Chapter 26
26
RORY
Rory sat perched on the edge of the bed. He and Elena had adjoining rooms, and they’d left the door open so that they could shout through and talk. However, they’d hardly said a word on the way back to the hotel and Elena had gone straight to bed, wanting to read a book. Rory understood. After the distressing confrontation with that fortune teller, after reliving the past, she must have been exhausted.
A grunt came through the adjoining door – Elena was clearly asleep. He felt wide awake and hadn’t even got undressed yet. Rory studied his surroundings, focusing on the details, hoping it would stop his mind racing. The bedcover was decadent, velvet and burgundy, and it matched the heavy curtains. The oak furniture had carved legs and on the opposite side of the room was a drop-front desk with a floral, ceramic plaque on the front. On top of it was a bowl of pot pourri, spicing up the room with its heavy floral scent. A large mirror dominated the wall above the desk, its gilt frame glinting in the dim light. Next to the entrance door to his room, on the left, hung an oil painting of Montmartre, with artists sitting in front of easels and people nearby, outside bars, drinking red wine. The phone to call down to reception was an antique black candlestick one.
He stood up. It was no good. Rory couldn’t get Elena’s childhood story out of his head. It erased the beautiful images that should have been there, like the magical skyline of Paris or the latte art in the café they’d visited tonight. Each of their drinks had a chocolate sprinkling of a balloon on top, in the shape of a heart. Despite their fervent denial, the server thought they were a couple, as did the tired-looking woman who came in off the street, intent on selling Rory a red rose to give to Elena. Elena had blushed and, on impulse, he’d bought the flower. No, instead of all that, Rory only saw, in his head, a little girl in Disney pyjamas, out in the woods, scared, on her own, promising away her life, in exchange for her mum’s.
A ball of fire sparked in his stomach. How could the fortune teller have let a child make such a deal? How cruel to let young Elena – older Elena, too – believe she only had two more decades to live? Yet then see that child home safely? It didn’t add up.
He picked up his journal and phone and headed down the winding staircase to the reception. The owner, Jacques, was handing over to the night porter. It was one in the morning.
‘ Bonsoir ,’ said Rory, and he attempted a smile. ‘Any chance the bar is still open?’
The night porter shook his head, but Jacques studied his guest. ‘ Oui . I was just heading that way myself. One last glass before bed?’
Rory followed him to the left of reception and into the dining area, next to the glassed-off courtyard. Rory tapped into his phone. Let the research begin. So… Fortune tellers were different from psychics in that they might tell you what could happen in the future, or if luck was heading your way, whereas psychics mi ght also tell you why. Mediums were not the same either, as they used a person’s spiritual energy to predict events. Some so-called fortune tellers simply used their skills to help you reflect on your life and understand it, not proclaiming to know what was coming your way. Rory scrolled further… Crystal balls, palms, dreams, tea leaves, cards… He rubbed his head. Elena was one of the most grounded people he knew, so if she genuinely still believed her life was under threat, twenty years on from her mum’s accident, then there was no way he’d dismiss her story outright. However, sometimes there was what looked like concrete evidence for the wildest theories. Like the supposed Illuminati existing and being linked to government organisations. If you spelled illuminati backwards and put it into a search engine, the result was quite, well, illuminating.
Rory rubbed his head again as Jacques brought over two small glasses, a spirit bottle and a carafe of water.
‘May I, monsieur?’ he asked and pointed to the seat opposite.
‘Please. Call me Rory.’ He tossed down his phone.
‘You can’t come to France and not have Pastis.’ He poured the spirit into the two glasses and when he topped them up with water, the liquid turned white.
Rory raised a glass in the air. ‘Cheers.’
‘ Santé ,’ said Jacques and took a mouthful.
Aniseed? Rory hadn’t tasted that since he was a child. He coughed. ‘Um, very nice.’
Jacques bellowed with laughter. ‘It grows on you.’ He yawned. ‘You can’t sleep? Is there anything else your room needs? An extra blanket perhaps?’
‘Got any tranquilisers?’ He took another glug. Jacques topped up both their glasses.
‘You are in marvellous Paris with… may I say it… a beautiful woman. What is the matter, my friend? You are on holiday, non ? ’
Rory nodded.
‘Affairs of the heart? I see you’ve booked two rooms. Perhaps you wish for more than friendship? Are you secretly amoureux de …’
Rory looked confused.
‘I mean… in love with her?’ Jacques said.
‘No!’ he said. This Jacques was worse than Tahoor.
The man gave a chuckle. ‘You have to excuse me. My wife is always telling me off for being too outspoken.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Twenty-nine years. We met at the student protests, in the mid-eighties, never imagining we would one day be upstanding hotel owners, with responsibilities and a reputation to keep. We were going to change the world back then.’ He shook his head in an affectionate manner, as if sitting opposite himself and his wife all that time ago. ‘Are you in love, mon gars ? Someone else back home has attracted your attention?’
‘Not at all. I don’t think I ever have been.’
Jacques’ eyes bulged and he put down his glass, loosened his shirt and rolled up his sleeves further. He leant forwards. ‘Impossible.’
‘Of course you’d say that. You’re French,’ said Rory, a twinkle in his eye. Jacques hesitated and then burst out laughing again, a friendly roll of humour that filled the room.
‘ Bon , of course, and you English eat cucumber sandwiches with the King,’ he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Never in love? Are you sure?’
‘Well, how do you know?’
‘That is like asking how do I know how to breathe? It’s not something you consciously think about, and that’s the point. You simply wake up one day and realise how much this person has become part of your life, that they are in your mind every day, every hour; their problems, their successes, their amazing qualities, flaws, the mysterious parts of them… You accept it all, as you accept yourself. The person you are in love with is like… home. They are your secure place. Your happy refuge. Your escape from the world.’ He raised his hands in the air. ‘For me, home is not a building, it’s not a town… it’s a person who makes you feel you are exactly where you should be, when you are together.’ He raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Rory shrugged. ‘It hit me, one day, when we went to the Eiffel Tower. We stood underneath, eating ice cream, and Michelle was so keen to go up to its top. Neither of us ever had before and I’m afraid of heights. But then and there, looking at her excited face, the mouth that kissed me so gently, but was equally forceful shouting at rallies, the fiery, intelligent eyes… I’d do anything to make her happy, to keep her safe. I knew her happiness and safety came before mine. I’d never felt like that about anyone before.’
‘You went up the tower?’ asked Rory, sitting up straighter now.
‘Scariest day of my life.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not that she ever knew that.’
‘But what about hearts and flowers, a fanfare of music, candlelit moments, fireworks and Cupid with his bow…?’
‘Mere frivolous decorations to what really matters. Although there was a song I found myself singing, ever since I met her. “Venus” by an English group, Banana… Bananarama. It was released by them in the mid-eighties and the lyrics resonated. We were in a bar, after the demo where I first met her, with a crowd of people, and it came on and we all sang along. Ever since that night, now and then, I’ve sung it when alone. Michelle is my Venus – was from that first moment. My goddess of love.’ Jacques knocked back his drink and got to his feet. ‘ Bon , I am rambling. Pastis always loosens my tongue. I would be no match as a spy for your British James Bond.’ He pushed over the bottle. ‘On the house. Sleep well, mon ami .’ Jacques held out his hand and Rory shook it, hardly able to move, acting as if on automatic. Eventually, he reached for another Pastis. Then another.
Sunday 8th December
With the help of 4 glasses of Pastis – Jacques is wrong: it does not grow on you and now my mouth tastes of moth balls – and after 1 hour of examining the evidence, until 2.30a.m., I crawl into bed and for the 100th time, mull over everything Jacques said.
Elena has… let me see… at least 6 outstanding qualities! She is hardworking, funny, kind, generous, intelligent, and has incredible taste in silk dressing gowns.
3 outstanding flaws – she doesn’t reach out for help enough, plays ‘gentle jazz’ (aka KILL ME NOW music) and doesn’t like pickles.
Also, she carries 1 big mystery – where does she disappear to, upstairs in the house?
1st epiphany – I would do anything to make her happy. Even eat pineapple on pizza.
2nd epiphany – I would do anything to keep her safe. Like finding an answer to what happened that night, in the woods, in 2004.
3rd epiphany. Oh God. I even have a song. ‘Ocean Eyes’. I’ve sung it every night since working at Bingley Biscuits. On the very first day of my first contract, Elena’s eyes struck me as being so very much like the ocean, clear and blue… and yet, when I peered in, when she was earnestly talking, I saw trouble and sadness – as if a shipwreck were hidden in the depths, hiding a tragic story; a shipwreck that also held the most precious treasure .
4th epiphany. A sense of home. I’ve felt that ever since we’ve worked together. I didn’t know that’s what it was, but now I recognise it. With Elena, wherever we are, I feel enveloped in a warm, safe feeling that I won’t be made fun of – unless I deserve it! – or hurt; that… yes, Jacques is right… that I’m where I should be. I look forward to seeing her every morning. It makes me feel as if the day will be okay, or that if it isn’t, no matter, I’ve got Elena to laugh or cry or talk things over with. I don’t think I appreciated this before the last few weeks. Like the time I found out, whilst at work, that Dad’s cousin, Tasha, had passed. It was at the beginning of the summer. She was close to him and Uncle Tony, being an only child and living near them when she was little. Tasha loved Mum too and was thrilled to have a woman near her own age in the family, and they became the best of friends. I knew Tasha was ill but she’d always been so tough over the years, telling me other children were saps for teasing me for having no mum; pushing Dad into dating several years after Mum had gone, saying Linda wouldn’t want to see him on his own. The tears ran down my face at my desk in the office and I wiped them away as discreetly as I could. Tasha had told me stories about my mum when it was too raw for Dad, like how Mum had asked for a swimming with sharks experience for her twenty-fifth birthday and my dad bought her a session at the local aquarium. My grandparents went to watch and she said it was her happiest day ever, third to getting married and having me. Tasha had teased her, saying anyone with any sense would have just asked for a spa weekend. Elena came over to my desk – the only person who had spotted my upset. She put a hand on my shoulder. She didn’t do any of that stuff like starting sentences with at least, or going on about how Tasha was no longer suffering. Elena simply said she was ther e if I needed to talk and then fetched us coffees, and the world began to feel okay again.
And breathe… But I can’t; my chest’s bursting with the 1 big conclusion from all of this. HOLY CRAP, JACQUES, HOLY PASTIS! Is Rory Bunker in love, for the 1st time ever, and with the most unlikely person?
No. No way. It doesn’t add up, on paper. Gather the statistics and there would be too many differences… right? Yet you only have to look at science to see how opposite charges attract…
Rory tossed down his journal and held his head in his hands, worried that if he didn’t physically hold his skull together, it would explode. There was no denying it. Rory was in charming Paris, with its cobbled streets and twinkling lights, with its buskers and mime artists, and he was … Rory Bunker was amoureux d’Elena Swan .
The way her nose twitched before she laughed, those exquisite ocean eyes that rippled with every emotion; that intense look on her face, at work, when she was putting together a pitch, full of know-how; the way her blonde hair bounced up and down when she talked excitedly about her ideas for marketing the latest product; how Elena chatted when she thought no one was listening to Brandy and Snap, gently, respectfully, acknowledging the sentience in them; her eyebrows that said more than a million words if she was upset, excited, or thought him to be an idiot. Rory grinned to himself. Like every time he made her do the Good Times Dance. As for those lips that stood for no nonsense, that could be so sympathetic, lips he longed to kiss, and that laugh that lifted the day, like the catchiest Top Ten hit, and the curvy waist, those long legs and… The thoughts and emotions that he’d harboured for so long, wi thout understanding them for what they were, overwhelmed him. Now it made sense why such primeval pain had cut through his body at the sight of the firework in her chest, and why he’d not hesitated about pulling her to safety in the pool, even though the diver could have hit him with full force. It explained why this job at Bingley Biscuits had felt like no other – like sun on a cold day, summer holidays, like Friday afternoons, and freshly baked cookies, and not just because the company made biscuits! His sport-loving friends hadn’t been able understand why he’d given up the freedom of contracting to sign permanently with one company. Rory hadn’t been able to give them a good reason.
But now he understood. It was because of her.
He punched the duvet. However right this felt, it was wrong. Elena must never know. He couldn’t risk ruining their friendship. Right now, above everything else, Elena needed a good mate. Opening up would make her embarrassed. There was no way his feelings would be reciprocated. She’d laugh at the idea of them being a couple, just as much as Gary or any of their colleagues would.
Rory lay on his front and put his pillow over his head. Elena was like no person he’d ever met. Independent, strong, determined… and yet troubled by a secret in a way that went against the everyday logic and reason that had always flowed, in such large volumes, through her veins. He’d taken her at face value this last year, until her behaviour changed, and he moved in, and until she’d told him about her past.
He’d loved her before, when he’d only seen her surface.
Now he loved her even more.
Oh, the irony. Oh, the bad timing. Elena was a woman he’d waited his whole life for – a woman who believed, with every fibre of her being, that she’d be dead by Christmas.