‘Maybe,’ I sigh.
It occurs to me that possibly the reason I’m so keen to explore my time with Alistair is because of a worry that I clung to Robin after the loss of my mother, that Robin was the closest rock at the time rather than the securest one.
We pass down a narrow street that ends with a boulangerie with dark wood and cream paint that looks as if it’s been there for two hundred years, then cross overan intersection where canopied restaurants cover pavements lined with small tables and wicker chairs.
Carly’s comment sits with me and I wonder about my fear of loss, how I hold people at arm’s length, and I question, do I do that with Robin? Am I part of his feeling unloved and trapped?
We travel along wider streets with shuttered buildings and more restaurants, eventually travelling round a roundabout and into an area that feels smarter, leading to the magnificent opera house, the Palais Garnier.
‘It’s not unusual in midlife to want to check you’ve made the right choices,’ says Elsa as we turn on to a broad, tree-lined boulevard filled with tourist buses, unaware of the memory I’m caught in. ‘Nor is it unusual to carry an old love with you through life, particularly one that didn’t end mutually or satisfactorily.’
The cobbles of the street make me think of home, and of Robin, so solid and true, of how certain I was in my choice, no one, not even Alistair, ever having given me such a strong sense of peace and home. But still, if my mother had been well, would life have played out differently?
We pass a colonnaded church, almost white against the clear blue sky, anddown an apartment-lined street, the gold dome of the Hôtel des Invalides in the distance. Suddenly we’re in the vast open space of the Place de la Concorde, the Louvre in the distance, and my mind tumbles back into memories.
‘So, I think I’ll head off,’ I say hesitantly, standing at the base of the statue to stretch, then gather my things.
‘Right,’ he replies, watching me ready myself. ‘Why don’t I walk with you for a while?’
He gets up and positions the strap of his camera bag diagonally across his chest.
‘Sure,’ I answer, and we weave our way through the other tourists, his fleece-lined denim jacket rubbing occasionally against the arm of my corduroy coat, causing a tingle of electricity to run through me.
‘What’s your plan for the rest of the day?’ he asks when we’ve found a corner by the main road, next to a small boulangerie counter, the scent of croissants and baguettes warm and inviting.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. Mum and I had planned to be spontaneous, to see what we saw then stumble on a hotel when we needed one. ‘You?’
‘No plans,’ he shrugs. ‘I’m not meeting my colleague until tomorrow, on the train to Vienna.’
He shifts the strap of his bag, redistributing the weight, and a moment hangs between us where I want to ask him to have coffee but my confidence deserts me.
‘Should we . . .?’ he begins.
I can’t tell if he means hang out or part ways.
‘Find a coffee?’ he asks.
‘I’d like that.’ I smile shyly, just as the heavens open.
‘Where shall we go?’ he asks, taking refuge in a large arched doorway and digging out a map. As he does, two tired old bikes, clearly abandoned, catch my attention. I eye them and then Alistair.
‘Coffee at the Louvre?’ he suggests, a twinkle in his eye, and the two of us grab the bikes and jump into the traffic.
‘This way!’ he hollers, and I follow him down a road thatleads to a charming bridge, with intricate metal balustrades, across the Seine, and on through a tree-filled square and a network of streets, the buildings ablaze with red geraniums on wrought-iron balconies.
‘God, that was fun!’ I laugh when we reach the Louvre, the rain passing, leaning my bike against a tree.
He laughs too, placing an arm round my shoulder and drawing me in for a squeeze, which both calms my mind and raises my heart rate. ‘It reminds me of the freedom of riding my bike as a child.’
‘Where did you grow up?’ I ask, as we walk towards the pyramid of the museum.
Alistair pauses, cocks his head to observe me, thinking something I can’t quite read.
‘How about we don’t do backstory, no identifying details, just enjoy the here and now?’
I pull back a little, my eyes narrowed.
‘Keep it light,’ he explains, his eyes full of fun, and I can’t resist.
