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Daniel takes one sip, then another, all the time regarding me suspiciously. “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?” He narrows his eyes. “I knew it.” He slams his hand down on the table, one of the waiters looks around from the bar. “I’ve frightened you off with all this talk about marriage. Look.” He leans across the table and takes my hand, “I’m sorry, okay, forget I ever mentioned it, we can…”
I press my fingers against his lips. “Stop it, Daniel, it’s not you. I’m just stressed out, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
He looks at me curiously for a while. “You’re not ill are you?” I shake my head. “You would tell me if there was something wrong, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, course I would.” I fork a piece of omelette and look up at him fleetingly before shovelling it into my mouth.
“I mean, if you were ill, for instance, or…” Oh, God. Oh, no. He knows. He’s worked it out. He’s such a clever man. My face tingles.
“Daniel, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Come on, we’ve only got half-an- hour, drink up.”
“Okay,” he says lightly, refilling my glass with downcast eyes. I’m sure he knows, his tempo has dropped, always a sign that he’s onto something.
* * *
Our ride back to the station is broken only by the French commentary on the radio and the blare of police sirens outside. We drive by the Apple store on Rue Halevy. I stare out of the window as the taxi driver beeps his horn and shouts in French. Ahead, the lights of Gallery Lafayette sparkle vibrantly, illuminating the city.
“Traffic jam,” moans the driver. He yawns and then scratches the back of his head all the while complaining about the traffic.
It’s rush hour and it’s taking ages to get to the station. I look at Daniel but he’s staring out of the window, deep in thought, chin resting against a clenched fist. Impatiently, the driver rolls down the window and the cool evening air washes over me. I know that I’ve spoilt Daniel’s birthday but is it really my fault that he decided to propose to me today of all days? Must I feel guilty for his spontaneity?
Away from the traffic, we cruise along the crowded streets. I can’t feel my feet. I’m exhausted and I need the loo.
At Gare du Nord, we check in and find two seats in the terminal. I ask Daniel if he’s okay and he tells me that he’s fine, that he’s just tired. “Will you look after my mac while I use the loo? It’s just there.” I point at the toilet signs.
I dash into the cubicle and bolt the door. I’ve just made it in time. I hover over the toilet bowl and tug at the loo roll, mummifying my hand with it quickly. Phew, that was close. A murmur emanates from a nearby booth followed by a woman’s voice making unpleasant straining noises as if she’s about to give birth to a 10lb baby. Within seconds, a potent stench fills the entire bathroom making me retch. Goodness, could today get any worse? Then as I reach out to press the flush I drop my gaze into the toilet. I lean over and stare down into the bowl and then, as if in slow motion, the gold Notre Dame Medal slides from my blouse pocket, bounces onto the rim of the seat before plummeting into the red-stained water with a dull plop.
I briefly close my eyes as I flush the loo, then put the seat down, collapse my tired body onto it and hold my head in my hands.
I almost choke as a build-up of tears spill from my eyes and trickle down my face, some catching into the groove of my lips. Then suddenly Nick’s words echo in my ears, “This is going to sound really weird, but you were crying on a toilet seat” I lick my salty lips and tear off some more tissue from the dispenser. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get back home.
Stumbling out of the cubicle, I gape at my reflection in the mirror. A bleary-eyed stranger stares back at me. What have I become? I was always so virtuous, so honest. My long fringe has curled against my damp forehead, my mascara smudged around my eyes. I press my lips together, the stench of stale urine makes me want to heave. I put my grubby, stained bag onto the counter and turn on the tap. Water gushes into the sink and then splashes out of the basin, making a small puddle against the pale green countertop.
There’s a click, a door unlocks, and noisy-poo woman emerges. She smiles at me briefly in the mirror as I wash my hands feeling the cold, tired, duck-egg blue walls closing in around me. How on earth did I get myself into such a goddamned mess? Six months ago I was happily planning my wedding to a man I loved with every part of me. Now I’m hovering over a sink in a public toilet in Paris looking like a smackhead.
I dry my hands and pull up the drooping sleeve of my torn blouse but it’s no use, my shoulder is poking out defiantly. I’ve got to pull myself together. I’ve been gone for almost fifteen minutes. Daniel will be wondering where I am.
I try to ignore the smell of piss by inhaling through my mouth. From the corner of my eye, I see a few more faceless women come and go. I wipe my mascara-smeared face with a damp piece of toilet tissue and then apply a splash of lip-gloss.
There. That’s better. Satisfied, I toss my lip-gloss into my bag, then as I rummage around for a clean tissue I notice a bling- adorned hand sliding towards me, depositing three Euros onto the wet counter. I slowly look up at a heavily made-up middle-aged woman with a dark bouffant staring back at me. She’s wearing a brown tweedy coat with a huge fur collar.
“Acheter quelque chose à manger,” she says softly. I follow her eyes to my soiled bag and then my torn blouse.
“Excuse me?”
“Food, food.” She gestures at her mouth. “You omless, non?” And she’s gone.
As I step out of the toilets, completely drained and depleted, Daniel is waiting for me, my coat clamped between his folded arms. He looks at me expectantly.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” he says firmly, jaw clenched.
I can’t lie anymore. “Daniel,” I blub, almost collapsing onto my knees, “I’m SO sorry. It was a moment of madness.”
40
3 weeks later - 17th December - My birthday
“Come on, open mind first.” Tina nudges me, excitedly. Oh, bloody hell, I hate opening gifts in front of the giver, especially when there’s a crowd, like today. I’m convinced I won’t show enough enthusiasm, that they’ll think I don’t like it, or, worse still, realise when I don’t! So, what I end up doing is faking glee. I paint on a smile and whoop at practically anything and everything, which, surprisingly, doesn’t always go down too well. Just the other day at work as Fearne and Stacey handed me a gift-wrapped box, I felt my knees give a little. With a fixed smile, I unwrapped it hurriedly, going red, then held the item in the palm of my hand before smothering them in grateful kisses, proclaiming my absolute adoration of it – it was just what I wanted, you must’ve read my mind.
