Alistair pauses, cocks his head to observe me, thinking something I can’t quite read.
‘How about we don’t do backstory, no identifying details, just enjoy the here and now?’
I pull back a little, my eyes narrowed.
‘Keep it light,’ he explains, his eyes full of fun, and I can’t resist.
‘Keep it light,’ I repeat.
‘I could look at the moon for ever,’ I say, the two of us lying under a tree in the Jardin des Tuileries, a hot chocolate and croissant to hand, having strolled the galleries of the Louvre until our feet hurt and our bellies rumbled.
‘“Singing all the while,
in the minor mode,
Of all-conquering love and life so kind to them,
They do not seem to believe in their good fortune,
And their song mingles with the moonlight.”’
‘“Clair de Lune”,’ I say, in disbelief that a man I met randomly is now reciting Paul Verlaine to me under the Paris moon. ‘It’s the first verse that always breaks me,’ I say, recalling how it goes. ‘“And all but sad beneath their fantasy-disguises.”’
I turn my head to face him, his eyes still on the moon, examining the structure of his face. Eventually he turns to me, a new intensity in his eyes, one that makes me think he might kiss me.
‘Come on,’ I say, jumping up and offering him my hand, needing to cool the heat of the moment.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks, and I shrug, jumping on my bike and riding off ahead of him, wanting to stick to our promise of keeping things light.
‘Hurry up,’ I yell, turning to beckon him. ‘We have all of Paris to explore.’
‘Be careful not to over-romanticise this man,’ warns Elsa, pulling me out of my dream. Elsa is more aware than anyone that what makes me good at my job, my ability to create stories, often makes me hopeless at life.
‘I know,’ I say, watching the Arc de Triomphe grow closer before our driver pulls off the Champs-élysées, opposite the Grand Palais, and into the shade of the cobbled, tree-lined street where he pulls up in front of our hotel.
‘Voilà,’ he says, stopping the meter, and we begin gathering our things.
‘What’s this?’ asks Carly, plucking a small piece of paper from the taxi floor.
‘Let me see,’ I urge when it looks as if she’s about to throw it away.
She hands it to me, and I read the information.
‘Pompidou Centre, April 1996,’ I whisper, turning the ticket over.
On the back is a faint pink mark, and slowly a memory forms of me kissing the ticket before handing it to Alistair who tucked it safely away in a pocket.
Now, realising it must have fallen from the pages of my book, I place it for safekeeping in a pocket of my own.