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A tall Black man in his fifties was slinging a guitar strap over his shoulder, while ambling back and forth in a manner designed to draw attention. The crowd shifted a little.
Claire leaned back into Ronan’s warmth.
‘Do you want my jumper?’
‘No, no. I’m grand now.’
And she was. It occurred to her that she hadn’t felt this calm, this easy in herself, in a very long time. Don’t even think about it, she warned her inner worrier. Just be here now.
Ronan motioned for more beer, didn’t haggle this time, just swapped the note for the two beers offered. The busker strummed a few chords to garner attention and then spoke:
‘Welcome to Paris, this is the city that can change your life, forever,’ he said, and then he launched into the first line of ‘Let it Be’.
Instantly, the crowd joined in. Claire took a breath to sing but found she couldn’t get the words out. Her chest lurched, and tears streamed from her eyes. She resisted wiping them, aware that Ronan would notice, and felt them drip down her neck. The busker switched songs – ‘No Woman, No Cry’ – and she pulled herself together, drew in a long, steady breath and took a drink.
‘You alright there?’ Ronan’s breath was warm on damp skin.
She leaned her head back but didn’t turn around. He kissed the top of her head. She breathed in, out, in again, and sang ‘Three Little Birds’ with the crowd, trying hard to convince herself that every little thing really would be alright.
‘Clap, and you’re part of the show!’ The busker went on, conducting what was more of a singalong than a concert, while his buddies exchanged variable quantities of beer for fivers.
It felt good to sing.
It felt good, but also it hurt. Cat Stevens’ ‘Wild World’ hurt like pressing a bruise and ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ hurt like someone was trying to pull a rock out of her chest cavity.
Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’ was the finale. After a couple of encores of the chorus, the police called time. They formed a line at the top of the hill and funnelled the crowd down the steps in front of them, through a set of gates at the bottom.
Claire and Ronan, having been at the top of the steps, were among the last to be herded through. A loud clang sounded behind them as the gates were locked. Someone on the far side of the gate – a policeman – was still humming ‘Wonderwall’.
A little way downhill, a man was roasting chestnuts in a shopping trolley.
‘Want some?’ Ronan asked.
‘Sure.’
She was surprised by the heat of the newspaper cone in her hand. It was too hot, barely tolerable, but after a second or two, it seemed nothing but comforting, and the chestnuts were honey-sweet and smoky.
On the streets of Montmartre, the party was only just getting started. They edged through the crowds, Ronan shouldering ahead, her elbow keeping contact with his. Claire found it hard not to stare at women dressed in skimpy leather or leopard skin, men in stilettos and chains. The fug of hash in the air caught the back of her throat. The constant jostling of bodies made her dizzy.
‘Can we get out of here?’ she said to the back of Ronan’s head.
He turned. ‘What?’
‘Can we go home?’ she yelled into his face.
He smiled. ‘Of course.’
Nightfall
Yeva waited until she felt Olena’s head begin to weigh heavy against her shoulder.
‘Ya skoro povernus,’ she said, sliding out of the bed. She’d be back soon.
With only the light from the street to guide her, she changed her T-shirt for a strappy vest, pulled on a pair of shorts and slid into her flip-flops. With a blunt eye pencil, she drew a black line along the edge of her lower lid, extending it beyond the corner of her eye in a fashion that would have sent her baba into conniptions. She gave herself a beauty spot on her right cheek and used her finger to rub a smear of lipstick under each of her cheekbones.
Standing in the doorway, she checked that her key was in one pocket, her phone in the other. Quietly, she pulled the door closed. In the dark of the landing, she bent over, rubbing the cool skin of her thighs hard with the heels of her hands, gasping air.
Idy,she told herself. Go.
