‘I worked in a Paris department store when I was a student, at the perfume counter,’ he answers, and I recall him mentioning how he and Flynn had known each other since university days.
‘Where did you study?’ I ask, receiving a glass of champagne and a small plate of oysters.
‘At the Sorbonne.’
‘Not in London?’ I ask, remembering Flynn said he’d studied here.
‘I met Flynn during his exchange year in Paris. We were both studying English Literature, and Flynn, French also.’
‘Like my mother,’ I say, surprised to learn that Flynn is an English graduate, lacking the usual romance of all the literary students I’ve known.
‘Really?’ he asks, tilting his head back to down an oyster.
I explain about her route to becoming a writer: English Literature degree, short publishing career, then a master’s in creative writing.
‘You weren’t interested in doing the same?’
I shake my head. ‘Too lonely for me,’ I say, thinking of all the hours Mum spent alone in her study, only to emerge lost in a world of her imagination. ‘I guess I like being with people.’
‘That’s why I chose journalism, it felt like the best of both worlds.’
‘You were smart,’ I say.
We chat for a while about my past work in kids’ literacy, our favourite books, and the merits of film adaptations, and I find myself enjoying his company.
‘My mum’s struggling at the moment,’ I say, when he’s been telling me about the book he’s been trying to write since he was a student.
‘How so?’
‘Writer’s block, lacking confidence in the quality of her writing, a slump in sales. It’s tough. She’s totally lost her romantic mojo.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ he says, his head tilted to one side, a warmth in his eyes that draws me in. ‘Particularly with the pace of the industry.’
‘You and Flynn have been friends since university?’ I ask, when he isn’t forthcoming with anything else.
At this he rests his chin between his thumb and index finger and his eyes move from me to his drink. ‘Friends?’ He considers this for a moment. ‘Perhaps “colleagues” is more accurate.’
‘But Flynn doesn’t work in journalism.’
He is just about to respond when a rumpus at the opposite corner of the bar draws our attention.
‘It looks as if Flynn has his hands full,’ laughs Nicolas when we clock Christopher Rose flailing around on a stool, Flynn physically preventing him from falling. He was much the same last night in the library: loud and pompous and clearly drunk.
‘Maybe we should offer to help,’ I suggest, spottingGinny joining them, her on one side, Flynn on the other.
‘I imagine we’d only be in the way,’ says Nicolas, necking another oyster and wiping his mouth on his napkin. ‘Come, let’s board the train. Paris awaits!’
As I wait for Nicolas to pay, Mum and Elsa arrive off the escalator, both linking arms with me immediately and ushering me towards the Eurostar.
‘Let’s find a table and sit together,’ says Elsa excitedly as we scan the carriages for Premier class.
‘Here we are,’ I say, pressing the door button and gesturing for Elsa and Mum to go ahead.
The train is simple and clean with big comfy seats and plenty of leg room, but other than that, and compared to the Scotsman, it’s functional at best. It’s not long before we’re pulling out of the station, through the suburbs of London and whizzing through the lush Kent countryside.
‘Where did you disappear to?’ Mum asks when a three-course lunch has been served.
I explain about Nicolas and the oyster bar.
