Chapter 27
27
ELENA
Giving off a buttery aroma, the croissant melted in her mouth, like no pastry she’d eaten in England. The coffee was smooth and rich, comforting. With her bobbed hair scraped back in a short ponytail, Elena sat opposite Rory in the hotel’s restaurant. He seemed quite chummy with the owner, Jacques, who’d insisted they were welcome to leave their bags there all day and pick them up before going to the airport.
‘Bit of a bromance going on there,’ she said and reached for more jam.
‘Far safer falling in love with someone you aren’t attracted to,’ Rory replied.
For some reason his smile didn’t seem as if it came from the heart. Perhaps he really wanted a relationship with Izzy, his mountain-biking friend, the one he had casual dates with. Although he hadn’t talked about her for a while now. Discomfort rose within Elena’s chest at the idea of the two of them getting close, however unlikely that might be.
‘I’ve planned out today but is there anything you’d especially like to see?’ she asked and wiped crumbs from around her mouth.
‘I wanted to say, first… do you want to talk any more about last night? Or would you rather I didn’t mention the fortune teller, or any of that, until we’re back in England? What I mean is… I’m here… as a mate…’ His cheeks flushed.
He really had become the best friend ever. All the more reason to keep her emotions – and desires – to herself. How she’d love to spend the day ambling through the sparkling, Christmassy boulevards, her arm snugly around his waist, leaning in every now and again for a kiss underneath the striking architecture and gaze of approving Parisians, the tension building as they held hands on the plane, then the rush for the bedroom as soon as they put the key in her front door, back in Cariswell…
Cut! No point playing that movie, even if it was make-believe. ‘No. I’m okay. Thanks. Let’s just have fun today.’
He put down his cup. ‘I did have something planned – for you – but it doesn’t seem appropriate now. You organise things so well, it’s better we follow your schedule.’
He had? A sizzling sensation shot across her chest. Previous boyfriends bought her flowers and chocolates, but rarely surprised her with holidays or days out. Yet who could blame them? She’d always kept partners at a distance, not physically but when it came to sharing desires for a future together because a voice, at the back of her mind, would tell Elena not to promise boyfriends something she might never be able to deliver.
Rory was different from the first day he walked into the office. He’d picked up a rose gold pearl bracelet from her desk tidy, half-hidden amongst a pile of safety pins. Elena had bought it on a whim at the local market, but it didn’t feel like her. He’d slipped it on his wrist and said it was cool. Jokingly, she’d told him to keep it. He gave the thumbs up and wore it for the rest of the day. Quickly she’d worked out that Rory was truly authentic and didn’t care what other people thought of him – a rare beast in a profession where the focus was on image and projection. Working on products had always made Elena conscious of the look she projected. A sensible, down-to-earth one, she hoped. Meeting the fortune teller, and making that promise, had been a real event. However, she’d experienced a sense of shame, over the years, at what others might think if they knew she believed such a preposterous-sounding thing. This had made her determined not to be considered remotely frivolous or flighty.
‘What was your idea?’ she asked.
He broke eye contact. ‘Nothing. Honestly. I’m sure yours are far better.’
‘Rory Bunker! Don’t make me lob this croissant at your ear.’
‘It’s boomerang shaped, would only come back.’ He gave one of those lopsided smiles of his, and like the butter on the dish in front of her, Elena’s heart melted, just a little. ‘Okay. To visit the famous Père Lachaise cemetery. It’s iconic.’ His speech sped up. ‘It’s one hundred and ten acres big and it has three and a half million visitors a year, with eight hundred bodies buried there. I thought you’d like it because we’d visit the graves of some fantastic writers, like Oscar Wilde, Proust, and Molière.’
She loved the slant of his mouth, the flame in his eyes when he teased, the lanky build on which clothes hung so well, the strong hands that suited fancy rings. But most of all, she loved Rory’s way – his thoughtfulness, that kind nature, like choosing a place to visit specifically to do with her interest in reading, when he could have chosen a fashion museum, to suit him. He’d missed a much-awaited concert once to go out for a drink with Gary, who’d had a bad argument with his husband.
‘The cemetery has monuments, a chapel, and an ossuary… If bu rial plots are not renewed then the remains are bagged up and stored there whilst the plot is leased out to someone else.’ Rory cleared his throat. ‘Sorry… is this too much, in the light of your looming birthday and?—’
‘No!’ Her eyes shone. ‘Oscar Wilde? I love his novel De Profundis . He was banned from writing stories during his spell in jail but was allowed to write letters – so he wrote this fifty thousand-word one!’ It was addressed to his former lover and reading it always gave Elena equal pain and pleasure, never having experienced such a romantic attachment herself… Not until now – if that’s what this thing with Rory was, this compulsion to be with him, desire to touch him.
They left their bags at the hotel. Jacques winked at Rory before waving them off. A wintry bite still nipped the air by the time they reached Père Lachaise. No matter; they both wore their berets and thick scarves. Rory wore bell bottom jeans and his blue and pink, tie dye padded anorak. Maps in hands, they walked up and down the cobblestone lanes, with towering trees either side, in awe of the well-tended tombs and busts and carvings. Rory had done his research and said broken columns commemorated people who’d died before twenty or suffered a violent death. They got lost twice and followed a crowd to find Oscar Wilde’s tomb, outstanding with its Egyptian vibe. Elena linked her arm with Rory’s, only to keep warm, she reassured him, as they came to Marcel Marceau’s grave. Apparently he’d taught Michael Jackson to moonwalk. She had to take a photo for her dad.
The cemetery smelled of woody oils emanating from the trees, of dewy grass and lattes carried by tourists in takeaway cups. Elena took sideways glances at Rory as they headed for Proust’s memorial, and he reeled off more facts. What a zest for life her colleague had. Gary jokingly called him a fun fact nerd once, knowing Rory wouldn’t care. That banter fuelled their friendship and there was no denying, anyway, that Gary found Rory’s revelations fascinating, such as how, before rubbers were invented, stale bread was used as erasers.
Proust’s black marble tombstone was more understated than Wilde’s, apart from the red heart-shaped bauble topped with fake snow that someone had laid on it. Rory looked up from his phone. ‘Proust wrote a novel called Remembrance of Things Past – the longest novel in the world, with a word count of almost 1.3 million. One of its sentences contains nine hundred and fifty-eight words. Would you like me to buy it for your birthday?’ he joked. ‘I mean…’ His face dropped.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly.
They carried on walking and came to a bench. She tugged his sleeve and they sat down. ‘I mean it. It is okay… Somehow, finally saying out loud, to another person, what happened all those years ago has made me… less afraid. So you can mention my birthday.’ Elena couldn’t help leaning forwards and kissing him on the cheek. A swift recovery followed and she pushed his shoulder. ‘Thanks matey, for being there for me.’
A glint in his eyes died with her words. He must have come up with another joke and decided against it.
‘In that case, I’ve got a proposition for you,’ he said. ‘Neither of us can predict what is going to happen on your birthday. Therefore, why don’t we make plans to celebrate it, regardless? Throw a party at your house? Invite Tahoor, your parents, Gary and Diego and…’
‘Are you mad? What if something bad were to happen? I don’t want to traumatise the people I care about most.’
Rory kicked a small stone with the heel of his cowboy boot. ‘ What I admire most about you, Elena, is that you never give up. At work you sink your teeth into a pitch and won’t let go until you’ve got your point across. The Elena I know isn’t just going to sit and wait for her birthday, kowtowing to the prophecy that’s lurked in her life for so long. We’ve got just under two weeks to find answers – and to plan you the best party ever. To hell with the what ifs , to hell with the a deal is a deal . The worst thing that can happen is that you give up. Your mum wouldn’t want that. Nor would the ten-year-old girl who did everything she could to save her. Despite fearing what might lay ahead, that girl made the most of every day, every year, every opportunity, and got you to this point. You owe it to her to fight this, Elena. You and I, we’re going to find that fortune teller and get some answers.’
Elena sat up rigid, straight, solid, as if her bones were made of iron instead of calcium.
She lifted her chin. He was right.
‘Okay. You’re on,’ she beamed. ‘Why don’t we get something to eat and plan the food for my birthday meal? I’ll draw up a list of guests. Perhaps we’ll play party games.’ Weirdly, she was more excited for this potentially last birthday than any from previous years, those having always felt like a countdown. ‘We also need to discuss Brandy and Snap. That bigger tank is arriving this week. Could you message Julian and ask about the best accessories and…’
Suddenly the world seemed full of possibilities.
The cemetery was so peaceful, with birdsong providing the soundtrack to the excited noise of tourists and cameras clicking. In Père Lachaise, death was something to be celebrated, in terms of the lives of people buried there. She stared at a small opal ring on her middle finger. It had belonged to her gran. Elena also needed to write a plan for how she wanted to be buried. She’d want a non-religious funeral and someone to read a wonderful poem she’d once read about the dead person being a ship disappearing on a horizon, with mourners waving goodbye, whilst people, out of sight, far away, on the other side, excitedly waved hello. As for the music… ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ by Eva Cassidy. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz had been a favourite read as a child. Dad used to do a brilliant impression of the scarecrow.
A sense of calm filled her. A sense of taking control. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
‘Elena, what’s wrong?’ asked Rory, face crumpled with concern.
‘Nothing, they’re happy tears. It’s so good to plan as if I’m mistress of my own destiny – for the very first time.’ She wiped her eyes. They both leaned close. Closer still. Ba boom, ba boom, her heart thumped and she became hyper-focused on his lips. Hers parted slightly as their eyes met and?—
‘ Monsieur ?’
Elena pulled away. They both looked up at a sylphlike young woman with bright red lipstick. Her raven hair was styled in a chic pixie cut and she wore a black trench coat, with a Chanel scarf and a patent crossbody bag. She smelt of expensive perfume and dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out with her heel.
‘ Bonjour monsieur ,’ the woman said, ignoring Elena. ‘ Je m’appelle ?—’
‘Um… désolé … sorry… but I am Anglais ,’ he said and stood up.
‘English?’ She looked him up and down. ‘I am surprised. You are so stylish. But of course. That is why you have a… different vibe about you. Love your look. Fantastic jacket. Great cheekbones.’
‘Pardon?’ He looked puzzled.
‘But I am being rude.’ She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Nicole Moreau. You live here? ’
‘No. Gets a bit busy at nights – you know, all those wandering souls. Although Jim Morrison is wild to hang out with.’
She hesitated and then laughter pealed across the cemetery. The woman took him by the elbow and guided him a couple of metres away and talked in an animated fashion. Rory shot Elena a look and then became more animated too. He touched this Nicole’s arm, cackling really loudly at something she said. It didn’t sound natural. Yet they’d really seemed to hit it off. And why wouldn’t they? Both were gorgeous. Both had their whole lives stretching ahead of them. Thank goodness that woman had come along and saved Elena from the embarrassment of having kissed Rory. He would have been horrified. Perhaps she was an artist and wanted to paint him. The woman had been impressed with Rory’s appearance.
Understandable.
Elena busied herself, studying the map. When she looked up, they seemed to be saying goodbye. The woman pressed what appeared to be a business card into his hand and kissed him on both cheeks.
Rory walked over to Elena in a daze. She felt sick. Nicole must have really made an impression.
‘What was that about?’ she asked in as disinterested a voice as possible.
‘Don’t laugh.’
She forgot Nicole for one moment and immediately wanted to chuckle. Elena reached out her hand and pulled him onto the bench.
‘She’s a model scout. Says I’ve got a really fresh look. Her agency has a client with a big show coming up. A designer who puts a bold twist on classic pieces. She says I’d be perfect and such exposure would quickly lead to me getting other assignments. Nicole wants me to email her some photos. Says my frame, my face, both are perfect.’
Elena took the card. Dubois Agency. She googled it and checked out the contact email address. The logo matched. It looked like this woman was kosher.
‘You aren’t laughing?’ he said, and a bemused grin spread across his face. ‘Wait until Gary finds out. He’ll never be able to call me a nerd again.’
‘But this is great, Rory. Doesn’t surprise me. True style is about uniqueness, right? I’ve always seen that in you. Of course you were going to be spotted in Paris.’
‘It’s bonkers! I’m Rory Bunker, the solid statistics guy, the common sense Mancunian through and through.’
‘Exactly. These models can earn thousands. What could be more common sense than enjoying the ride for a few years and building up savings? Aren’t you in the least bit tempted?’
‘I have a career.’
‘One you could always come back to.’
‘No. It’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t even know how to walk.’ He stood up and strutted up and down, as if the cobblestone path was a runway and the tombs the audience. He had no idea how natural, how sexy he looked, oozing pure confidence. ‘In any event, the show is on the twenty-first of December and I have a prior, very important, engagement.’
‘It’s only a birthday party.’
‘It’s much more than that,’ he said, and those chestnut eyes looked firmly at her. ‘And I don’t know if modelling would make me feel as valued and inspired as my job in marketing.’
‘Nicole was nice. You should keep in touch with her, at least. You two looked good together.’
Rory stared at her with an unfathomable expression that disappeared quickly. ‘She was pretty cool. Smart too, she spoke brilliant English. I suppose it’s not that far, to hop over the Channel, if I want to take her out for dinner. I did scoot over to Calais for kitesurfing once.’
Elena forced a smile. Thank God she hadn’t made a move on Rory. He had clearly been immediately taken with the stylish French woman.