Chapter Fourteen
When it comes to Emmett, it’s hard to feel in any way neutral. In fact, there are so many emotions when it comes to him, all jumbled and confused. But one thing has remained true this whole entire time: I’ve missed him.
And today we get to spend the day together.
I’ve even forgone the headphones.
Emmett is there already, at a little round table just outside.
Again, I’m struck by how far away from Northumberland Emmett this Paris Emmett is.
It looks like he was born to be here, not some decrepit caravan with cardboard boxes for curtains.
He’s wearing a soft grey T-shirt and dark jeans, and it’s not a combination that I am spiritually prepared for.
He stands up as I get nearer and puts down the newspaper he’s been reading. It’s in French and I’m thinking it’s going to take every ounce of my determination not to fall back in love with him by the end of breakfast.
‘Luna.’ Another smile. Those blasted teeth. ‘You look great.’
I mean, I’m happy with what I’m wearing.
I have my denim cutoffs on and a white shirt with a big collar with red and pink flowers all over it.
I love this shirt. But I don’t look neat and polished like Emmett.
I’m crumpled and messy, every inch a woman who has a small cauldron in her bedroom and is allergic to ironing.
I’m wearing so much statement jewellery that I’m weighed down by it.
It’s a good job that I’m determined that I won’t fall in love with him in Paris, because chances are that I wouldn’t be new Emmett’s type at any rate.
‘Here, sit down.’ He pulls a chair away from the table for me and I sit.
Last night felt weighty and heavy, and there’s still some of that between us this morning.
But mostly, the new day has brought a freshness too, and I’m excited.
Plus, when I checked this morning, The Art of Dying had over a hundred new followers.
I catch Emmett looking at me and tuck some hair behind my ear. Young Emmett was never still, he never stopped moving, like a ball of pent-up electricity, always ready to spark. Whereas older Emmett, he’s still all of the time. He’s assured in a way that seems so grown up.
‘There’s only a couple of things on the menu,’ he tells me. ‘But I think you’ll like what they’re offering.’
‘Okay, but remember, I’m paying.’
‘Fine.’ He smiles.
This had been agreed last night since he’d covered the cost of dinner. I hadn’t even seen how much it was, but the bill had come in a little velvet pouch, and the dramatic waiter had bowed when he presented it, so I know it was bad.
A waiter wearing skintight black jeans and a black tank top with sleeves of tattoos on his arms comes to take our order and I ask for the same as Emmett ordered. I heard croissant and chocolate so I figure I can’t go far wrong with that.
‘Where’s your hotel?’ I ask as the waiter leaves.
‘Just around the corner. It has a great pool.’
‘Wow, a pool. You’ve changed, Emmett,’ I say, looking at him over the top of my sunglasses.
‘I don’t have the things most people have to pay for. No house, no car. I help Mum and that’s about it.’
‘It’s good that she has you.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s just what you do.’
It isn’t what my family do, or did, not anyone except me and Mae, but still, I get it. It’s what you’re meant to do.
The waiter returns with a tray. It has two croissants on it and cups of what appears to be liquid chocolate.
There’s another little dish too, this one with whipped cream.
I watch, suddenly starving as he decants the cream on top of the hot chocolate.
I am here for this entire process. Excellent Paris. Best city in the world.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ I say, diving straight in. ‘Oh my god,’ I say after a sip. ‘It’s like drinking chocolate.’ It reminds me of the Dairy Milk bars I used to hide in the sun to melt and then drink.
‘It is.’ Emmett rips off a bit of croissant and dips it under the cream.
‘Yes, I’ll do that too.’ I follow suit. ‘Wow, excellent, no notes.’
I continue to proclaim just how excellent my breakfast is while Emmett watches on with a kind of bemused smirk.
‘So you come here when you aren’t being a doctor? Or are you a doctor here?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’m mostly posted abroad.’
‘To, like dangerous places?’
‘It’s not so dangerous, honestly.’
I roll my eyes.
‘What?’
‘Just stop being humble about it. You always were too humble about your brain. You should be proud of it – it’s a solid brain.’
A smile. ‘Well, when you put it like that.’
More eating. ‘No, but seriously, it’s pretty safe.’
‘What made you do it? Over like just getting a job in a hospital like normal doctors?’
He shakes his head. Okay, so he hates that idea. ‘I always wanted to travel, to get away…’
I think of young Emmett and all of his National Geographic magazines.
‘Yeah, but I thought you meant backpacking around Laos, not dodging land mines in – where did you just get back from?’
‘Somalia.’
‘Yeah, Somalia.’
‘No land mines though.’
‘Right, well, that’s good then.’
‘It is. I don’t think I’d be able to focus on work so much if I was dodging land mines the whole time.’
‘Land mines are no laughing matter, Emmett.’
‘No, I suppose they aren’t.’ He smiles. ‘I don’t know, initially, I think I just wanted to get as far away from home as I could, after uni.
I feel comfortable moving around a lot and I can relate to people living difficult lives.
Not that I grew up in a war zone, or anything like that.
Though The Edge felt like it came with proverbial landmines. ’
‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad.’
‘It really was, Luna.’
It’s strange how my memories of The Edge are those of a child. When I was younger, I was sure that The Edge was such a cool place to grow up, a fun little community. Of course, as an adult, I can see it for what it was: a pocket of poverty, tucked away on a cliff edge. Mostly, I can see that.
‘Hey, remember when that couple from plot forty-three held a swingers party in their caravan and someone called the police?’
‘The police were always at The Edge. Mae was at the party, wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah. She said she never realised that dicks could go wrinkly.’ I laugh at the memory.
A lady at the table next to ours in a perfect pink two-piece gives me a dirty look.
Emmett sees, and then he’s laughing even harder.
‘Stop it,’ I tell him. ‘You’re going to get me thrown out of Paris. And I can’t believe you just compared a war zone to Northumberland – which is lovely.’
He stills a little, more serious all of a sudden. ‘That was part of the problem, though. You always wanted to stay, and I always wanted to leave.’
Ah. It had been nice, to have a break from being sad for a while, even for a few minutes. At least I got to enjoy the hot chocolate of my dreams before it came back. Because Emmett certainly did leave. He left me, on the side of a cliff, weighed down with so much guilt it threatened to flatten me.
‘I really am sorry,’ he tells me. ‘I was young and stupid and fuck I know they’re not good excuses but it’s the truth.’
‘It’s okay, Emmett, it was a long time ago. Please stop saying sorry.’ I don’t think I can stand it.
I want to tell him that so much has happened since then – some things just as bad – no, worse – than him leaving me on that cliff’s edge. But I don’t want to go there, not on our perfect mini-break in Paris.
‘Here, let me pay, and then we can head off. We need to go to MAM remember?’
‘It’s our first stop.’
We’ve decided to go back to MAM to look at the exhibit properly.
‘Do you think Mari will tell me where the painting came from?’ I wonder out loud to Emmett.
He pauses for a second and then shrugs. ‘You could ask her. She might not even know though, if the seller used a broker.’
‘True.’ It’s probably hopeless.
I pay for our breakfast, assuming that it was a fraction of the cost of our meal last night. ‘Actually, maybe I should pay for lunch too.’
Emmett stands and fixes his sunglasses in place. He looks like he should be on a billboard some place.
When we emerge from a short subway ride, my hair is running static, and my pulse is erratic.
The steps of MAM are right in front of us, and I’m doing my level best to forget about the fact that yesterday, a whole crowd of people tried to talk to me in there.
I’ve been resisting offers of therapy for some time but do you know what, perhaps I could hypnotherapy that particular memory away.
‘Ready?’ Emmett asks. It’s quite possible that my newly formed trauma is written all over my face. Oh, and my hands are shaking. So that’s excellent.
I nod.
We take the wide white steps slowly. Emmett leans forward and says something in French to the woman with the pixie haircut behind the counter. He flashes her a smile, and she repays his efforts with a look that screams, ‘Impregnate me!’ and scuttles off.
‘She’s gone to check whether Mari, the curator, is in the office today.’
I make a hmph sound, attempting a sort of moral superiority. As if I too didn’t fall head over heels for Emmett’s smile that very first time. Well, not the first time, we were five and that would have been strange. But as soon as it was age-appropriate to be lusting after his canines, I was there.
‘What?’ he asks. But he’s smirking.
All around us, people pay and get tickets to the special exhibit on Earl in MAM; the museum is free otherwise. I still have my sunglasses in place. It’s hardly the disguise of the century but needs must.
Assured Emmett is unsettling. He doesn’t appear to need fixing anymore, that’s for sure. He’s all fixed and it’s like someone set off a myriad of tiny fireworks just under my skin. It’s reassuring, too. This is the man he was always meant to be.
It just leaves me feeling out of sorts.
Our little French pixie is back and my French might be crap by any standards but I get that saying ‘Désolée’ over and over and shaking her head isn’t good.
Emmett gestures to me and I reluctantly lift my sunglasses up. I do it by pressing on the bit behind my ear so it’s like they’re on a hinge.