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‘You paid the bill.’
‘Ah, but you found the place.’
They wrapped their arms around each other’s waists. He bent his head and kissed the top of hers. They set off walking, slowly.
‘Au lit?’ he asked quietly. Bedtime?
‘Not yet.’
Claire was buzzing. The unfamiliarity of everything had sharpened her senses so that her brain was on overdrive. Even the water had tasted different. The half-grasped snippets of conversations, the wine, the sauce, Ronan’s knee leaning into hers under the table, that fig clafoutis, the coffee, the brandy – all of it was a heady, delicious distraction. She was looking out, not in.
‘Post-prandial stroll?’ She pointed to the cathedral of Sacré-Coeur, glowing white like a giant ice-cream sundae on the hill above their heads. She fancied the idea of seeing the city laid out in front of her, incontrovertible proof that she was really in Paris.
‘The view from up there should be spectacular.’
The streets of Montmartre were heaving. Merry revellers overflowed from strobe-lit bars onto the footpaths. Ronan pulled her closer. They lost sight of the cathedral, too close to it now to see it behind the tall buildings. They kept climbing up a long, curving street, moving steadily away from the crowds. Turning left, they faced a flight of dark steps.
‘Is this wise?’ Claire could feel her heart racing, a combination of instinct and social conditioning making her fearful. ‘Those steps couldn’t be more foreboding if they tried.’
He took her hand then and pulled her with him.
‘It has to be up there somewhere.’
High walls and trees on either side blocked any view until they reached the top step. From there, just yards away, they could see the back of the cathedral, looming huge but unreachable. An impenetrable security fence blocked their path. Parked against the fence was a police van, its back doors propped open. Inside, a half dozen heavily armed policemen turned simultaneously to assess them, judged them harmless and turned back to their conversation.
Taking the only available route, Claire and Ronan turned back down the steps towards the sounds of booming music and clinking glasses.
‘We can find a way from the other side,’ Ronan said.
‘Can we leave it?’
There it was, rising in her gut, a feeling of guilt that she had led him on and was about to let him down, combined with irritation that she was somehow responsible for forestalling his disappointment.
‘C’mon, Claire – we’re nearly there.’
‘Please? I’m so tired.’ Her eyes met his. She watched him calculate whether to push her or leave her be. Sometimes, he could pull her through, but more often the shutters came down and heavy resistance spread out through her mind, along with an overwhelming urge to curl her body into a ball.
She held his gaze and felt him weigh the balance of her mood. The corners of his mouth turned up in a tight-lipped smile, and he held his palm between her shoulder blades.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’m tired, too.’
* * *
Back at rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, Ronan couldn’t make the little door in the grey gate open. Over and over, he punched in the code, 5247.
It was the wrong code.
Claire took a used Métro ticket from her pocket, tore it in half and half again. She walked up the street to a rubbish bin. They didn’t have a number for the owners, just an email. Throwing the torn ticket into the bin, she wondered how much a hotel would cost, if it came to that.
‘I’ve got it!’ Ronan motioned for her to come back. ‘It’s 5427. I mixed it up.’
The door had opened. Of course it had. He held it wide as she stepped through. Crisis averted, she thought, with an irritating sense of anticlimax. Without a word, they passed under the archway, crossed the courtyard, opened the inner doorway, climbed the broad staircase, unlocked the door of Le Studio and stepped inside.
Quietly, they took turns in the tiny bathroom. Claire pulled in the wooden shutters and fastened them. She left the skimpy pink nightdress in her suitcase and got into bed in her T-shirt.
‘Dinner was delicious,’ she said.
With the shutters closed, the room was hushed and completely dark. She lay facing Ronan and sensed that he was lying flat on his back. ‘Fair play to what’s-his-name.’
