Chapter Two
Instead of taking her usual route, which bisected the cemetery, Chloe followed the little lane that skirted the eastern boundary. As she had an extra fifteen minutes, she decided to seek out Edith Piaf’s grave. But she’d need to keep an eye on the time; it was easy to lose your bearings in this maze of pathways and tombs.
She didn’t have a map, but after a year she’d developed a good sense of north, south, east and west. The cemetery had no deliberate pattern and little symmetry. Here a bright, open area with a single memorial; there a dark, closed-in huddle of tombs. Paths that ran straight, paths that twisted, paths that led nowhere, and in between and alongside, a glorious jumble of graves, tombs, statues and mausoleums.
She passed a grandiose mini temple stuffed with aristocratic bones, and then a humble row of nobodies. Chloe liked how they were all mixed together. Egalité . A reflection of the French ideal.
Oscar Wilde was over here. She passed the side path to his tomb, and eventually spotted Edith Piaf’s grave in a far corner, identifiable by the red roses strewn across its black marble surface. Looking at those stems, Chloe would take a guess a good number had started their day in a bucket outside Coeurs et Fleurs .
Edith, she remembered, as she gazed at the simple grave, had been raised in a brothel, and with her songs of love and sorrow had become a symbol of passion and perseverance. Judging by the sea of flowers, the singer still held an important place in French hearts.
La vie en rose. Seeing life through a rose-tinted lens. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned there; perhaps she should be more like Edith, drag herself out of her pity party.
Non, je ne regrette rien . On that, she and Edith definitely differed. Chloe regretted it all . She’d given her heart to Dan, and he’d smashed it to smithereens. This time last year she should’ve been a few hours married. A wife. But instead …
Je regrette it all.
She snapped a photo of the grave. She could upload it to the shop’s Instagram account, with perhaps a pithy caption about la mort en rose. Actually , no. That would be disrespectful. Edith was clearly up there with Joan of Arc when it came to French heroines. What was she thinking? This day was turning her into an embittered harpy.
Onwards. Through the trees, the sun was dipping in the sky, and the path she was following began to meander. There was no one else around. But over there …
‘Oh, bonjour! ’ She went over to where a small black cat was perched on a white marble tomb. It opened its mouth in a silent meow. Unusually – most of the cemetery cats were skittish – it came to meet her, then rolled onto its back.
She tickled its tum, and for some reason felt compelled to spend the next few minutes talking to it, describing her awful day, explaining why she was in Paris, telling the cat, who was definitely listening, about her temporary pet, Patapouf. ‘Do you know him? Oh, sorry. You probably don’t speak English.’
She laughed to herself. It was fun to act a little crazy when you were alone in a crazy place. Talk to a cat like nobody’s watching.
She straightened and checked the time: 5.40pm. Twenty minutes to closing. ‘Sorry, puss, I–’
But the cat had disappeared. Odd – she hadn’t seen him go. She looked around her, suddenly disorientated. She didn’t know this part of the cemetery at all.
Wait – Google maps! She opened the app and peered at the blue dot, but whatever satellite was meant to be tracking her was clearly malfunctioning. Perhaps it was all this ghostly energy, the fant?mes playing merry hell with the signal. According to the map, she was still at the entrance. She turned round in a circle; the blue dot spun as she did, but it didn’t move.
Pas de problème . Edith’s grave was clearly marked on the map … she’d followed this path, then this one … so she should be quite close to Jim Morrison. She knew that area, and his grave wasn’t too far from the exit. But she’d have to move quickly. Much as she loved this place, the prospect of being locked in here was not appealing.
She checked her phone battery. Being locked in here with a dead phone was even less appealing. Ten per cent. Oh dear. And leaving home this morning in her cloud of misery, she’d forgotten her power bank.
A short while later she breathed out in relief as she spotted the barriers and riot of flowers that signposted Jim’s grave. It was more of a shrine, really, she thought as she approached, with its bouquets, candles and photographs. Padlocks with names on were attached to the barriers. The grave itself was a simple thing, its headstone inscribed with the singer’s name, dates, and an epitaph in Greek, something about him being … what was it? True to his own spirit?
The site looked deserted. Propped up on the headstone was that iconic black-and-white image, and as she came close, his intense gaze fixed on her. Oof . She could understand the attraction. Those huge, soulful eyes, the tousled dark locks, that pouting, sensuous mouth. And a poet, to boot. A beautiful man with a sensitive soul.
But also wild, lewd, drunk, unfaithful. Like …
Men . Bastards, the lot of them.
Come On Baby Light My Fire. It was the only Doors song she knew. Seriously? What a cheesy line. So much for the sensitive poet.
Chloe’s fragile good mood – okay, improved mood – was ebbing. ‘See ya, loser,’ she muttered … and then she froze as she heard raucous laughter coming from beyond the grave.
Whoever was there was hidden from view by one of those mausoleums that looked like a mini Greek temple. She felt a prickle of unease. Perhaps it was a bunch of Jim Morrison ghouls intending to spend the night having wild sex beside their rock god.
Now there were cheers, and catcalling. The racket was coming from near the chewing gum tree, where visitors stuck their gum as a tribute to the bad-boy singer. She’d be seen if she carried on along this path, but it was too late to find an alternative. What to do?
She moved behind the tall tomb, then, inching along, peered round the corner … and her eyes widened at the sight in front of her.
What the f–?
A group of five lads, dressed as Frenchmen in stripy T-shirts and black berets, with red neckties and black fake moustaches. They were clearly wasted, swigging from cans of beer. Four were standing arm in arm and began to holler, to the tune of ‘La Marseillaise’: ‘ A Frenchman went to the laaaavatory, for to have hiiim, a jolly good shit …’
By the time they got to ‘ Ou est … le papier? ’ the blood was pounding in Chloe’s ears.
Brits on a stag weekend abroad. Was there anything more repugnant?
These idiots weren’t a threat; they were an abhorrence, an insult to France, an embarrassment to Britain. A boil on the bottom of humanity.
She came out from her hiding place like a determined little thunder cloud.
‘Oi! Shit for brains!’
The four fell silent, blinking in surprise. The fifth remained where he was, sitting on the ground, leaning against the chewing gum tree with his head between his knees.
They stared at her, frowning in drunken confusion.
She stared back. ‘Have some bloody respect! This is a cemetery ! You are GUESTS in this country.’ Her eyes swept over their ridiculous dress-ups. ‘What the actual fuck? How insulting . Now get the hell out of here and leave these poor dead people in PEACE!’
The four finally whirred back to life.
‘Ooooo,’ said one, his pitch rising and falling in that intensely annoying way. It was like facing down the idiot kids in the playground. ‘Someone’s got ’er knickers in a twist! What’s your problem, darlin’?’
They were Londoners. Could this get any worse?
‘We’re just ’aving a bit a’ fun. His stag do, innit?’ He cocked his head towards the remnant of a person curled up against the tree.
The clang of the closing bell rang out across the cemetery. Ten minutes.
‘Stag do. You don’t say.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm. The red mist was only getting thicker.
Today of all days.
‘The exit’s that way,’ she said, pointing. ‘The cemetery is closing any minute.’
‘Closing? Wha–?’ slurred one of the guys.
‘That was the closing bell.’
‘Huh? Bell? You what?’ said the other three. The fifth remained silent. Was he even conscious?
Chloe was losing control; she couldn’t help it. It was as if some mischievous little demon had custom-designed the worst-possible ending to this pig of a day.
‘LOOK,’ she said. ‘You need to go. And for the record, what you’re doing, disrespecting the French and this beautiful city with your outrageously rude stereotyping – well, honestly, you deserve to be locked up.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ said one of them. ‘ Locked up . I forgot. Are we still doin’ that?’
‘Yeah, we totally should. Best be quick if they’re shuttin’ though,’ said another.
‘Doing what?’ barked Chloe, as a horrible suspicion crept in.
The first guy upended a backpack that had been propped against the grave’s barrier. Out fell a collection of items including a string of plastic onions, a water bottle, a chain, and something in a long cardboard box.
‘The barrier?’ he said, eyeing it.
The four of them turned to the motionless heap beside the tree trunk.
‘Reckon it’ll be too hard to move him,’ said another.
‘Let’s just cling-film him to the tree,’ said another.
Oh my god.
‘Look!’ Chloe shot. ‘If you don’t leave, I’m calling security.’
The first guy looked at her, his head on one side. ‘You know what? For a tasty Brit chick, you’ve got no bleedin’ sense of humour. It’s his STAG do. It’s a fuckin’ prank. We’ll come back for him later.’
Chloe opened the browser on her phone, searching for a number to call, hoping the action would be enough to send them packing.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ said the second guy, and before she could react, he grabbed her phone and threw it onto the roof of the tall tomb. Smirking, not taking his eyes from hers, he took a long swig from his can of beer.
Chloe was speechless. ‘You … you wanker !’
The others made the infuriating ‘ooooo’ sound again.
She stood on tiptoe, craned her neck but couldn’t see her phone. She gave a little jump and glimpsed it nestled in the moss on the roof.
What do I do now?
She opened her mouth to abuse them some more, then hesitated. Five drunk men, one woman, only the dead to hear her scream. She should probably be more careful, less aggressive. The phone stealer was still watching her through narrowed, dark-brown eyes, and she didn’t like the look in them. While she’d take a guess the others were harmless Cockney muppets, this one gave her the chills.
One of them set about attaching their friend to the chewing gum tree with the roll of cling film that had been in the long cardboard box.
The victim looked up for a moment, confused, then his head lolled. Good grief, how much – and what? – had he imbibed? They’d probably been drinking all day. Concern nudged its way into Chloe’s contempt.
‘Stop that!’ she ordered. ‘He’s in no fit state.’
They ignored her. Cheered on by the others, the guy wrapping the clingfilm around the tree was on his third or fourth circuit, and the circling was making him dizzy. He fell over, and another picked up the roll and carried on. After several more circuits, the roll ran out.
The victim – the groom – was now sitting with his legs straight out in front of him, his arms and torso held tight against the tree by the cling film. His beret had fallen over his eyes; only his nostrils, the fake curly moustache and his chin were visible above the red necktie.
The guys stood back to admire their handiwork, snapping photos on their phones.
‘Fuckin’ epic,’ said one.
Chloe bared her teeth. ‘GET. MY. PHONE.’
‘How’re we supposed to do that? I don’t see a ladder,’ said the guy who’d thrown it up there. Snake eyes.
It was all suddenly too much. Chloe was overwhelmed; tears threatened. She was so done with today, and with men. ‘You absolute tools .’ She batted away a tear. ‘You–’
‘Just shut the fuck up,’ interrupted Snake Eyes, opening and shutting one hand in a blah blah blah gesture.
Chloe made an effort to switch back to anger. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.
The cling-wrapped groom let out a groan, and Chloe saw that the cocoon was tight, and the pitiful chap was in a bad way. Parking her rage, she went over and bent down. ‘Hey, idiot. Are you okay?’ She put down her flowers and pushed up his beret … and found herself looking into a pair of enormous, panicked, deep blue eyes. They reminded her of someone.
And then he threw up, all over her trainers and her flowers.
‘Wey hey!!’ called one of the lads, and the others joined in the cheer.
Any remaining self-control evaporated. Chloe picked up the discarded cardboard tube the clingfilm had been rolled around – it looked good and thick – and flew at Snake Eyes, hitting him as hard as she could on the arms, legs, his head. The release of emotion felt fantastic.
The other three cheered some more.
But Chloe quickly realised her mistake. This guy was tall and strong. He deflected the next attempt and grabbed her arm. His grip was a vice. ‘No you don’t,’ he growled, his fingers digging in. Still holding onto her, he bent down and picked up the chain that had fallen out of the backpack. And something else.
‘Let me GO!’ she screeched.
The others cheered again.
‘You need to learn some respect,’ he said, scooping Chloe up then dropping her heavily on the ground beside the groom. ‘Like I said, we’ll come back for you later.’
As she tried to struggle back onto her feet, he deftly chained her wrist to the groom’s, which was poking out of the bottom of the plastic, wrapping the length of metal round once, twice … and then he secured it with a padlock – CLICK – held up the key for all to see, and put it in his pocket.
Shit!
‘You can’t DO this! And you won’t be able to get back in!’
‘Think yourself lucky we spared you the cling film,’ he replied, packing up his bag.
‘Laters!’ called another, as the four fake Frenchmen headed for the exit, singing, ‘ A Frenchman went to the laaaavatory …’