Chapter Six
Chloe was awoken by bright light shining through her eyelids. As she came to, she remembered where she was, and opened them expecting to see the beam of a security guard’s torch. But instead … wow. A huge, dazzling full moon was hanging between the trees overhead, shining benevolently down on them.
The tombs were bathed in its pale light, and across the cobbled path Oscar’s winged Egyptian was a ghostly guardian angel. The cemetery was silent, and breathtakingly beautiful.
In her lap, Joel stirred. Moonlight silvered his hair and cast shadows from his long eyelashes onto his cheeks. He groaned a little and moved again. The weight of his head on Chloe’s legs was disturbingly pleasurable. She became aware of an ache; it must have been building as she dozed. She wriggled.
Her jumper was still laid across his back, and she pulled it up so it was covering his neck. Beneath it, his free hand shifted further up her thigh.
She knew he was just moving in his sleep, getting comfortable, but the motion didn’t help. Oh Chloe . You utter tragedy.
She rested her hand on his soft hair, then began stroking it. There was nothing suggestive or sexual about that; it was simply … affection.
He sighed, and his hand crept still further up her leg, and then … his thumb settled on the denim between her legs. She let out a quiet gasp of surprise, then opened them a small way. He moved his thumb, pressing it into her. Oh my god. Her nerve endings reached out to meet him, straining towards his thumb. Then he began rubbing her with a circular motion, stopping occasionally to push against her. She willed him to carry on: don’t stop, don’t stop … please don’t stop. Unless it’s to unzip me and slip that thumb inside.
Then all at once he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, pulled his hand sharply away and sat up. ‘Uh … where …?’
The jumper fell to the ground and he bent down again, his face hidden, groping around for it. ‘Chloe! Shit! Sorry – what happened?’ His voice was panicked. ‘I must have been dreaming.’
‘Shush, you didn’t do anything,’ she lied. ‘I moved your head so you wouldn’t wake up with a stiff neck.’
He sat up straighter and rotated his head slowly, easing his muscles. ‘Oh, right. Thanks. It feels fine.’ He gave her a searching, quizzical look; she stared back, hoping her expression gave nothing away.
Joel opened and shut his mouth, making a smacking noise. ‘But my mouth feels like someone attacked it with sandpaper.’
‘That’d be the hangover making an early start.’
‘The pasties. Pastis .’
She hoisted her backpack onto the seat beside her and took out her water bottle. Clamping the top between her teeth she twisted the bottle with her free hand, then handed it over. ‘Your need’s greater than mine. Just leave me a splash.’ She rootled around in her bag some more and found a packet of mints. ‘Have one of these while you’re at it.’
‘You’re an angel, Chloe.’ He took a long swig, popped in the mint, then passed the bottle back. ‘And you’re getting pretty good at doing things with one hand.’
‘So are you,’ she said, before she could stop herself. The throbbing was taking a while to subside.
‘So I did …’ He pulled a face. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
‘I was half asleep myself, so … what happens in Paris stays in Paris. Lips sealed.’ As she said the words, she was aware they could be interpreted as an invitation. Hypocrite! You’re suggesting he does to Zara what Dan did to you.
His eyes went to her mouth. ‘Very pretty lips, if you don’t mind me saying.’ Then those eyes moved to the moon. ‘Would you look at that. No need for a light after all.’
‘Isn’t it all incredibly beautiful?’ she said, gazing around her. ‘So are you feeling okay? Shall we look for a way out?’ She shivered, feeling the nighttime nip in the air now that Joel had removed himself from her lap.
He noticed. ‘It’s getting chilly – you should put this on.’ He passed over the jumper. They looked down at their shackled wrists. ‘Ah, you’ll need help. How do we do this?’ He wriggled his arm up through the jumper until it emerged through the neck hole, managed to lift it over her head and then pulled it down until her face popped out. She got her free arm down its sleeve, letting the other sleeve hang loose over her shoulder. ‘Thanks.’
He reached round and gently flipped out her ponytail. The elastic band had slid down it again, and she pulled it off. Her dark, wavy hair, untended by any hairdresser for a year now, tumbled loose round her shoulders and she fluffed it out.
‘What you said before,’ Joel said softly, watching her. ‘That was bollocks.’
‘What did I say before?’
‘That you need a makeover.’ He smiled, and his eyes shone in the moonlight. ‘As an impartial observer, just for the record, you’re beautiful. Hey – where’s my beret?’
‘In the backpack,’ she said, glowing at his words.
But … an impartial observer. Just for the record . Those phrases put the compliment in its place, which was somewhere beyond that boundary. That line that mustn’t be crossed. It was still a treasure, though, to be tucked away and brought out in the future. Often, probably.
She caught a glimpse of herself, alone in her apartment in weeks to come, replaying this night over and over, trying to remember every word, every expression on his face. And picturing that face as the months passed, until one day it would slip from her, and Joel and this night would be like a second-hand memory, fuzzy and unclear. Like Dan had started to be, she realised. It was no longer easy to conjure up his face, to hear his voice, to remember the sensation of his arms around her, the way he kissed. Dan was beginning to dissolve around the edges.
Joel pulled the backpack onto Chloe’s knees and dug around until he found the beret, then sat it on her head. She held it in place as he pulled down the edges.
‘ Voilà ,’ he said. ‘That should warm you up a bit.’ He ran his eyes over the beret. ‘It looked ridiculous on me, but I gotta say, on you it’s incredibly sexy.’
‘ Merci , Monsieur,’ she said, narrowing her eyes and giving him her best French-girl pout. ‘Are you saying that as an impartial observer too?’
‘Wait,’ he said, turning his head, pricking up his ears. ‘What was that?’
‘What was what?’ She was too distracted to pay attention. But then it came again, and they both heard it. A voice … someone calling.
‘’ellooooo? ’ellooooo?’ It was some way away but getting closer.
‘The boys are back!’ said Joel.
‘Well, well,’ said Chloe, even as her heart sank. All she felt was dismay, that their adventure – this curious, magical, brief encounter – was drawing to a close.
This romantic brief encounter, just like the old movie, even though he was either: (1) gay and in denial, (2) gay but too scared to come out, (3) bisexual and in denial, or (4) straight, and in love with his fiancée, but strangely enamoured with Oscar Wilde.
If Chloe had to take a guess, she’d now go for 2 or 3, but none of the options were working in her favour. And – she mentally slapped herself – she needed to stop crushing on Joel, because her heart was still under repair and she really didn’t need a setback.
But then he said, in a low voice, ‘Chloe – I don’t want to be found. Do you want to be found?’
‘Seriously?’
‘If they find me, it’ll be a lot more booze and all the girls. It won’t be pretty. Help me out here.’
Her heart leapt, back in the game and to hell with the risk. ‘I guess we could stick to the plan? Find an exit by ourselves? The moon will light our way.’
‘You beauty,’ he said. ‘Quick – we need to scoot.’
‘’ellooo-ooo? ’ellooo-ooo?’
‘Oscar’s angel will hide us,’ he whispered, and they flitted across the path, two shadows in the moonlight, and crouched behind the playwright’s tomb.
‘Here they come,’ hissed Joel, moments later. ‘Christ, look at the state of them.’
Around the corner came the lads, not as drunk as before but still acting like school kids – nudging each other, tripping up, one making spooky ghost noises. In front of them, leading the way with a torch, was Monsieur Le Security Guard.
‘I know that guard!’ whispered Chloe.
As the search party drew level and the torch beam swept across the graves, Chloe and Joel ducked out of sight and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Chloe was reminded of the end of The Sound of Music , when Maria and the Von Trapps hide from the Nazis in the abbey.
‘The fuck’s that?’ called one of the lads, looking up at Oscar’s Egyptian sculpture.
‘Oscar Wilde, innit,’ replied another. ‘The bloke Joel’s always banging on about. Perhaps he’s here. Joel, I mean.’
They must have already been to Jim Morrison’s grave and discovered their escape.
The search party halted, and the security guard flashed his torch around some more, it’s beam sweeping past them several times. ‘Allo?’ he called. ‘Allo?’ After a little while he announced, ‘ Personne .’
‘Person?’ said one. ‘Where?’
‘ Non. Personne. Nobody. Zere is nobody ’ere.’
‘Perhaps they’re hiding.’ Chloe recognised the voice – it belonged to the guy who’d grabbed her phone. Rohan.
‘Why would they do that?’ said another. ‘Who’d want to spend the night in a graveyard, when they could be–’
‘Zey are not ’ere,’ interrupted the guard. ‘ On y va .’
‘What?’
‘We go. Your time, it is oop.’
‘Well, I dunno,’ said one of them. ‘I can’t think how he got out of that cling film and the cemetery. Like fuckin’ Houdini. That girl–’
‘Shh!’ interrupted another.
Ah, so they hadn’t let on to Monsieur le Security Guard about the hostage-taking part of the prank.
Chloe met Joel’s eye, and he grinned as the lads’ voices began to fade away. She peered round the corner of Oscar’s tomb … and let out a gasp. ‘Oh!’
The security guard had dropped a little way behind the others. He’d turned round, walking backwards, and was looking straight at her. He lifted a finger to his lips, then, in the light of the moon, she saw him smile, and point. After raising a hand in farewell, he caught up with the lads, who’d remained oblivious to it all.
‘He saw us!’ she hissed. ‘How did he know we didn’t want to be found?’
‘Maybe because we were hiding, Sherlock .’
‘Good point. How amazing of him to let us stay here. But why would he?’
They waited another minute until the cemetery was silent again, then emerged from the shadows of the tomb.
‘He pointed to something,’ said Chloe. ‘Over there. Maybe there’s an exit.’
‘No, look,’ said Joel, pointing to the side of the path, where something had been roughly scratched in a patch of dust. Going over, they saw a picture and a word.
‘What is it?’ asked Chloe.
‘A key,’ said Joel. ‘And what’s this word?’
‘That’s an N,’ said Chloe. She bent down, pulling Joel with her.
‘N, O, I, R,’ he spelled. ‘ Noir . Black.’
‘A black key?’ said Chloe. ‘A key somewhere black? I dunno; we appear to be in a Harry Potter story. Harry Potter and the … um …’
‘Philosopher’s Tombstone?’ he said, glancing over at Oscar’s grave. ‘What was his game? Why did he let the boys back in, come all this way with them, pretend he didn’t see us and then leave us a message?’
‘Probably because after half an hour with them, he knew exactly why you didn’t want to be found,’ said Chloe.
‘Good point. C’mon then, clever clogs. What does our special clue mean?’
‘Clever clogs?’
‘You’re like, wise.’ He sighed. ‘You know your own mind, and you don’t put up with shit. And you’re … understanding.’
Ah, their understanding again. Their unspoken acknowledgement of his inner conflict. And yet, in his half-sleep, he’d known exactly how to turn a woman on. What was going on with him? And her, for that matter.
‘ Noir ,’ she said, adding his words to the compliment treasure box.
Before she could think further on the clue, a shadow materialised out of the trees onto the moonlit path, a few metres ahead of them.
‘Oh, hello – it’s you again!’ said Chloe to the little black cat.
Le chat noir.
‘ Noir ,’ she said, staring at it.
‘It’s dark,’ said Joel. ‘Everything’s noir .’
‘True.’ The cat trotted off. ‘But we’ll follow it anyway.’
‘Why not?’ said Joel. ‘Normal rules clearly don’t apply.’
If only they didn’t.
‘ On y va ,’ she said, and they set off after the cat. It didn’t look back, walking quickly with its tail held high, turning down a wide lane to the left.
‘Where’s it going?’ said Joel as they hurried to keep up. ‘And why are we following it again?’
‘Not sure. Just a feeling.’
It vanished into the shadows between the graves, which were cheek by jowl here.
‘Damn, it’s gone!’ said Chloe, peering after it. ‘No, wait – there it is.’
The little cat was sitting on the effigy of a man – a dead man, lying on his back. In his hand was a top hat, and his long coat lay in deep folds around him, the shadows between them accentuated by the moonlight.
Chloe recognised him from an earlier visit. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it!’
The cat jumped down and disappeared again.
‘See ya, puss,’ said Joel. He looked at Chloe. ‘What don’t you believe?’
Chloe pointed to the name carved on the bronze plinth.
Joel bent down to read it. ‘What the fuck? Victor Noir ?’
‘How odd,’ said Chloe. ‘Why did Monsieur le Security Guard want us to visit Victor Noir? I mean, I know why a lot of people do, but …’
‘Why do they?’
Then she saw it, in the spot where le chat noir had been sitting. ‘That’s … amazing. Look!’
Joel’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘A bloody key!’
‘And a torch! Monsieur le Security Guard, je t’aime ,’ cried Chloe. He’d left them a clue, which had led them to the key, and now they’d be able to exit the cemetery without having to re-engage with the idiot boys.
There was no barrier around Victor Noir, who was pretty much a historical nonentity, Chloe remembered. A journalist who’d been killed in a duel, but who’d only remained famous after his death because of the bronze sculpture in front of them. It depicted Monsieur Noir as he’d fallen, flat on his back, arms by his sides, legs out straight. And for some reason unknown, the sculptor had given Monsieur Noir a prominent bulge in his trousers. This was now his claim to fame.
Over the years the effigy had taken on a matte, blue-green patina, with the exception of the bulge, which shone in all its bronze, oversized glory, thanks to being constantly rubbed by women. The local superstition was that doing so would help with fertility issues, or get you a husband or … hot sex.
‘Um …’
‘I know!’ said Chloe, giggling.
‘That’s a very knobbly knob. A very big knob.’
‘A very shiny one too.’
‘What going on with his knobbly knob?’
‘It’s just how it was sculpted, but now women come to rub it, for help with … things.’
He grinned. ‘That’s awesome. Does it work?’
‘I think it’s mostly to do with fertility. A bit like that chalk giant in Dorset, you know the one? Women who’re trying to get pregnant climb the hill and sit on his willy. But Monsieur Noir helps with other things too. It’s said he can improve your sex life.’
‘Chloe …’
She met his eye. ‘Let me get the key. Perhaps I’ll give him a small rub on my way.’
‘Right. I’ll have to come with you.’
‘Oh, of course. Shall we, then?’
‘ Après vous .’
They moved alongside Monsieur Noir. Someone had left a red rose by his top hat.
‘Oh, I remember,’ Chloe said. ‘There’s a ritual. Place a rose by his hat, kiss him on the lips, then rub his–’
‘–knobbly knob.’
‘Yes. Apparently some people actually straddle it, have a bit of a bounce.’
‘You should absolutely do that.’
‘Perhaps I should. I haven’t had sex in a year. Clearly I need help.’
She fed herself a line: He’s gay, or bi. And spoken for. Getting married. Very soon. We can have a laugh about this without it being awkward or suggestive.
But at the same time, she acknowledged, she was digging, probing, trying to ascertain once and for all where his inclinations lay. Why was it so important to find out? Well, she knew the answer to that.
Chloe reached across and lifted the large, wrought-iron key from Monsieur Noir’s chest.
‘A key to an old door, I’d say,’ said Joel. ‘Your secret door, probably. Now all we have to do is find that door. Pity your security guard friend didn’t leave us a clue to that as well. Give it here – I’ll hold it while you get down and dirty with your ami .’
She passed it over, and the small torch that had been left beside it, then, giggling, she lifted her left leg over the effigy, steadying herself with her free hand.
‘I’ll light your way to heaven,’ said Joel, switching on the torch and shining it on the bronze bulge. ‘ Come on baby, light his fire .’
Chloe grinned, and sat down facing Victor’s head. She leaned over and pecked him on his cold, bronze lips, then slid herself backwards onto the bump. ‘Oh la la!’ she said. ‘Monsieur Noir is ver’ happy to see me!’
Joel chuckled. ‘He’s a lucky man. Make him shine, Chloe.’
She moved backwards and forwards a few times, smiling widely.
Oh . There really was something in the air tonight. The sensations Joel had ignited on the bench quickly bubbled up again, gripping her with twice the strength. That Phil Collins song began playing in her head: I can feel it, coming …
She went still. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ Thank heavens for the darkness; her face was surely on fire. And so was her crotch.
‘Does Monsieur Noir really have special powers?’ he asked, putting down the torch and the key, holding out his hand to help her down.
‘Honest to god, I think he must have,’ she said. ‘What on earth’s going on in this cemetery tonight?’ She jumped down onto the space in front of Joel and, still clasping his hand, looked up at him. He held her gaze, and she bit her lip, attempting to hold in the words: Kiss me, Joel. Please, please kiss me.
Instead, needing to rein herself in, she said, ‘You’ll have to bring Mrs Joel here, when you’re ready to fill that new house with babies.’