Spring Kisses

Prologue

My face darkensas I catch my reflection in the mirror of a shoe store. The saleswoman on the other side is struggling to hide her smile, which is hardly surprising. Everyone who has crossed my path has had the same reaction, and I understand completely. The green frosting from the wedding cake has soaked into my hair and onto a part of my dress. Silver sugar beads have intertwined with my strands, while scattered rice grains on the floor have mixed into the frosting during my fall.

I managed to remove some of the cake from my curly hair, but not the rice. A shiver runs down my spine at the pasty sensation tangled in one of my brown hair. The vanilla essence of my shampoo mixes with the strawberry fragrance of the cake.

I start walking again, my feet dragging against the cobblestones.

I”m so pathetic!

This morning, I accompanied Cécile to a ceremony, my first as a wedding planner assistant. I wanted to show my manager—who at our first meeting didn”t seem too thrilled to have me around—I was a good fit. I imagine Cécile would have preferred if I were placed with someone else other than her. So, to ensure I pleased my manager, I wore a green dress to match the couple”s natural-themed wedding. Everything should have been perfect, but with my legendary clumsiness, I ended up in the cake.

When I departed from Toulouse to Paris two weeks ago, I didn”t anticipate witnessing such a spectacle, especially not in front of two hundred people. It will eventually become a humorous anecdote to share with my roommates, Manille and Charlotte.

While my clumsiness drew laughter from many guests, including the bride and groom, Cécile didn”t share the same enthusiasm. She sent me home, her brown eyes full of contempt. I made a thousand apologies before rushing to the bathroom to clean up and leave. I was able to remove the frosting from the visible parts of my brown skin and my shoes, but the sugar had embedded itself in the silk of my dress. The late August heat accentuated my sweat and the feeling of being as sticky as an evening slob.

I”m on my way again, eager to escape everyone”s sight. Or, at least, to forget this disastrous day. I”m convinced Cécile has already informed élise, who is our boss and incidentally my mother”s best friend, about what happened. On Monday, she”ll be waiting for me in her office to terminate my probationary period. I”ll probably no longer be able to pay my rent and will have to sell all my belongings to buy a ticket back to Toulouse and live with my mother until I die.

Am I exaggerating?

Only time will tell, I suppose. If Manille could hear me, she”d say I’m a drama queenwhich is probably true. My roommate and Cécile may be in the same company, but Manille has no idea what it”s like to work for her. It only took me a few minutes to realize I was a ball and chain she had no intention of keeping. I feel like a child, a burden, the kind of microbe people hate. No matter how motivated I am, I”m still a walking disaster, incapable of achieving anything. I screw things up with my gaucherie.

At a red light, I take my phone out of my shoulder bag and dial my mother”s number. I miss her voice. She answers on the second ring.

“Sweetie, it”s Mommy.”

I feel a deep pain when I realize she won”t be there when I get home. I had no idea leaving her would hurt like hell. You can”t choose your family, but if I could, I still would have taken this woman as my mother.

“I know, I”m the one who initiated the call.”

She pays no attention to my remark as I stride across the street.

“So, my darling, how was your day?”

I furrow my brows, thinking about what lie I can come up with. I hate keeping the truth from her, but I don”t want her to worry for nothing. She already wasn”t too keen on the idea of me going to Paris, which she considers to be hell on earth, along with Australia.

“Amazing, Mom! I”ve been to a wedding, and it was as beautiful as I remember,” I lie, avoiding my gaze in the reflection of store windows, thinking the salespeople will judge me.

Shame on you, Florence!

“That much?”

Mistrust comes through in her voice. A lump forms in the pit of my stomach at the idea of her seeing me. In one look, she”d understand everything coming out of my mouth is a lie. I”d like to be honest, but I”m ashamed. I feel like a nobody. I”m sure élise will tell my mother everything, so there”s no point in lying. Still, admitting my failure is unbearable. If I lose my job, I can only blame myself for being such a klutz. I”ve demonstrated to Cécile precisely her opinion of me, which is clumsy and good for nothing.

“Yes, I feel good here.”

My heart sinks. I was the one who decided to go up to Paris. I wanted to be stubborn despite her reluctance. I can”t give up now. Not when I”ve been waiting for this since I was a child.

There”s a silence before she finally gives up. “I”m glad. What about your roommates? Are they nice?”

“Yes”, I exclaimed cheerfully.

At least I can count on my roommates to clear my head. My mother was suspicious of the idea of me living with strangers. Even if I didn”t say anything to her about it, I felt the same way. When élise offered me a job in her company, I was supposed to find a small studio, but the high prices made me change my mind. With my meager savings, I wasn”t going to last long in the capital.

élise put me in touch with Manille, who works for her as an event decorator and was looking for a second flatmate. I jumped at the chance, and I don”t regret it. I”ve known Manille and Charlotte for only two weeks, but they”re both great and easy to get on with. On my first night in the apartment, they took me clubbing. Manille found herself half-naked wrapped around a pole, while Charlotte exchanged kisses for drinks. A memorable evening, to say the least.

“You reassure me, darling. I was hesitant about leaving you alone in Paris, especially at twenty, but you”re a grown woman now.”

I don”t deserve her compliments. I”m nowhere near this woman”s level.

“I had a great mom for a role model, so it”s not surprising. But what about you? How”s life without me?”

She laughs and tells me all about her week.

This little exchange manages to put a balm around my heart and my doubts. If I don”t get fired on Monday, I”m going to prove I deserve my place by working hard. I don”t want to benefit from favoritism or have any assistance to reach my goal. I”ve committed to myself, and I won”t falter.

When I finish my call, I”m standing in front of my building with its reddish picket fence. I punch in the code and push open the black door. The coolness of the lobby makes me shiver. In the elevator, I lean against the cold wall and grimace. I press the button for the fourth floor, when a man enters, telephone to his ear. I greet him politely, ashamed to be seen like this. To my delight, he”s so focused on his call, he’s unaware of my presence. A woody fragrance with amber and musky notes fills the lift. Its mentholated freshness is astonishing given the weather outside.

“I”ve been clear. There”s no way we”re going to let them use this card.”

Wow. I”m impressed by his fluency in English. The accent in his voice tells me he”s French. I think about complimenting him but repress the impulse. I don”t want the neighbors to think I”m crazy, especially in my current condition.

With my eyes fixed on his back, I analyze his movements in minute detail. His muscles contract one after the other. His black shirt molds his torso like a second skin. Desperately, I scan the room, my gaze flitting from object to object, anything to divert my attention from his presence. Despite his apparent lack of awareness, my gaze feels intrusive. I end up opting for the luminous numbers displayed higher up in the cabin. Only three floors to go.

An unfamiliar sound emanates from the elevator. My heart races and my neighbor sighs. The car wobbles slightly and I cling to the wall at my right. The elevator gives one last jolt before stopping completely.

We. Are. Stuck.

As if this day wasn”t catastrophic enough. With my other hand on my chest, I struggle to breathe in this space far too small for the two of us.

Calm down, Florence. You need to breathe.

This is the wrong time for me to have an anxiety attack. I haven”t had one in months and there”s no question of it happening again. I”ve tried so hard not to slip back into my old ways.

“Damn it! Anyway, I”ll call you back.”

I can”t tell whether I”m delighted or not, the man still hasn”t noticed my presence. I rummage in my bag for my albuterol inhaler, desperate for a breath of air. I can feel an asthma attack coming on, and even though I know it won”t help my anxiety, I feel relieved to have it with me. But my heartbeat doesn”t slow down. I frantically press the emergency call button, still not being able to bear the thought that we might actually be stuck. I”m living my worst nightmare and don”t know how to deal with it.

“You know you can”t get the elevator to start up again by pushing it down, right? We”re stuck.”

Thanks, Einstein, I hadn”t noticed.

He didn”t even take the time to look at me, like I wasn”t worth it. So either he”s some kind of jerk, or he”s an idiot—which is clearly the same thing. Or he must think I”m dumb as an oyster.

No, it”s not nice to oysters, they didn”t ask for it.

“Do you know when it”s going to start up again?” I feel silly asking the question because I know the answer all too well. I need this man to talk to me. I don”t want to be alone with my thoughts. I couldn”t bear that. The man doesn”t answer, leaving my brain to race a thousand miles an hour before a subject catches my interest.

What would I do to have dinner with Henry Cavill?

The answer is simple: everything, even taking the life of my best friend. She wouldn”t object because I don”t have one. Henry and I could dine at a beautiful restaurant in the Eiffel Tower while listening to Stromae. Wait, his first name spelled backward is maestro. How did I miss this realization?

While the last remark elicits a chuckle from me, the return to reality hits me hard. This is the first time I”ve ever been stuck in an elevator. I”m grateful not to be alone. Being locked in such an enclosed space for an indecipherable length of time sends an unpleasant feeling through my stomach.

“Do I resemble someone who operates elevators?”

I admit my question wasn”t clever, but there was no need to speak to me in such a manner. Okay, he”s not raising his voice or anything, he”s bored of answering me. I feel like a bug. It”s exactly how Cécile made me feel—like a paltry being who, no matter what I”m going to say or do, isn”t worth caring about.

“I”m sorry,” I say unintentionally.

I”m instantly angry at myself for apologizing as if I”d done something wrong. Yes, my question was a little bit dumb, but it”s no cause to deem myself guilty. I let myself slide against the floor. I don”t even know if it”s clean, but considering the state of my dress, it”s no big deal.

My neighbor sighs. He turns to me, and that”s when his eyes lock onto mine for the first time. His distinctive features give him a captivating allure, revealing his short red hair and beard. His green eyes probe me with an electrifying intensity, seeming to pierce through my being. The expression lines at the corners of his eyes add a troubling depth to his charisma, enhancing his charm.

“This elevator is pretty temperamental at the moment. It should restart in a few minutes” he finally says.

His reply is clear and concise. He speaks with a calm, flowing voice as if the situation doesn”t affect him. For some reason, his aplomb both annoys and soothes me. Annoying, as I sense he”s indifferent about the entire situation, yet calming without excessive display.

“Or the cables will break, and we”ll die flattened like pancakes,” I continued, my heart on edge.

I”d hoped to disappear under better conditions, but I”ve missed out.

“You”re a bit of a fatalist, aren”t you?”

I pout. “Probably, but I”m sure it”s already happened. We”re going to die. This is the end,” I gasp, playing with my bracelet in the hope it will soothe me.

Unfortunately, it”s no use. As well as amplifying my malaise, it brings back memories I thought were buried. The image of my father comes back to haunt me.

Why do I keep this bracelet?

I should have gotten rid of him years ago. Like he did with my mother and me.

“You need to calm down. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Think only of good things.”

He is wasting his time with me because I”m a calamity, unable to control myself.

“Calm down? Easier said than done, sir, you need to calm down. How am I supposed to do that?” I exclaim, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Stress speaks before I can think twice. His casual manner irritates me. I need to be reassured, comforted, to forget for a moment who I am, not to be controlled.

“I understand the situation isn”t easy, but having a panic attack is pointless.”

“I don”t know how to stop it.”

“What soothes you?”

“Cleaning,” I answered without thinking.

“We”re going to have to find something else because that’s not really possible here.”

There”s silence, and anguish slowly takes control once more. I need a distraction, however small. The cabin gets smaller, I miss the fresh air, and my hands start to shake. No windows, and—oh no, Lola. What”s going to happen to my little dog? She”ll be lost without me and who”ll pick her up when I”m gone?

Note to self if I survive: prepare my will in advance.

“What happened to you?”

I”m so surprised. He breaks the silence, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out what he”s referring to. With all this, I”d almost forgotten how ridiculous I look. Immediately, embarrassment assails me, and I blush, disturbed by his powerful gaze.

“Work,” I say with a shrug.

“What kind of work do you do to find yourself in such a state?”

Strangely, my inner self delights in his interest in me. I know he”s doing it to distract me, and I appreciate the attention.

“I was the assistant to a wedding planner.”

“You were?” He furrowed his eyebrows, showing a keen interest.

“Yes,” I agree. “I was at a wedding with my manager, the first I”d attended with my agency. Everything went perfectly. The music was lively, and the guests were incredibly friendly. I even managed to sip a few glasses of champagne without Cécile spotting me, but don”t mention it to her,” I said, frowning. “I say it when you don”t even know who she is. Anyway, I”ve had a bit too much to drink, a huge mistake given my legendary clumsiness. Honestly, what an idea. So, fate decided to punish me, and I got my feet tangled up in I don”t know what before crashing right into the cake. What a horror!”

I finish my story out of breath, having spoken too quickly and without even pausing to breathe. He listens to me with scrupulous attention. His face remains impassive, yet his eyes show his amusement. I suppose I can be content to brighten the gallery in my misfortune.

“I’m quite certain my manager will get rid of me.” My stomach churns. I try not to think the worst, but I can”t help it. It”s one of my biggest faults. My neighbor says nothing and sits down opposite me. Leaning against the wall, his legs stretched out and his arms against his chest, he observes me.

“Accidents happen.”

“An accident costing four hundred euros. I”ll be fired and end up under a bridge,” I say, my head in my hands.

“You”re overreacting; it won”t be bad.”

I admire his legendary calm. He can”t understand what”s going on in my mind, but the fact he”s trying to reassure me touches me.

“I understand.” I gasp. “I can”t resist envisioning the most unfavorable aspects of any situation initially. Because no matter the scenario I imagine, it won”t be as dire as what I initially feared.”

It”s not the best solution, but it”s the one I”ve found.

“Since you know my profession. May I ask what you do for a living?”

“I”m a lawyer.”

My mouth makes an O, and I”m fascinated because I know exactly what question I”m going to ask him.

“What are you currently working on?” I ask without thinking. Hearing him speak soothes me. His voice resonates with strength and clarity. Each word is uttered deliberately, unlike myself, prone to rapid speech, and whatever comes out of my mouth not entirely thought out all the time.

“You don”t want to hear this.”

I frown. “Of course, I do, otherwise I wouldn”t have asked. Is it a mafia thing?”

Charlotte is in her dark romance period, and despite Manille and I not being readers, we dove in headfirst. I had my doubts when I saw the shirtless guys on the cover. Fortunately, Charlotte found other ways of convincing me.

The man analyzes me from head to toe and I do the same back at him. He looks older than me, probably in his early thirties. After all, he is a lawyer. My neighbor must read the pleading in my eyes because he sighs and starts to speak:

“A case of kidnapping and sexual abuse of a minor in London”s Kensington district.”

A shiver runs down my spine, forming a ball in the pit of my stomach. My arms are covered in goosebumps. Disgust assails me like a rising tide as my mind thinks of the poor soul who must have endured those abuses. A devastating shock shakes me, annihilating my ability to articulate the flood of repulsion inundating me. My lips remain sealed, unable to convey the intensity of my revulsion.

He continues. “An unremarkable couple, loved by all, was discovered sequestering their daughter for ten years in their cellar. The girl served as her father”s sex slave, resulting in three pregnancies. The mother preferred to remain silent. Whether she kept silent out of fear or disinterest remains to be seen.”

All my blood has left my face, and I bite my lower lip to keep from screaming in anger. I know the world isn”t rosy, this isn’t new, but to do this to a child. Their own child. My mother and I used to spend our evenings watching news programs, sometimes forgetting stories like this were about real people.

“I suppose there will be a trial?”

He nods.

“Why is that? These people don”t deserve it. They should end up in the electric chair for what they”ve done,” I insist.

My straightforward answer seems to unsettle him, but he soon recovers. His eyes show understanding. The idea these people have the chance to defend themselves, to make their voices heard after what they did to their daughter, is unacceptable. She too had things to say, a life to lead they put on hold to make her live with abuse for a decade. I”d like to ask how old the victim is, but I know I”m going to regurgitate whatever”s in my stomach.

“Anyone who disobeys the law must face up to it and answer for his or her actions. We can”t take the law into our own hands, no matter how tempting. No matter what they”ve done, they have the right to a lawyer.”

I frown.

“Why should they have the right to be defended after what they did? Their daughter wasn”t so lucky.”

“What about the presumption of innocence? You can”t judge someone on a whim and without proof.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“It”s not fair! Everything points to their guilt. This kid didn”t get pregnant on her own.”

This story is despicable, as well as terrifying. Despite it taking place in London, how many people have I met who have killed, raped, and tortured others?

Have I ever passed a home where someone was trapped?

I put a stop to these questions at the risk of my own psychosis. My attention is focused on the lawyer, whose love for his profession I can read on his face. He loves what he does, even if he has to deal with sordid cases.

Arms folded against his chest, he settles back, ready to explain something essential to me.

“It”s not a question of what”s right or wrong, but of justice! We cannot live in a lawless world. We”d go under if we operated solely on the law of the strongest. We need the law to avoid anarchy. Of course, we want to protect the victims, but we also need to give a voice to the accused.”

What can I say? He”s right, even if it”s not easy to accept. They must be punished for what they”ve done. I hope justice will prove equal to the task. The repeated assertion there are no sub-trades doesn”t convince me I”m as important as he is in our society. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. Is the pseudo-unknown man facing me defending the couple? I want to ask him, but I”m afraid of his answer.

He must see my torment in my eyes because he continues, looking serious.

“It doesn”t matter who I represent, it”s what I do.”

“Isn”t it difficult?”

“Yes, but I can”t let my emotions get the better of me. There are people who count on me. Whether they”re good or bad, my aim is to represent them and not focus on how I feel, otherwise I might as well change profession. I certainly defend my clients’ interests, but it doesn”t mean I”ll use dishonest schemes to do so.”

I nod, recognizing this young girl has endured immense hardship with those who were meant to shield her from the harsh realities of the world. How would I have responded if I were in her situation? It”s a question I wish to avoid having to confront. Suddenly, guilt tugs at me.

“I feel like a fool complaining about my life when other people have it so much worse.”

He frowns.

“There”s no reason for it. It”s like saying because people are happier than you, you don”t have the right to be.”

I barely hold back a smile. “Always something to say.”

He shrugs.

“After all, it”s my job. So, how long have you been residing here? Your face is unfamiliar to me.”

I admire his ability to change the subject as if nothing had happened. It”s a good thing too because I couldn”t bear to continue this conversation.

“No, I”ve arrived recently.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two weeks. I live with Manille and Charlotte.”

He nods, but I suspect he probably doesn”t know who they are. He doesn”t seem to take the time to get to know the people who live in this building.

“What about you? Have you been here long?”

“Five years.”

“Alone?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Are you trying to hit on me?”

I almost choke on my saliva, surprised by his answer.

“What? No—Well, as we were chatting, I thought I”d ask to make conversation. I have no intention of spying on you or even knocking on your door. In any case, I don”t even know your number or your first or last name. I”m a good person with no ulterior motives. Okay, I admit it, I may have stolen candy in junior high, but I just wanted to have friends. Plus, I bought a bottle of water and gave it to a homeless person to make up for it.”

The lawyer looks at me without knowing how to react. I feel ashamed. It”s precisely to avoid this kind of situation I clean up when I”m panicked. It keeps me from talking until I”m breathless, like now.

“Sorry.” Again, I apologize because I don”t know what else to say.

“For what? I think you”re a wonderful woman.”

His face is impassive. He shows no emotion, yet his eyes say it all. They convey his amusement at the whole situation. The contrast between his outward expression and the emotions conveyed by his eyes is striking and unsettling.

“To answer your question, I live alone. At 155. Don”t hesitate to knock if you need flour, sugar, or candy. So you don”t have to defend yourself for stealing candy.”

“Thank you so much, Counsel, for the advice.”

“You can call me Corentin.”

I instantly want to repeat it to hear the sound it makes in my mouth.

“Nice to meet you, Corentin, I”m Florence.”

He extends his hand, which I eagerly take. Despite its brevity, the touch awakens a longing for his gentle caress on my skin. It”s more than my heart can endure.

He finally raises his head and locks his green eyes into mine.

“Nice to meet you, Florence.”

Like a melody, I want him to repeat my name aloud, to savor the sound. Our hands still joined, we challenge each other”s gaze for a moment, enough to make my heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, the cabin begins to oscillate.

My breath quickens as I dig my nails into the flesh of my palm. The pain is enough to distract me as the elevator reactivates as if nothing had happened.

“It”s working!” I exclaim, relieved that it”s over.

“It seems so.”

Corentin straightens up, and as he helps me do the same, I”m struck by the warmth of his touch. It”s fleeting, yet strangely comforting. I make a conscious effort to steady my racing heart. Romance isn”t on my agenda, no matter how charming he may be, I simply can”t afford the distraction. My focus is entirely on my career, where there”s no room for anything else. On the other hand, I wouldn”t say no to a friend.

As soon as the doors open on the fourth floor, I step outside, happy to be back on the bright red carpet of my landing. I can even hear my dog barking on the other side of the door.

“Are you all right?”

Oh, I”d almost forgotten about him, as far as I was concerned, he”d already gone home. The fact he stayed is too much for my vital organ, which is accelerating. His index finger resting on the door holder, his other hand in his trouser pocket.

“Yes. Thank you for everything.”

“Don”t thank me, it”s normal. I”ll still have to report this incident to the building manager.”

I nod in agreement, but there”s no chance I”m taking this wretched device again. Once, but not twice.

“See you soon, Corentin.”

I turn around, retrieving the keys from my bag. I”m about to push them into the lock when I hear a “Hey!” My brow furrows as I face Corentin, who gives me a long look.

“The kid. It”s because of her I”m acting through her grandparents, who want to regain custody of her.”

I smile widely, relieved.

“Thank you,” I replied.

I have no reason to do so. I don”t know this girl, but I”m grateful he”s taking on her case. My instincts tell me she”s in good hands with him looking out for her.

“Good evening, Florence.”

I stare at him as he disappears behind the elevator doors. I push the key into the lock as a strange feeling grips my chest.

In the end, the day wasn”t so bad.