The Paris Connection

by Lorraine Brown

  “You’re exaggerating,” I said.

  I’d made a concerted effort to talk quietly.

  Léo laughed. “Tell me, what did you do in Venice?”

  “The usual. Sightseeing. Eating my body weight in pizza.”

  The whole time I’d been there I’d had this feeling of familiarity, I nearly told him, as though I’d been there before. Perhaps it was the photos I’d seen of it in the past, the brochures I’d leafed through, the pictures of George and Amal Clooney on their wedding day.

  “He must really want to impress you if he takes you to Venice,” he said.

  I thought that maybe he had, but it had still been a massive shock when I’d found out where we were going, particularly since he’d never been one for grand gestures before. He’d told me at my birthday dinner, in front of Ellie and John. I wasn’t quite sure why he’d done that and if I was honest, I’d have preferred it to have been just the two of us. I hated having multiple pairs of eyes on me and could never relax when I was the center of attention.

  “As you guys know better than anyone, next Saturday, the very amazing Hannah and I will have been together for a year,” Si had dramatically announced the second we’d finished dinner.

  “Nice one, Si,” said Ellie, winking at me.

  Si cleared his throat. “It has, and I can say this without hesitation, been an amazing journey. When I walked up that escalator at Highgate Tube station, I had no idea my life was about to change. That I was about to meet the woman who would prove that love at first sight is an actual thing.”

  I put my head in my hands, embarrassed. What was he doing?

  “What a sweet talker,” said Ellie, nudging me jokily.

  “And so,” he went on, pausing only to take a mouthful of water, “I wanted to get you something extra special. A sort of thirtieth birthday cum anniversary present. To show you how much you mean to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, warily, peeking through my fingers.

  He produced a box from under the table. I swallowed, tearing off the wrapping paper, part intrigued, part mortified. I didn’t think I’d done anything to deserve all of this. Inside the paper was a gray box with a Mulberry logo emblazoned on the front. I was confused. Money had always been a touchy subject between us, although I’d assumed it was because we were still working out the logistics of living together—opening joint accounts for the bills and setting up direct debits and all that other organizational stuff that I’d never been brilliant at. We had to save, he’d been drumming into me, for a deposit on a home of our own. To me, this seemed like a pointless exercise, because how were we ever supposed to save enough for a property in London? I’d rather have spent the money on having a good time now and worried about the pros and cons of mortgages later, although that was me all over. No wonder I was permanently overdrawn.

  “Look inside the box,” he said.

  There was something flat and rectangular lying on the bottom of it. I pulled apart the tissue, revealing an oxblood leather passport holder.

  “Si!” I said, my mouth literally dropping open.

  “Open it,” he said, crouching down next to me.

  I looked at him quizzically, doing what he’d asked. My passport was already inside, along with a British Airways ticket. I shook my head in disbelief, scanning it for a destination, barely able to take it in: London Heathrow to Venice Marco Polo. Sunday, June 30, 2019.

  “I’m taking you to Venice,” he said, beaming. “I know you’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Blimey,” said Ellie, looking flustered for once, as though she couldn’t quite find the right thing to say.

  “But we’re already going to Amsterdam in July,” I said, confused.

  “For the wedding, you mean?” scoffed Ellie. “That’s hardly a holiday.”

  “Exactly,” said Si, taking it in good humor. “I know you’ve booked the whole week off work, so I thought we’d spend a few days down in Venice first.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair. I didn’t understand.

  “And then I’ve booked us on a night train from Venice up to Amsterdam on the Wednesday night. I thought it sounded more romantic than flying. We’ll have our own little compartment with pullout beds. Brandy nightcaps as we whizz across the Pyrenees.”

  I thought I might actually be in shock. Si looked pleased with himself and excited, like a kid at Christmas.

  “Say something, for God’s sake,” said Ellie.

  Suddenly I shot up out of my seat, threw my arms around Si’s neck and pulled him into me. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear, my heart racing. “And I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The midmorning sun was glittering on the Seine and I took a series of photos, widening the shot to capture the buzz of the river.

  “It is 10:20,” said Léo, checking his watch for the hundredth time that day. “Shall I drive you back to the station?”

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing my bag off the ground, surprised to feel a swirl of disappointment.

  “I would offer to show you some more of Paris. But since you hate it so much . . .”

  “I never said I hated it,” I protested.

  He gave me a look.

  “Okay, I do sort of hate it.”

  “You have seen all of this before? The river? The Eiffel Tower?”

  “Sort of,” I said, remembering how bleak everything had felt that day. How I’d berated myself for coming at all, for believing for a second that he wanted to see me. For opening myself up, being prepared to forget about everything that had gone before.

  “I suppose you are too afraid to see the more authentic parts of the city,” said Léo, walking off toward the bike.

  I jogged to catch up. “What do you mean, afraid?”

  “I am a complete stranger to you. You would not risk coming with me to my arrondissement, for example. It would be too risky, non?”

  He handed me the helmet, which I managed to do up myself for the first time.

  “Where is your arrondissement?”

  “The 10th,” he said, straddling the bike. “You know it?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is very beautiful,” he said, adjusting the wing mirror. “It is a shame you will not see it, you could take some very good photographs.”

  “How far is it from here?” I asked, sliding on behind him and lifting my voice as he turned the key.

  “It is north of the Gare du Nord. Fifteen minutes, perhaps?”

  He revved the engine.

  “Okay,” I said nonchalantly before I changed my mind. I could always use his phone and call Si from there.

  Léo swiveled to look at me over his shoulder, his eyes challenging. “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I’ll come and see your arrondissement.”

  “You will?”

  “But I can’t stay long.”

  Another half an hour or so wouldn’t hurt, I told myself as I wrapped my arms around his waist.

  He pulled off into the road and when we stopped at a set of lights, he turned to look at me again.

  “You surprise me, Hannah,” he shouted. “Perhaps you are not as scared of everything as I thought.”

  10

  There was so much to see on the drive to the 10th arrondissement, it was like discovering a whole different side to Paris, one that hadn’t been photographed a hundred times over. I noticed little details along the way, like the woman polishing the counter in an empty boulangerie and the colorful wooden toys in the window of a quirky little toy shop. I loved the feeling of darting round the city, being able to zip down the narrow streets that cars would struggle to navigate. I was almost disappointed when we pulled up next to a cobbled quayside.

  “This is where I spend much of my time,” said Léo, pointing downstream. “I
n these cafés along here. There is a juice bar selling very delicious smoothies, can you see? And over there is an exhibition space and gallery. They have some very cool new artists showing there.”

  The area was already bustling with locals sitting outside restaurants and coffee shops on those quintessentially French woven chairs. Waiters in white aprons whipped in and out of doorways carrying plates of eggs and toast and coffee. It was obviously a popular running spot, too, because I counted at least twenty people jogging past in the space of a minute. Across the other side of the canal, a group of young guys were cheering and laughing, enjoying an early-morning basketball game.

  “What did you say this place is called?” I asked him.

  “Canal Saint-Martin,” he said. “The canal was built by Napoleon in the early 1800s to bring fresh drinking water in to Paris.”

  I picked up my camera and took some pictures of the smooth, dark green water that was so still it looked like glass.

  “How far does it go?” I asked.

  “Until it reaches the Seine. But a little farther along, at Place de la République, it goes underground for two kilometers, into these dark, eerie tunnels. You can take a boat there.”

  I took a photo of a sightseeing boat against a backdrop of some very cool graffiti, and then I turned to look upstream and captured a boxy block of flats framed by a canopy of plane trees.

  “You know the song ‘Les Mômes de la Cloche’?” said Léo, resting his back on the railings next to me.

  I took a nice shot of three buildings in the distance, just on the bend of the canal: they were painted in mint green, rose pink and sunshine yellow, one after the other, like a trio of gelato.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Edith Piaf sang a version of it. It is about the Canal Saint-Martin and the children who lived on the streets here. There is this one line that says: When death takes us, it is the most beautiful day of our lives.”

  “Jesus,” I said, putting my hand on my chest.

  He smiled. “You do not like sad songs?”

  “No,” I said. “Is that what you write?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Not really. You are hungry?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you changing the subject?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said innocently. “Now let us get back to you. You need to eat, non?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, looking at him suspiciously. He was definitely avoiding something.

  “It was not your stomach I heard growling?” he said.

  “Can’t have been,” I lied. “Anyway, I can eat at the wedding.”

  He looked at me as though I was mad. “That is hours away, Hannah.”

  I riffled around in my bag, finding a pack of old chewing gum in the bottom. That would stave off hunger for now. “You like your food, then, I see,” I said, offering him the pack.

  “Of course. You do not?” he said, taking one and throwing it into the air, catching it in his open mouth.

  “Sure. But I don’t think about it every second of the day.”

  I didn’t know why I couldn’t admit how hungry I was. It was a pride thing, I thought: I didn’t want him feeling sorry for me, or feeling obligated to buy me something.

  “Come,” said Léo, motioning for me to follow him.

  I stayed where I was. “Where are you going?”

  “To eat cake,” he said.

  “I said I wasn’t hungry,” I called after him.

  He pretended not to hear and had already crossed the road, stopping outside a burgundy shop front with La Patisserie painted in gold on the window. When he realized I hadn’t followed him—which blatantly he’d expected me to, as though I was incapable of making my own decisions—he turned to look at me with his hands on his hips.

  “Come on, Hannah!”

  Outside the bakery, groups of young, trendy Parisians were clustered around shiny zinc-topped tables stuffing flaky pastry into their mouths. I’d have to get the cheapest thing and pray my card went through. My stomach rumbled again and I walked over to join him, purposely taking my time.

  “Why did you take so long?” he asked, seemingly genuinely baffled.

  “This is embarrassing to admit, but I don’t actually have any money,” I said, deciding honesty was the best policy.

  He looked confused. “None at all?”

  “Not really. I used the last of my cash to get a cab to Gare du Nord. And I’ve got a credit card, but you know . . . there’s not much actual credit on it.”

  He looked surprised.

  “I left my purse in my boyfriend’s bag,” I said. “I’ve got money in there, obviously.” I didn’t want him thinking I was a charity case.

  “You should have told me before,” he said, looking annoyed. “I will give you some euros, Hannah. You cannot go for so many hours without money, that is crazy.”

  “I don’t want your money,” I said firmly.

  He waved a hand in front of his face. “It is no problem.”

  “Well, it’s a problem for me. I can manage for a few hours more. Being a bit hungry is hardly the end of the world, is it?” I said.

  “Ah, so you are hungry.” The grin split his face and irritation rose up inside me. I hated him knowing he’d been right.

  We moved forward in the queue, stepping inside the shop, but I couldn’t quite see past the people already at the counter.

  “Are you going to be too proud to let me buy you something?” asked Léo.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said quickly, although the offer was seriously tempting.

  “I know I do not need to.”

  We were here now and it did seem a shame to be in Paris and not try at least one local delicacy.

  I caved in. “Well, only if you’re sure,” I said, ignoring his far too cocky smile.

  The queue moved forward and finally I was able to see the display in its full glory. Behind the slanted glass were rows and rows of the most perfectly presented, colorful, ornately decorated cakes I’d ever seen.

  “Better than your English bakeries, non?” he said.

  “What are they all?” I asked, wondering how I was ever going to choose.

  “So these are baba au rhum,” he said, crouching down so that he could see through the glass, pointing to a line of squidgy, treacly-looking sponge cakes topped with a crest of cream. “And these here are Paris-Brest, a soft pastry with praline inside of it. Then we have many different types of éclair, tarte Tatin, clafoutis, puits d’amour and at the end, Mont Blanc, a kind of puréed chestnut meringue.”

  I shook my head, overwhelmed. “I can’t decide,” I said.

  “What have you never had before?” he asked. “You must try something new.”

  “I’ve definitely never had a Mont Blanc.”

  “Good choice.” He nodded and took his turn at the counter. “Bonjour, madame, comment allez-vous? Alors . . . deux Monts Blancs, s’il vous plaît.”

  The shop assistant took a white paper bag with the patisserie’s logo on it in one hand and with the other she slid two mountain-shaped cakes inside.

  “Ready?” he asked, once he’d paid.

  “Sure,” I said casually, trying to play it cool when really I was salivating at the thought of the mouthfuls of sugary sponge cake to come.

  We perched on a nearby bicycle rack overlooking the water. I was careful to put as much space between us as I could, which wasn’t easy on a thin piece of steel. Léo took his cake and handed me the bag.

  “How on earth do I eat this?” I asked, peeking inside.

  It felt fragile in my hand, as though it was going to disintegrate the second I took a bite. I peered at it, marveling at the crispy pastry base and the spaghetti-like chestnut cream piped all over it, roughly forming the shape of a mountain. Presumably Mont Blanc, which I thought mig
ht be in the Alps.

  “Hang on,” I said suddenly, “hold this for a second, will you? I want to take a photo of it.”

  “Be quick,” warned Léo, who had been uncharacteristically quiet while demolishing most of his own, his Mont Blanc already just a pile of crumbs. “Otherwise it will collapse and you will lose it.”

  I focused on the cake cupped in the palm of his hand, taking the shot.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  He passed it back to me.

  “What do you like to take photos of now, then?” asked Léo, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You have moved on from rusty climbing frames?”

  Nobody had ever asked me that before. Not even Si, who I suspected considered my passion for photography nothing more than a fun little hobby. An incentive for me to pootle about taking pretty photographs of Portobello Road on a Sunday afternoon, or whatever. But for me it had never been just that. It symbolized the part of me that wanted more. I thought my dad might have felt that way about it, too.

  “I like beautiful buildings,” I said slowly. “Old ones and new. And the way light falls on objects: on a staircase, or rooftops, or a tree. And reflections. How water distorts everything, gives something solid and inflexible a sort of otherworldly quality.”

  “What else?” he pressed, crossing one leg over the other and turning toward me so that his knee was practically touching my thigh.

  “I love the feeling I get when the composition is just right,” I said, getting carried away. “When I’ve captured the mood of something. Or when I’ve caught a moment on film that will never, ever happen again, at least not in that exact way.”

  I tried to concentrate on not dropping my Mont Blanc all over the front of Léo’s hoodie. Photography was the one subject I could go off on a tangent about, but I thought it was a bit much for most people.

  “But you say you are not a photographer?” asked Léo, his voice gentle.

  I shook my head to indicate that, no, it was not my job. I couldn’t actually answer him because my mouth was full of the silkiest, nuttiest cream I’d ever tasted in my life.