Chapter 25
FRAN
‘How was your day?’ I ask Elsa, the two of us getting ready in the hotel room for this evening’s meet and greet event, Carly still in the bathroom.
‘It was simple,’ she answers, drying her hair, on a pale brocade armchair. ‘I read in the library, enjoyed watching people coming and going. And then later I met an interesting chap in the bar . . .’ She drifts off, watches me apply my mascara in the ornate mirror. ‘How was yours?’
‘Full of surprises,’ I answer distantly.
‘Did you manage to get to Sacré Coeur?’
I stop applying my mascara mid-lash and turn to face her.
‘Why did you suggest I go?’
‘The man I met in the bar, he was enthralled by your bookmark – I picked it up when it fell from Notre-Dame in the library – and his story sounded similar to yours so I—’
‘It was Alistair.’
‘Gosh. So, it was him,’ she says, her eyes scanning mine.
‘You didn’t know?’
Elsa shakes her head.
‘Then why did you send me?’
She pauses a while. ‘An old woman’s hunch,’ she laughs lightly, her eyes sparkling. ‘How was it, seeing him again?’
I turn back to the mirror, continue with my make-up. I think for a moment. ‘It was extraordinary and ordinary both at once, if that makes sense?’
‘If what makes sense?’ asks Carly, coming out of the bathroom in a thick white robe.
‘How it felt to see Alistair after thirty years,’ Elsa replies.
She stops in her tracks. ‘Wait, you saw him? How?’
From the mirror I see Elsa cast me a look of regret at mentioning it.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ I say, trying to shrug it off, as if it were nothing. ‘Fate, serendipity . . .?’
Carly scowls and, since I imagine she’s thinking of Robin, I shift focus slightly. ‘And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Alistair is Flynn’s adoptive father.’
‘Well, God in heaven,’ says Elsa, stopping brushing her hair mid-flow.
I tell them a little about Alistair, his living between Edinburgh and London, amongst other things, and that Notre-Dame was in the bag of books Flynn left at the shop.
‘You were both in the same city all this time,’ says Elsa incredulously, continuing her brushing more slowly now.
Carly ignores us and starts vigorously towel-drying her hair.
‘What did you get up to today?’ Elsa asks her, when we’ve been quiet for a moment and Carly is tugging out knots.
‘I went to Shakespeare and Company, walked around the city.’
I sense from her evasive gaze that she’s leaving something unsaid.
‘Are you nervous?’ she asks me, deflecting, as she does so well.
My heart leaps at the question, thinking she knows what I’ve planned, until I realise she’s talking about the meet and greet.
‘What’s with the make-up and heels?’ she presses.
‘Well, you know, when in Paris,’ I say, hoping she won’t detect the real reason, that Alistair asked me for drinks, and I agreed, that we’re meeting after tonight’s event, outside the Moulin Rouge, a place we’d skirted past after our first kiss all those years ago . . .
I have no sense of how long we’ve been sitting, our bodies meshed tightly – arm through arm, head on chest, legs entwined – but at some point I grow cold, and Alistair suggests we keep moving.
‘Towards the Moulin Rouge?’ he asks, and we leave, tripping down the stairs, our bodies drawn like magnets to each other.
We walk through quaint narrow streets, quiet in the night-time, down rambling steps, and along Rue Lepic, where Van Gogh lived, and poets dreamed, until we reach the Moulin Rouge – gold and red like a can-can girl’s dress.
‘You can feel the energy of the place,’ I say, an unquestionable electricity in the air.
He leads me away, his grip stronger, and I know he’s looking for a place for us to be alone. We hurry now, my body pulsating, until we find a small garden, barely lit, and a spot beneath a large tree.
Without words, Alistair kisses me, our hands tearing at each other’s clothes, our bodies tumbling to the ground.
‘Wait,’ I call, my eyes widening, my breathing heavy.
‘Why?’ he asks, unable to stop kissing my neck, unable to stop his hands charting every inch of my body.
‘Slow down,’ I whisper, making my body smaller, making it harder to roam.
‘I want you so badly,’ he says, running his hands through his hair.
‘If we don’t see each other again, I don’t want to look back at this day with regret.’
‘Why wouldn’t we see each other again?’ he asks, stopping, his eyes full of hurt.
‘I’m not saying that we won’t,’ I reassure him, thinking of Mum, not knowing how long she has left, and how long it might be before there’s a chance to see Alistair again. ‘I’m just thinking about all eventualities.’
At this, Alistair gets up, puts on his jacket and heads off, leaving me to follow.
‘Don’t be cross,’ I say, catching him up and slipping my hand into his, which he refuses.
‘Have I read this incorrectly?’ he asks, his brow knotted.
‘No, of course not,’ I answer, recognising a bruised ego, the tiniest niggle of doubt rising inside me. ‘It’s just a bit too soon; I’ve not known you a day yet.’ I cast him a look of ‘come on’, and he begins to smile, realising his petulance.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, drawing me close and inhaling the scent of my forehead. ‘It’s just all so mind-blowing.’
‘I get it,’ I smile. ‘Let’s just make it something to remember, not regret, OK?’
‘You’re right,’ he says, and he wraps his arm around me, until we reach a neighbourhood park where we lie under the bandstand and giggle under the stars.
At sunrise, having walked towards the Gare de l’Est for Alistair’s train, we sit by the canal and watch the sun come up over a small arched bridge. A parade of pastel-coloured shops on the opposite side shines in the sunlight.
‘What do you hope for the future?’ I ask
‘I suppose for more of this – travel, photography . . .’ He tails off and pulls me closer, nestling his cheek in my hair. ‘And you?’
‘Hopefully to write, to travel, too.’ I want to say something of love, to love and be loved, but I don’t, both of us tiptoeing around the subject of us . . .
‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the sandals you usually wear to these things,’ Carly continues, bringing me out of my memory and back to now. Carly is fastening her skirt, which is shorter than she usually wears.
My heart quickens at the thought of her finding me out, and that in doing so she might tell Robin.
‘Let her wear what she wants,’ says Elsa casually, winking covertly at me. To my surprise, Carly shakes it off and heads back into the bathroom.
My eyes meet Elsa’s in the mirror. The glimmer in hers tells me she has a sense of what’s happening, even though I’ve said nothing at all.