Chapter 30
CARLY
Mum and Elsa aren’t at breakfast when I arrive, so I ask the waiter for a table just for one.
He shows me to a table for two by a window in the marble and wood-panelled restaurant.
Having ordered avocado on toast and a detox juice, I sit and stare out over the courtyard, nursing a cup of coffee which is warm and soothing in my hands, a welcome moment of calm after the busyness of the night before.
Watching the morning light on the maple trees and listening to the birds chirruping in the greenery, I think about that moment with Flynn beneath the Eiffel Tower, the intrigue, the sizzle between us despite his angles, and how I can’t quite compute then meeting Georgia in the hotel bar.
And I think too of Nicolas and how comfortable I am with him, how last night I might have kissed him, even if I’m not quite as attracted to him physically as I am to Flynn.
And then I remember the dispute between them, Flynn tight as a knot, Nicolas loose as slack rope.
I wonder what it was about, if it was something to do with now or something from their past.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ sings Daisy, arriving with Joe at the table next to mine.
‘I was thinking about Nicolas,’ I answer, a half-truth, curious to know what he’s up to this morning.
After he went into the café, and Mum came to join me, I didn’t see him again.
I keep thinking about what he said about slowing down, Art de Vivre, and how incredible it would be to let go of the race, and just be.
I find myself wondering if that’s something I could do with him.
‘Uh, barking, wrong and tree are the words that spring to mind,’ says Daisy.
Joe kicks her gently under the table.
‘What about Flynn?’ she asks.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not happening, ever.’
‘How come? Flynn’s way hotter than Nicolas; right, Joe?’
Joe holds up his hands to say keep me out of this, then buries his head in the menu.
I explain about the near-kiss under the Eiffel Tower, the partner at the hotel bar, and then his ignoring me last night at the café, how confusing it all is, how cross I feel.
And I explain too about Nicolas, how much I like his authenticity, his composure, and the fact we share an obvious love of literature.
‘And get this,’ I say, referring to Flynn. ‘My mum and his dad know each other from thirty years ago. They had a thing, here in Paris, for twenty-four hours.’
‘Oh my God! How dreamy is that?’ says Daisy, fanning herself with the menu, clearly not taking on board the part about Flynn having a partner. ‘You guys are so meant to get together. This is totally the universe talking to you.’
‘It’s totally the opposite, Daisy,’ I say firmly, but inside I’m laughing at how Jude would no doubt be telling me exactly the same thing were she here, if she hadn’t been completely seduced herself by Nicolas’s French-ness.
‘Tell her, Joe.’
Joe puts down his menu. ‘It is a crazy coincidence, and maybe a bit weird too.’
This time it’s Daisy who kicks Joe under the table.
‘It’s not really that big a coincidence,’ I say, and I tell them about the copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame turning up in the shop.
‘Ooh, classic Gothic romance,’ swoons Daisy.
‘Turns out Alistair moved to Edinburgh after he adopted Flynn. He’d been in the city all along. He used to come into the shop with his mum when he was little.’
‘How cute is that!’ squeals Daisy. ‘You could have been childhood sweethearts!’
I roll my eyes, this time with a laugh. ‘Flynn dropped off a bag of second-hand books in the bookshop, then Alistair found out about Mum being on the trip when he came to the shop to reclaim the book.’
‘And he asked Flynn if he could come along too?’ asks Joe.
I nod.
‘So romantic,’ sighs Daisy.
‘Or so stalker-y,’ I rebut. ‘My mum is married, to my dad. He’s a pretty great guy, you know.
He doesn’t need some A-hole from the past rocking up and trying it on with his wife.
Honestly, no wonder Flynn thinks nothing about cheating on his partner when his married father is chasing a married woman. ’
‘All right, Sister Carly!’ says Daisy, having unintentionally poked a wound. She turns her attention to her menu while I’m served my avocado on toast.
‘Oh-oh,’ says Joe, when I’m a few mouthfuls into my breakfast, and Joe and Daisy have ordered theirs.
‘What?’ I ask, turning to see what he’s looking at.
‘Oh . . .’ I say, my heart sinking when I see what Joe has seen.
‘The traitor,’ Daisy stage-whispers dramatically, when she too has clocked the problem: Flynn, heading towards our tables.
‘Morning,’ I say flatly when he has the audacity to sit in the chair opposite mine.
He looks terrible – his hair scruffy, and bags the size of suitcases under his eyes.
‘I need your help,’ he says, his eyes pleading with mine.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask coolly.
‘I’ve been up all night, scouring the streets.’
‘Why?’ I query, aware that I sound entirely unsympathetic.
Joe hands him his cup of coffee.
‘Chris Rose went AWOL after the meet and greet. I can’t find him. I can’t reach him. Ginny is out of her mind.’ He looks at his watch. ‘And his headline talk, the highlight of the whole trip, is meant to start in just over an hour.’
‘Huh, that is a problem,’ I say, feeling the tiniest bit bad for the guy. I swear he looks as if he might cry.
I tap a finger on the linen tablecloth, thinking.
‘We need a plan of action: a three-pronged attack.’ I mull things over some more, all eyes on me.
‘Flynn, you need to get on socials and find out all of Chris’s favourite haunts – fancy hotels, private member clubs, casinos, that sort of thing; Joe, you and Daisy need to get in a cab and go anywhere Flynn asks you to, and I need to find Ginny and Mum in the hope of talking her into the back-up plan. ’
‘What back-up plan?’ asks Flynn.
‘That Mum gives the headline talk instead of Chris Rose. Frances Henderson is an equally successful and popular writer, I just need to convince her to believe it.’
‘Agreed,’ he says, offering me a grateful look then taking out his phone. ‘I’ll message Ginny, ask her to start preparing questions for Fran, while trying to keep track of Chris on his socials.’
‘Your cab will be here in seven minutes,’ I tell Joe and Daisy once I’ve booked it on my phone.
Leaving me with the trickiest job of all, I think – how to convince Mum into giving the biggest talk of her career.
I find Ginny, looking as if she’s barely slept, in a corner of the restaurant, and explain about needing to find Mum.
‘You try her room, I’ll search the rest of the hotel,’ she says, pushing her barely touched Bircher muesli aside.
I’m anticipating a morning’s game of cat and mouse, but we find Mum almost immediately, heading out through the hotel lobby.
‘Mum, where have you been?’ I ask, taking her by the wrist and steering her towards the central circular banquette.
‘I had a bit of a late—’
‘Never mind,’ I dismiss, not wanting to hear about what went down between her and Alistair. From the state of her hair and skin, it looks as if she’s been up half the night. I sit her down on the red velvet seating.
‘Carly, what is going on?’
‘Christopher Rose has gone missing,’ Ginny explains, standing beside me.
‘What does that have to do with me?’
Ginny and I exchange a look: Shall I tell her, or will you?
‘It means someone else might have to give the final talk of the trip,’ I answer matter-of-factly.
‘The headline event,’ Ginny explains, in case Mum hasn’t understood, but, by the look of horror on her face, she has.
‘Uh, no,’ she says, immediately getting up to leave.
‘Mum, you could manage,’ I say, blocking her, somehow managing to corral her into sitting again. ‘Ginny would do it with you as a Q&A session. It would be like having a chat with a friend – you’ve done plenty like it before.’
Ginny nods her agreement. ‘Your workshop on the train was excellent, Fran. You have no reason to doubt your ability to talk about your work.’
‘At this stage in my career I have nothing of note to say,’ Mum counters, getting up again. ‘I’m an author with no book deal who has writer’s block. I’m hardly headline act material.’
‘You have everything to offer,’ says Ginny, uncharacteristically forthright.
She sits down, gestures for Mum to join her.
‘Do you know how excited I was when I found out I was going to be on the book train with Frances Henderson? I was beside myself with anticipation. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.
‘Your body of work is extensive, Fran,’ she goes on. Mum sits down again and I park myself on her other side, Ginny and I like bouncers. ‘And it’s all of the highest quality. If you were working in any other genre, you’d have received accolade upon accolade by now.’
‘She’s right, Mum,’ I say. ‘There are very few authors in the UK right now who can match your level of output and quality. You don’t have to take my word for it – you’ve had so many bestsellers and you’ve hundreds of thousands of online reviews that corroborate what we’re saying.
’ I google her name. ‘Look, I told you – someone has made a Wikipedia page for you!’
I show her the page that lists all her titles and translations, bestsellers, and the handful of romance novel awards.
‘Go on, Mum. How bad would it be with Ginny by your side and me in the audience?’
‘Hmm,’ Mum grumbles, still not entirely convinced, but I can tell she’s feeling marginally more able and willing than before.
I take her hand, and Ginny does the same, both of us pleading with our eyes.
‘Oh, go on then, but only as a back-up!’ she says, probably more because she wants us to stop bugging her than because of any desire to give the talk.
‘I’m going to find coffee,’ Mum says to me, once Ginny has left to continue her hunt for Chris Rose.
‘I’ll join you,’ I say, following her out of the hotel and into the fresh morning air.