Chapter 24
CARLY
I jerk quickly away from Flynn’s touch, even though it’s left me with goosebumps from top to toe.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, his eyes full of worry.
I’m struggling for words when his phone rings and, raising a hand with an apologetic frown, he answers it. He peels away to find a quieter spot, away from the crowds I’m only just noticing, putting a finger to his ear.
Annoyed with myself for letting my guard down, I slip into the milling crowd and head towards the river, figuring if I follow it east, I’ll eventually arrive at the Grand Palais, close to the hotel.
Alone with my thoughts, I dig out my phone and call Jude.
‘Slow down,’ she says, leaving Adam to finish the cooking, after I’ve blurted out what almost happened. ‘Why would kissing Flynn be such a bad thing?’
‘First of all, he’s kind of my employer on this trip, secondly, he blows more hot and cold than a defective hairdryer, and last of all, I can’t help wondering if he’s got some dubious morals,’ I rant, aware that the latter isn’t exactly fair given he cleared up the book train misunderstanding, and that I’ve no real idea if the woman from the hotel is his girlfriend or not.
‘But is he gorgeous?’ she asks, as I make my way on to an elevated, tree-lined broad-walk that follows the river east.
‘Jude, you’re missing the point.’
‘Am I?’
I pause for a moment, turning to cross on to an arched pedestrian bridge. The tingle of his touch lingers. ‘It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t, because he’s still completely unpredictable!’
‘And?’
‘And he’s my boss, and I’m really in two minds about how trustworthy he is.’
‘Carly,’ she says in the tone she always uses when I’m not keeping up. ‘I’m not asking you to psychoanalyse him, I’m asking you a very simple question: do you fancy him?’
Arriving on the other side of the river and turning on to a small path, the trees shimmering in the moonlight, I answer, ‘Maybe,’ but quickly follow that up with, ‘but he’s completely wrong for me – he’s wooden and awkward and takes himself way too seriously.’
‘People think you’re aloof, but you’re not. Maybe he isn’t what he seems either.’ She pauses. ‘Everyone has a story.’
‘I suppose,’ I reply, slightly vexed by her point; my walk with Flynn was lovely, and in small ways revealing, and wouldn’t have ended the way it did if there wasn’t something there between us.
‘Let’s imagine for a moment that he’s not your boss, that he’s the romantic you’ve always dreamed of, and ticks every quality on your wish list. What then? Then would you like him?’
‘I guess so,’ I say, more as a question than a fact, remembering how he was back in Edinburgh, the hint of a romantic at Shakespeare and Company, and how at ease he seems when surrounded by books.
‘You guess so?’
‘OK. Fine. Yes,’ I cave. ‘If he had nothing to do with work, and was a blissed-out, dependable romantic, then yes, then I would like him. But he’s not, he’s disappointingly conventional, so there’s no point in even thinking about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because none of those things are going to change.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she sings, annoyingly optimistic. ‘You don’t know what lies beneath that cold exterior!’
‘Jude, come on, let’s stick to reality.’
‘Nothing stays the same for ever, Carly.’
‘Some things definitely stay the same,’ I retort.
‘Nuh-uh,’ she says. I can almost see her wagging her finger at me. ‘Not even your fear of getting close to someone.’
‘Enough!’ I say, sort of laughing, sort of not. ‘I need to go; I have to negotiate this intersection.’
‘Yes, you do,’ she says, and I know perfectly well she’s not talking about the traffic.
I settle myself at the bar, asking for a hard kombucha rather than my normal non-alcoholic option, and sit, deep in thought, peeling the label of the cold bottle.
‘Is anyone sitting here?’ asks a voice.
I turn to find the woman from the library standing next to me.
‘Ah, no,’ I stumble, immediately thinking of the near-kiss with Flynn.
I attempt to tidy my fringe in the mirror at the back of the bar.
‘You look great; I thought you were Parisian,’ she says sweetly, taking off her light blazer and hanging it on the back of the stool.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, even though I feel shabby next to her in her crisp white shirt and black tailored trousers. ‘What brings you to Paris?’
‘Decision making,’ she says obscurely. ‘I’m trying to figure out if it’s make or break, you know how it is: men. One minute they’re fully committed, the next you wonder if they were ever interested in the first place.’
‘Right,’ I answer, gulping back my drink. This afternoon’s scenario between her and Flynn plays out in my mind.
‘I’m Georgia,’ she says, reaching out her hand to me.
‘Carly,’ I reply, shaking her hand, a stab of guilt piercing my heart.
‘What brings you to Paris?’
‘Work,’ I say casually, not wanting to let on that I’m part of the trip her partner organised.
‘What line of work are you in?’ she asks.
I watch as she accepts her drink, her fingers with perfectly manicured nails wrapping around the glass, her skin flawless. And I’m struck by how perfect she is for Flynn: beautiful, professional, more than likely blindly ambitious – the full package, unlike me.
‘Forgive me, I’m suddenly tired,’ I say, getting down from my stool and gathering my things, unable to understand why Flynn would lead me on, when he has someone as perfect as Georgia.