‘Keep it light,’ I repeat.
‘I could look at the moon for ever,’ I say, the two of us lying under a tree in the Jardin des Tuileries, a hot chocolate and croissant to hand, having strolled the galleries of the Louvre until our feet hurt and our bellies rumbled.
‘“Singing all the while,
in the minor mode,
Of all-conquering love and life so kind to them,
They do not seem to believe in their good fortune,
And their song mingles with the moonlight.”’
‘“Clair de Lune”,’ I say, in disbelief that a man I met randomly is now reciting Paul Verlaine to me under the Paris moon. ‘It’s the first verse that always breaks me,’ I say, recalling how it goes. ‘“And all but sad beneath their fantasy-disguises.”’
I turn my head to face him, his eyes still on the moon, examining the structure of his face. Eventually he turns to me, a new intensity in his eyes, one that makes me think he might kiss me.
‘Come on,’ I say, jumping up and offering him my hand, needing to cool the heat of the moment.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks, and I shrug, jumping on my bike and riding off ahead of him, wanting to stick to our promise of keeping things light.
‘Hurry up,’ I yell, turning to beckon him. ‘We have all of Paris to explore.’
‘Be careful not to over-romanticise this man,’ warns Elsa, pulling me out of my dream. Elsa is more aware than anyone that what makes me good at my job, my ability to create stories, often makes me hopeless at life.
‘I know,’ I say, watching the Arc de Triomphe grow closer before our driver pulls off the Champs-Élysées, opposite the Grand Palais, and into the shade of the cobbled, tree-lined street where he pulls up in front of our hotel.
‘Voilà,’ he says, stopping the meter, and we begin gathering our things.
‘What’s this?’ asks Carly, plucking a small piece of paper from the taxi floor.
‘Let me see,’ I urge when it looks as if she’s about to throw it away.
She hands it to me, and I read the information.
‘Pompidou Centre, April 1996,’ I whisper, turning the ticket over. On the back is a faint pink mark, and slowly a memory forms of me kissing the ticket before handing it to Alistair who tucked it safely away in a pocket. Now, realising it must have fallen from the pages of my book, I place it for safekeeping in a pocket of my own.
18.
CARLY
There’s nowhere I’ve been that tops the luxury of our Paris hotel, not even the Scotsman train. From the moment we arrived in the ornate red velvet and gold reception, a vase of flowers the size of my fridge in the middle of the central circular banquette, I knew I was spoiled for life.
‘How will we ever return to normal life again?’ asks Mum,Notre-Dameon her lap, as I join her and Elsa by the huge marble fireplace in the library bar, overlooking the leafy courtyard garden.
I snap a photo of the doors that open on to the terrace, and send it to Dad with the message:Why don’t we fix the French windows at the back of the shop and clean the spiral staircase to the garden so customers can read in the garden for a while, or use it for events? It wouldn’t cost much to do.
As I wait for his ellipses to turn into a message, I stare into the garden and spot the man from the Eurostar sitting alone at a table on the terrace.
Dad’s message pings through with a wide-eye emoji. Turning my phone over, I sink into a plush green upholstered chair and turn my attention to Mum and Elsa.
‘Look at all these books,’ Elsa says admiringly, scanning the beautiful leather spines set on dark polished shelves.
‘I could sit here for days,’ I smile.
‘You and me both,’ she says with a wink.
‘Excusez moi,’ says the waiter who’s arrived beside us. ‘Je peux vous amener du chocolat chaud?’
