‘I think I might be starting to,’ he replies, his hand brushing the hair off my face, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me.
22.
FRAN
I left Ginny in the queue for Notre-Dame and hailed a taxi to Sacré Coeur, assuming that when I got there, I’d find Elsa in an obvious spot, waiting for me. But on arrival there is no sign of Elsa, and a message I send to ask where she is replies cryptically,Let instinct guide you.
Climbing the broad, shallow steps that lead to the basilica, I’m transported back to walking them with Alistair. It was the first time we’d held hands, him twirling me like Cinderella. I remember that rather than feeling awkward or new, it felt as if we’d been holding hands our entire lives.
We abandon the bikes and walk for miles from the Pompidou, through the centre of the city which throws up endless surprises: palaces, picturesque squares, late-night cafés, and characterful locals.
‘How about a drink?’ Alistair asks, when we happen upon a basement club in the heart of Montmartre.
‘Sure,’ I answer, and we head down into a tiny bar, thick with the smell of smoke and red wine. A woman sings folk songs and plays the guitar in one corner.
‘Her songs shoot straight to my heart,’ he says, once we’re seated in the corner, speaking directly into my ear.
‘I’m not getting it as much,’ I say, sipping my wine, glad for the seat and a drink if nothing else, and he laughs.
‘You’re a popularist,’ he says, into my ear again.
I smile wryly, knowing he means it as a gentle jibe.
‘Things are popular for good reason,’ I say, the side of my face almost touching his, my body alight at how good it feels to be so close to him. ‘People who like esoteric music,’ I mock softly, ‘like it to feel different or special, to feel less insecure.’
He beckons a waiter, asks for a plate of steak frites. When they arrive, Alistair tucks into the meat, and I the salty chips. A meal for one, made perfect for two.
As we sit, our bodies leaning closer and closer until we’re propped up against one another, I think of all the questions I want to ask that might lie beyond ‘no identifying features’: What made you want to become a photographer? Why is your trip one-way? Who have you left behind?
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Alistair says when the songstress has finished her set, and we leave, the fresh night air clean and cool on my face.
After we’ve walked a few streets and turned a corner, we see Sacré Coeur, illuminated against the dark sky.
Finding an unlocked gate, we follow the curve of the path to the main stairs.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, stopping to absorb the moment, the two of us alone in this sacred space.
‘Just like you,’ he smiles, and he reaches out to hold my hand. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes,’ I say, and we begin the ascent.
Halfway up he pauses, holds my hand aloft, and I twirl, like Cinderella to his Prince Charming, hoping the spell won’t break come morning.
‘Look at this,’ I say, when we reach the top – a gold-bordered, laminated bookmark, lying on the ground.
‘Finders keepers,’ he says, and we both admire it for a moment before I tuck it into the pages ofNotre-Dameand join him at the stone balustrades, looking out over the city.
‘Heaven,’ I say on an outward breath, not believing my luck, standing hand in hand with this man.
‘Nothing sweeter,’ he says, turning to me.
He places a hand gently on the back of my neck, draws my body close to his and kisses me under the Parisian moon.
My feet carry me forward, just as at the Pompidou, onward and upward towards the church which looks ghostly against the dark sky, wispy clouds floating over the moon. And then, on my arrival, my heart freezes as I make sense of what I’m seeing in front of me.
There, leaning against the stone balustrade where Alistair and I first kissed, looking out over Montmartre, is a man my heart knows instantly but my mind takes time to register. In his hand is the small cream bookmark with a golden border I’d found thirty years ago. I’d placed it between the pages ofNotre-Dameand forgotten all about it until now.
‘Alistair?’ I say, my heart beating heavily and not because of the climb.
