‘Carly,’ she says in the tone she always uses when I’m not keeping up. ‘I’m not asking you to psychoanalyse him, I’m asking you a very simple question: do you fancy him?’
Arriving on the other side of the river and turning on to a small path, the trees shimmering in the moonlight, I answer, ‘Maybe,’ but quickly follow that up with, ‘but he’s completely wrong for me – he’s wooden and awkward and takes himself way too seriously.’
‘People think you’re aloof, but you’re not. Maybe he isn’t what he seems either.’ She pauses. ‘Everyone has a story.’
‘I suppose,’ I reply, slightly vexed by her point; mywalk with Flynn was lovely, and in small ways revealing, and wouldn’t have ended the way it did if there wasn’t something there between us.
‘Let’s imagine for a moment that he’s not your boss, that he’s the romantic you’ve always dreamed of, and ticks every quality on your wish list. What then? Then would you like him?’
‘I guess so,’ I say, more as a question than a fact, remembering how he was back in Edinburgh, the hint of a romantic at Shakespeare and Company, and how at ease he seems when surrounded by books.
‘You guess so?’
‘OK. Fine. Yes,’ I cave. ‘If he had nothing to do with work, and was a blissed-out, dependable romantic, then yes, then I would like him. But he’s not, he’s disappointingly conventional, so there’s no point in even thinking about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because none of those things are going to change.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she sings, annoyingly optimistic. ‘You don’t know what lies beneath that cold exterior!’
‘Jude, come on, let’s stick to reality.’
‘Nothing stays the same for ever, Carly.’
‘Some things definitely stay the same,’ I retort.
‘Nuh-uh,’ she says. I can almost see her wagging her finger at me. ‘Not even your fear of getting close to someone.’
‘Enough!’ I say, sort of laughing, sort of not. ‘I need to go; I have to negotiate this intersection.’
‘Yes, you do,’ she says, and I know perfectly well she’s not talking about the traffic.
I settle myself at the bar, asking for a hard kombucha rather than my normal non-alcoholic option, and sit, deep in thought, peeling the label of the cold bottle.
‘Is anyone sitting here?’ asks a voice.
I turn to find the woman from the library standing next to me.
‘Ah, no,’ I stumble, immediately thinking of the near-kiss with Flynn.
I attempt to tidy my fringe in the mirror at the back of the bar.
‘You look great; I thought you were Parisian,’ she says sweetly, taking off her light blazer and hanging it on the back of the stool.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, even though I feel shabby next to her in her crisp white shirt and black tailored trousers. ‘What brings you to Paris?’
‘Decision making,’ she says obscurely. ‘I’m trying to figure out if it’s make or break, you know how it is: men. One minute they’re fully committed, the next you wonder if they were ever interested in the first place.’
‘Right,’ I answer, gulping back my drink. This afternoon’s scenario between her and Flynn plays out in my mind.
‘I’m Georgia,’ she says, reaching out her hand to me.
‘Carly,’ I reply, shaking her hand, a stab of guilt piercing my heart.
‘What bringsyouto Paris?’
‘Work,’ I say casually, not wanting to let on that I’m part of the trip her partner organised.
