I think for a moment, not wanting to say ‘temp’, not feeling able to say ‘bookseller’. ‘Book stuff,’ I answer vaguely. ‘I haven’t really found my groove yet in life.’
‘Join the club,’ he scoffs.
I cast my eyes down, hoping he’ll give up and turn around, that the queue will move forward.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he says, in a way that suggests he’s doubtful, that even if I do it might not change anything.
‘Thanks. Think I might give up on this,’ I say, indicating the queue, which shows no signs of moving, and I sneak away, back to Elsa and Mum.
The train arrives at the Gare du Nord and we file down the aisle towards the exit, my stomach doingtiny somersaults in anticipation of what might lie ahead. Despite the hustle of the busy platform, and a soft, yeasty aroma filling my senses, my head is awash with questions about my relationship with intimacy, and I wonder if Paris might hold some answers.
In front of me, by the door, Frank is holding his case and cane, accompanied by Marleen. As the door slides open, Chris Rose pushes past me and trips, falling against Marleen who then stumbles against Frank. Before I can do anything, Frank and his cane tumble to the platform floor and land in a painful heap.
‘Oh my God,’ I utter, stepping over Chris Rose, Marleen secure by the door, and jumping on to the platform.
‘What happened?’ asks Flynn, appearing by my side, concern etched on his face.
‘I’m fine, just a silly old buzzard,’ blusters Frank, hauling himself into a sitting position and trying to pull himself up none too confidently. Flynn and I crouch behind him to ensure he doesn’t topple again, my bare arm brushing against the fine wool of his jacket causing my hairs to stand on end.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I say, a helpful station worker appearing with a wheelchair.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ says Flynn, looking down the platform, where Chris Rose is rushing through the barriers, and out towards the centre of Paris.
17.
FRAN
With Frank settled in the wheelchair, Elsa by his side, and Carly and Flynn going on ahead, I’m quietly thankful for the distraction; it gives me a moment to gather my thoughts on the platform.
The last time I stepped off the train in Paris was thirty years ago, and rather than feeling long ago or like yesterday, it feels more as if I’ve been time-travelled back to the day itself. I remember vividly the heavy aroma of city air mingled with warm baguettes and croissants. And I remember too, the feeling of uneasy excitement of visiting a new place alone.
‘Mum, hurry up!’ Carly calls from the barriers, pulling me back to the here and now, and I realise I’ve not moved from where Frank fell.
‘Coming,’ I reply, gathering myself,Notre-Dameshoved under my arm.
‘Are youOK?’ Carly asks when I reach them.
‘Absolutely,’ I beam, trying desperately to be fine, tobe in this moment, as Elsa taught me, in the excitement of Paris today rather than Paris of the past.
We follow Flynn, who’s up ahead with Frank and Elsa and another man whom I haven’t seen before but whose gait is strangely familiar. I try to watch him but he’s quickly swallowed by the crowd, and by the time I reach the taxi rank, where the rest of the passengers have gathered, I’ve lost sight of him completely. As we wait under the glass awning, I gaze at the imposing limestone building opposite with its intricate wrap-around iron balcony and twelve-foot wooden doors.
Staring into the middle distance, my thoughts take me back to this morning, to Alistair’s flat, where he must have waited for my postcard that never came. What would I have done if he’d answered the door, what would I have said? I feel foolish and disloyal for putting myself in the situation. But still, if I’m honest, I’m curious about who Alistair might have become. Would he be just the same, or changed by the years, and would the spark between us still exist?
‘Where are your thoughts?’ Elsa asks once we’re settled in the back of the taxi, and I’ve stowedNotre-Dameaway in my bag.
‘I’m questioning my motives for being here, ’ I say, the taxi setting off through the centre of Paris.
‘Sometimes we just have to follow our instinct,’ says Elsa.
I nod even though I’m not quite sure that’s all there is to it. Up until a week ago I was confident in my marriage, and yes, I’ve thought of Alistair overthe years, and wondered about how his life turned out and how we might have been together if I’d pursued the relationship. I’ve remembered fondly our time together whenever Paris came up, but in no way have I felt the need to retrace our journey or to go to his front door. Part of me wishes the book never turned up, that Robin hadn’t acted as he did; the other part feels it was destined, a gateway, but to where, I don’t know.
‘Rue de Maubeuge,’ says Carly as we turn left at a busy hexagonal intersection. Limestone apartment buildings face each other, a beautiful balcony at every window, bicycles and mopeds meander past everyday shops, and the occasional café spills on to the pavement.
‘Maybe you’re exploring something else,’ says Carly with a shrug, her gaze still out of the cab window.
‘Like what?’ I ask, her perceptiveness never failing to impress me, her generation’s emotional intelligence far ahead of my own.
‘Like what you said on the train, how losing your mum so young coloured you and therefore me. Maybe it’s more to do with that?’
