Chapter 23
23
ELENA
Dawn’s lilac hues hadn’t yet lit up the morning sky as Elena stood in the kitchen, head thumping. They needed to leave in thirty minutes. For the first time in her life, she was benefiting from living near Manchester Airport. Wearing pink cords, white trainers, and a grey hoodie, Rory appeared. She handed him a mug of coffee and yawned.
‘I didn’t change to mocktails early enough last night, proved by the last thing I did, before leaving – spinning round in circles, with Gary, to “Cotton Eye Joe”.’
Rory gave a flicker of a smile in response. Dark circles hung under his eyes too. ‘I’ve researched some numbers for you,’ he said, ‘to make you more confident of our journey. Each day there are around a hundred thousand flights worldwide. In 2023 there were only two loss-of-life incidents. Compared to driving a car…’
Rory went on. Elena appreciated it, but hardly listened. Everyone knew flying was one of the safest forms of travel. However, despite this, in the last few days, she couldn’t fight off the anxiety. Bungee jumping, going on a date, eating raw fish, those things had given her a modicum of control, but flying in an aeroplane? In that situation she’d have zero means of averting a disaster, rare as such an occurrence might be. Therefore, Elena did what she’d done so many times over the years, and put on a front. She joked with the taxi driver, ate a full English breakfast at the airport, playfully battled with Rory for the window seat.
Elena did up her safety belt and took a deep breath, eyes closed as the aeroplane’s engine started. Slowly at first, they moved down the runway, then full throttle, everything shaking. Her blood rushed and thumped in her ears; the knots in her stomach were tighter than any monthly cramps; perspiration dripped under her arms, and nausea came. Oh God, what if she threw up? Forcing her eyes open, she peered out of the window, onto nothing, wishing she could join in with a baby in the row behind that was screaming. There were no fluffy white marshmallow clouds, nor Pearly Gates sparkling above, just emptiness; a desert made up of light and water vapour that wouldn’t protect her from cascading to earth should something happen. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t have a meltdown; she had Rory to consider and the other passengers. Elena would enjoy this trip to Paris.
When the sign came up to remove their safety belts, Elena gagged and covered her mouth with her hand. The cabin span for a moment before her breathing calmed. ‘Those facts you gave me really helped,’ she muttered to Rory in a weak tone, not wanting him to know how she really felt.
Fists clenched, ear buds in, she listened to coffee shop jazz. For the first time in her life, she didn’t reach for a book to save the day, even though her Kindle was in her rucksack. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate. The minutes ticked by. One by one. Her fears magnified. What if a terrorist was on the plane? The pilot might suffer a heart attack. A door might blow off. Finally, finally the engine started revving again .
A beeping warned Elena to put her belt back on. She removed her earbuds. Rory put down the in-flight magazine and took her hand. She held on tightly. Her relief that the journey was almost over proved to be short-lived. Elena had done her own research. The descent was the most dangerous part of the flight.
Please don’t let me die. I’m not ready. Not yet. These last weeks have shown me I’ve got so much life to live – I’m doing this travel, I’ve had wild times out, but there’s still that one thing left. That love thing. There could still be time for that, right? And I’ll miss Mum and Dad. My friend Rory. Gary, too. Brandy and Snap are relying on me to set up that bigger tank I’ve ordered, and Tahoor, next door, needs a shoulder to lean on.
Elena began to hyperventilate. Why, oh why, had she suggested this trip? Who cared about a stupid Sacred Heart basilica and iconic iron lattice tower and all that fancy food? Blackpool had a tower too, and Asda sold ready-made crêpes and French wine.
Her chest tightened as the smell of a baby’s filled nappy invaded her nostrils, and she swallowed. Voices caught her attention and she opened her eyes to see a flight attendant crouched by Rory’s side. He’d called her over. Elena listened as the woman instructed her on how to breathe. A colleague then brought over a glass of water and Elena took several sips. They took the glass away and returned to their seats, having told her to carry on with the breathing exercises as the plane headed down to Charles de Gaulle airport.
Rory. His voice counting numbers for me to breathe to. My eyes screw up tightly as we land. Bounce. Bounce. The plane is bound to explode! At top speed we career down the runway. We’re going to crash! There’s Rory’s voice again, soft and sympathetic. And breathe. Breathe again . It is, the aeroplane’s slowing …
The attendants saw everyone else off the plane first. They dismissed Elena’s apologies and said they’d seen it all before.
‘I felt like a right fool on that flight,’ she said to Rory as they got out of the taxi in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, outside their hotel.
He put down his bags and gave her a big hug. Elena lost herself in it for a second. It reminded her of how her parents’ cuddles used to fix her problems when she was little – until the promise. She learnt, at that tender young age, that adulting was hard.
‘How about a second breakfast?’ he said cheerily. ‘We can drop our bags off first. Didn’t the hotel manager email to say we could check them in early?’ He went inside.
Yet Elena stopped for a second, mesmerised by her surroundings. The beauty, the quaintness of Paris had struck her in the car, but seeing it through the window had been like watching a TV show. Whereas now it was undeniable. Elena Swan had flown to Paris. She had! Her spirits lifted. What an achievement! A smart woman in large sunglasses strolled past, speaking expressive French into her phone. The smell of good coffee came out of a café next door to H?tel Madame Chic. Not far away, water splashed. Elena squinted and spotted one of the many fountains she’d read about in books set in the French capital. Oh, the classic clothes, elegant, simple, and yes, she saw a beret; the ornate architecture, an iconic Métro sign; the pastry and garlic smells, the Edith Piaf song playing from a passing car; friends kissing each other on both cheeks and people-watchers sitting outside cafés; the pampered dogs in prams, their owners breaking rules like crossing at red lights… One by one the knots unravelled in her stomach and when an elderly man in a sharp suit, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, tipped his trilby in her direction, she beamed back.
Keen to drop off her rucksack and explore, not wanting to waste a second of this weekend, she hurried inside the hotel, which did not disappoint. In the reception area were two charming, upholstered chairs, with buttons and carved legs, styled like furniture from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The colours were all reds, purples, yellows, with floral designs across walls that had dark wood coving and skirting boards. Yet it wasn’t glitzy and had a worn, homely feel. French patio doors opened onto a small courtyard. The man at reception, in a black jumper with the sleeves rolled up, had short wavy grey hair and introduced himself as Jacques, the owner. He handed them a tourist leaflet and waved them off, saying to return whenever they wanted as there was a night porter. They stood outside the hotel’s honey-coloured front and took all of ten seconds to head into the café next door. Rory ordered a croissant, Elena a pain au raisin. He told her how it was also called an escargot – a snail – because of its shape.
After the first mouthful, she gave an appreciative sigh. ‘Oh my. That pastry is so very light.’
Rory slathered jam onto his croissant and offered her the first bite.
Look at me. On holiday abroad. I flew here. Now I’m eating snails – well, almost.
Elena opened the leaflet. ‘What first? Christmas shopping? Sight-seeing? A trip down the Seine in a Bateau Mouche? I want to do everything!’
Rory chuckled. ‘How about?—’
‘Actually, I’ve got it all planned.’
‘Of course you have,’ he said and rolled his eyes in a comical manner.
They caught an underground train to the Arc de Triomphe, ambled down the Champs Elysées, then continued to the Tuileries Garden, passing clusters of green chairs and military lines of trees losing their leaves. When it was dark, they would follow Tahoor’s instructions and make for the Sacré Coeur. That’s how Elena summarised the day in a text for her parents.
However, their actual time in Paris, so far, had been so much more than that. The Arc de Triomphe looked utterly majestic, lauding over the chaos below of circling cars, honking and speeding, and over the wealthy Parisians and tourists who were shopping down the Champs Elysées boulevard. Rory rubbed his hands as he relayed facts – the Arc de Triomphe had taken thirty years to build, was fifty metres tall, and a giant, three-tiered elephant was almost built on the spot instead. The two of them ambled, Parisian style, down the Champs Elysées – 1.9 kilometres long and seventy metres wide – past Dior, Guerlain, Louis Vuitton, Lacoste too, and Apple.
They had an incredible French onion soup in a fancy bistro, with melted Gruyere on top of pieces of baguette, floating on top, served by a waiter in a burgundy waistcoat and black bow tie. Christmas lights hung in the elm trees lining the boulevard. They must have looked amazing at night. Decorated fir trees stood in the shops’ glass fronts, their lights already twinkling. The two of them chattered excitedly as they walked on from the Champs Elysées down to the Tuileries Garden, a stunningly pretty Paris park, named for the tile factories that used to be there. Normally Elena would stick rigidly to her plan that, originally, had included a trip to the Eiffel Tower, straight after the Champs Elysées. However, feeling more… carefree – that was it – she allowed a diversion. They’d visit the Eiffel Tower tomorrow and instead would spend the next couple of hours enjoying the Tuileries Garden and the Christmas markets there.
She linked arms with Rory as they toured the little wooden chalets, marvelling at the North African food items, the house ornaments and jewellery, the candles, handbags and wine, breathing in spices and the smell of waffles. Elena’s parents loved experimenting with foreign cooking, and she bought them some harissa paste, spiced olives and dates. Rory found a Dashika print T-shirt for his dad, and Elena couldn’t resist a City of Lights tote bag for her mum. For Tahoor, they found a box of cardamom-flavoured chocolates. They’d also planned to take photos of the hotel and a video of the Parisian sights for him. She bought a second-hand book, which was in French, so she couldn’t read it but the embossed cover was so beautiful, so solid. It gave her comfort to think that inside, on its pages, a happier world might exist, without complications.
As the late afternoon chill set in, they sat on a park bench sipping mulled wine, or vin chaud as Elena insisted on calling it. Gratefully, she wrapped her cold fingers around the warm mug. They’d just finished eating waffles out of polystyrene containers, slathered with cream, fruit, and a coulis that was as pink as Rory’s trousers.
‘I’ve spent the last two hours speaking French to actual French people. I’ve said Merci. S’il vous pla?t. Au Revoir . They actually understood me!’
Rory clinked her glass. ‘Same here. Va te faire foutre got rid of that guy who bumped into us and jabbed his finger in my face, as if it were my fault. I’ve picked up more than I realised, from watching the occasional subtitled French series on Netflix.’
‘Now for the best bit, according to Tahoor – the view of Paris, at night, from the steps of the Sacré Coeur. It’s about thirty minutes away on the Métro.’
Rory pulled a face.
‘I know, the underground system’s stuffy, stinky, and everyone looks so miserable, but that busker was amazing. This is what I came for – the real Paris, not just a picture-postcard view. I’ve never understood people who travel abroad but then hunt out the nearest English pub. What’s the point?’
‘You’d know if you’ve ever been stuck in a Greek bar that serves nothing but Retsina. It’s infused with pine tree resin and tastes like paint remover.’
‘What were you doing over there?’
‘Cliff diving.’
‘How on earth have you fitted in so many holidays into your life?’
‘Many trips were just weekends away and I used to take a few weeks off in between jobs, when I did contract work. Might have to slow down since I’ve only got twenty-eight days off a year, now.’
Despite the cold, she blushed and waved her hand in the air. ‘This… simply shopping and walking… must seem so lame to you. All the memories you have, your experiences… I… I wish I’d done more. Maybe even taken a sabbatical.’
His brow furrowed. ‘You speak as if it’s too late.’
A muscle in her cheek twitched.
He stretched out his legs. ‘Want to know something? The many countries, the countless adrenaline rushes, the competitive banter, it’s kinda meaningless now. It’s as if I’ve been on a quest my whole life, without really realising what it is. Whereas today, we’ve strolled and taken the time to soak up Parisian life. We’ve even bought matching berets. Tahoor will love that…’ He tilted his head and shot her a sultry look. Elena couldn’t suppress a laugh. His face turned more serious. ‘I’ve also spoken to locals…’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Even if it was only to swear. We’ve shared an experience that hasn’t just been about getting off on our individual adrenaline kicks.’ He stared at the Christmas market chalets. ‘In some ways today has meant more than any other trip I’ve taken. ’
Elena wasn’t sure what to say. Still wasn’t when they sat on the underground train.
The more Rory opened up, the less she felt she knew about him.
They exited the station and stepped into the mystery of Parisian night. Elena shivered and pulled down her beret, as the faraway sound of a Peruvian flute band eerily floated through the December frostiness. A sign pointed to the Sacré Coeur and they were about to walk that way when someone tapped Elena’s shoulder.
She turned round.
Gulped.
In front of her stood a woman in a bright purple shawl, clutching a pack of tarot cards.
Elena dropped her rucksack.
‘You are English?’ said a heavily accented voice. The woman pointed to a nearby cabin. ‘Come inside. Perhaps I can tell you your fortune. I have a strong sense that you’ll want to hear what I have to say.’
The world span. The hubbub of Paris disappeared. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. Noooo. No! She closed her eyes, counted to five, opened them again, but the woman was still there. With terror etched across her face, Elena backed away.
‘Don’t be shy,’ said the woman in an ominous tone. ‘The spirits have a message for you.’
An animal-like howl shot up into the night sky. It took her a few seconds to realise that sound was coming from her own mouth.
‘ Va te faire foutre !’ Elena screamed, and without her rucksack, without Rory, she ran, ran away, in the direction of the white basilica high up in the distance.
Thirty minutes later, Elena sat out of breath, on the steps directly approaching the Sacré Coeur, body jerking, as if she were sobbing. She wasn’t – Elena was too much in shock even for tears. Her legs ached. She should have taken the funicular instead of climbing the slope to reach this point. She’d had to stop on the steps, halfway.
‘Mademoiselle?’
She turned to her right. A rough sleeper, with a straggly beard and a dog lying by his side, held out his bottle of wine. In his other hand he held a half-chewed baguette. Elena hesitated. Why not? She reached out her hand and took the wine as Rory appeared, panting. He took the bottle from her.
‘That won’t help,’ he said quietly, and handed it back to the man. ‘ Merci beaucoup ,’ Rory said. The rough sleeper shrugged and took a swig. Rory sat down next to Elena, his face pale, eyes widened. He put her rucksack on the ground, next to her. ‘That woman with the cards kept me a while. She was very persistent. In the end I just walked off. What’s going on? Come on. Tell me. These last few weeks have been so out of character. At first I reckoned you might be ill but… I sense it’s not that. You can trust me, Elena, whatever it is.’ His voice sounded urgent.
‘You wouldn’t understand.’ No one would. Not even Mum and Dad. How could they?
‘Why were you so scared of that fortune teller? Let me help. Please.’
Elena focused on the horizon beneath them. It was so very pretty, like in Tahoor’s photos, a busy stretch of glittering lights that contrasted the solemn, calm grandeur of the basilica behind them. Further up the steps, behind her, a jazz musician, busking, added a touch of magic. Elena Swan didn’t do scared. She’d gone against the whole team at work when she’d reckoned they were wrong. She’d advocated change where necessary, such as suggesting mental health sessions during the pandemic. Elena Swan was strong. She’d always had to trust in that.
‘Okay, let’s do a risk assessment of the situation,’ said Rory, ‘like I do before every extreme sport event.’ He took both her hands. ‘What’s the worst thing that can happen if you confide in me?’
‘You won’t believe me – or you will. Both are terrible outcomes.’
‘Then it makes no difference as to whether I know or not. You can’t go on like this, Elena. I mean, what’s next when we get back to England? Eating one of my pickles? It can’t get more dangerous than that.’
‘Idiot,’ she muttered, and relief filled his face as she smiled.
He’d think her an idiot if she told him about what had happened years ago.
Swaying slightly, the rough sleeper stood up, having finished the baguette. His dog trotted over and licked Elena’s hand, before its owner said bonsoir and went to go. She pulled out her purse and held out a five euro note. The man raised his eyebrows, his deeply lined face softened, and he muttered something in French, ending with the word merci .
‘Is it something to do with your thirtieth birthday?’
The man and his dog went down the steps. She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then said, ‘Yes, it’s two weeks today and… I’m probably not going to reach it.’
The colour drained from his face. ‘ Are you sick?’
She shook her head.
‘Then it’s to do with what you almost told me last week – about when you were ten?’
Elena exhaled as a young couple walked past, laughing and smoking weed by the smell of it. Further down, a group of students drank and took photos .
‘I’ll tell you a secret, from when I was ten,’ said Rory. ‘I used to creep out at night, too, and nick Dad’s ciggies to smoke in the backyard, as if smoking would make me more grown up, make me more like a mate for him – a mate I felt he needed. But he found out one night, went mad and quit on the spot. So… where did you creep out to?’
Elena bit her lip.
‘Onto that common, near your house?’ he nudged.
A longing to share her story that had lived deep inside for so many years, seeped out of the cracks in her hard exterior. Elena could no longer ignore it.
A broken biscuit still mattered, still had a purpose, could reinvent itself with a future away from the dustbin. This new product at work may only have been confectionary but its message spoke to Elena in the way she hoped it would to customers. Breaks and scars, over time, hurt so much; they changed lives, but they also made people brave and resilient.
That resilience was more important than ever now. Elena had to finally face her past – before she lost her present and future.
Voice shaking slightly, Elena started talking.