The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  Cam was standing firm. “Just making sure she’s okay.”

  “Well, she has been through a trauma. It’ll be good to know she’s out of Len’s way.”

  “Thanks, you two, but I’m fine,” she said. “Honestly.”

  The two of them exchanged glances, as though over a delusional child. Livi decided not to say anything more. It actually was nice to have company.

  Then the train was announced, and they had to go. As they hugged goodbye, Cass whispered to Livi, “I hope you find him. But if not, it doesn’t hurt to have options. I like that suit.”

  Going through check-in and security and passport control, Livi realised that the stress of the morning was receding, eased out by the excitement of going on an adventure.

  “I feel like we’re really going somewhere,” she told Cam, as they went up the travelator to the sleek, yellow-trimmed train. She tipped her head back to take in the huge arched roof. “I haven’t been out of England since I came back.”

  “Paris is definitely somewhere,” he agreed. “How’s your French?”

  “I think I’ve forgotten almost everything I learned at school.”

  How embarrassing to realise that the first French words to pop into her head—apart from menu French—were the old Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir, like the song. Despite her newly confusing feelings, that phrase seemed unlikely to be of any use. She’d had her moments, but Lady Marmalade she was not. She looked sideways at Cam, half expecting that he could tell what was in her mind. Surely she could remember something more appropriate. “Bonjour,” she tried. “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”

  He laughed. “There, you sound like a native. Just a shame you don’t drink coffee.”

  “Maybe the French me does drink coffee.”

  He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

  They found their seats on the train and settled in. The first part of the journey wasn’t especially inspiring, but the ‘somewhere’ feeling bloomed as they emerged from the Channel Tunnel into France. The train rose and dipped gently with the countryside, and church spires dotted the landscape. And when they pulled into the Gare du Nord, her ‘somewhere’ was in full Parisian technicolour. They gathered their bags and went out through the grandeur and bustle of the main station. Then, just like that, they were standing out in a Paris street.

  “Paris.” Livi breathed. “Wow.”

  The late afternoon light was beginning to soften into evening. Old iron lamps stood tall and proud along the street. Workers hurried past, taxis came and went, and some of the buildings were just starting to glow with the famous golden lights. From their spot on the broad promenade, by the columns standing guard along the station entrance, Livi could count three small dogs trotting along with their smartly dressed owners. She could hardly take it all in.

  Cam broke the spell. “We’ll need to find somewhere to stay.”

  So they went back into the station, changed some money, bought a guide book, and googled a moderately priced hotel. Then they found a taxi, and Livi gazed out at the street while Cam gave the driver the address.

  The drive there was better than a movie. She was aware that her nose was practically pressed against the glass the whole time, but she didn’t care how much of a tourist she looked. She’d spent years saving up, dreaming of all her travels. She’d made it to London, but that was reality—commuting, and dishes, and paying-as-you-go to keep warm.

  And now here she was in Paris. Never mind that the circumstances weren’t exactly what she’d imagined. She wasn’t missing a second of it.

  They passed eateries big and small, outdoor seats turned to face the street so patrons could people-watch with ease. Tobacco shops announced themselves with red neon cigars, and pharmacies with green neon crosses. Effortlessly stylish people strolled past crepe stands, the iconic Metro signs, and scooters parked on the pavement. If the occasional Starbucks intruded on the scene, she didn’t mind. The people within were Parisian, after all. Well, some of them surely were, amongst the tourists.

  When they reached their hotel, on the Île Saint Louis, she just about fell out of the taxi in surprise. “Are you sure this is moderately priced?”

  It was gorgeous. The warm stone façade looked timeless in the evening light. The substantial door, worked in carved wood and wrought iron, was flanked with clipped topiary and matching lanterns. A small red carpet lay in the entrance, hinting at exclusivity without the need to boast.

  Cam just shrugged. “It’s Paris. You can’t come here and stay in a dive.”

  Checking in, she suddenly wondered what they would do. But Cam got in first, asking the concierge for two rooms and sliding across his credit card. There was a brief to-and-fro when she insisted on paying half and he refused, and she insisted and he refused. Then she saw the expression on the concierge’s face. Obviously it was unseemly to argue about money in such a refined setting. She backed down and thanked Cam graciously, but resolved to even things out later.

  The building was so old there was no elevator, but the concierge snapped his fingers and an underling appeared for their bags. Their climb up worn stone stairs to the third floor was rewarded when the porter opened the door to her room with a flourish. Cam thanked him and gave him a tip while Livi went in, captivated.

  “This is amazing.”

  The little room was so richly furnished it felt like stepping into Aladdin’s cave. Although the fabrics and furnishings were all sorts of colours and patterns, the whole effect was glowing and elegant, even in such a small space. Tapestries hung on the walls, rugs warmed the floor, and a starry chandelier glimmered above them, while richly upholstered chairs sat on each side of the window. She went over and looked out between the heavy, embroidered drapes. Outside lay the hazy-soft city, postcard perfect. And beyond the trees lining the river, Notre Dame was right there, gothic and glorious, just as it had been for hundreds of years.

  “Is that..?” She turned to Cam, incredulous.

  “Apparently.” He smiled as he leaned against the door frame.

  She turned and flung herself onto the carved four-poster, sinking into the ruby-red bedding. The canopy above was lined with tiny tassels, and the gold brocade on one of the many cushions tickled her cheek. “I feel like a princess.”

  “Watch out for peas.”

  “No danger. This is ridiculously comfortable.”

  Suddenly, nestled on the bed, she was swamped with tiredness. “I hate to waste an evening in Paris, but I think I have to sleep. I’m not even hungry.”

  He came over and sat next to her. “I’m not surprised. You’ve had a hell of a day.”

  “It wasn’t the greatest. But this is an improvement.” She smiled.

  He was a stranger in the expensive suit, now slightly rumpled from travelling. A real grown-up. And yet he was still so familiar. His dark hair was unruly across his forehead and he looked a bit tired after the day’s dramas, but his greeny-hazel eyes were warm as he smiled back at her. Lying on the sumptuous bed, the events of that morning hardly seemed real, as far away in time as in miles.

  “Thanks for everything. I didn’t know you had such a mean right hook.”

  He grimaced. “I’d be in trouble if my old karate instructor knew about that.”

  “Well, he might not approve, but I certainly appreciated it.”

  She let her shoes fall to the floor, pushed the cushions aside, and got under the covers, too tired to think about changing into pyjamas. It was a relief to lay her head on the downy white pillow. “I wonder what Len’s doing now.”

  “Don’t think about him. You’re safe and sound here. My room’s next door.” He took the extra cushions and put them on a chaise longue in the corner. Then he leaned over and smoothed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “Goodnight, princess.”

  As he shut the door, she felt sleep start to overtake her.

  Twenty-Six

  The next morning, Livi found Cam in the vaulted stone cellar that served as the hotel�
�s dining room. When he saw her come in, he put down his phone and came around to pull out her chair.

  “That’s very gentlemanly of you,” she said.

  “Well, when in Rome. Or Paris. How did you sleep?”

  “Like a very sleepy baby. Apart from getting up in the middle of the night to put on my pyjamas. I’m absolutely starving now.” She looked at the beautifully laid table, silver cutlery shining on a whiter-than-white tablecloth, crisper-than-crisp napkins nestling on white porcelain. “No breakfast menu?”

  “No. The waiter is bringing a proper French breakfast.”

  As if by magic the waiter in question appeared. Without a word he set down his offerings of coffee, hot chocolate, orange juice, pain au chocolat, croissants, and jam. Livi was halfway through an appreciative thank you when he turned and disappeared back to the kitchen.

  She shrugged. “I don’t care how rude French waiters are if they bring me food like this.”

  Cam pushed her hot chocolate across. “I know you were expecting to wake up transformed into a Gallic coffee-drinker this morning, but I ordered hot chocolate just in case. No marshmallows though.”

  She looked at his coffee, black and serious in a tiny cup. Maybe the French her could drink hot chocolate after all. She was about to thank him, when his phone rang. He looked at the screen. “Sorry, I won’t be long,” he said, and abruptly left the room.

  She looked at the feast in front of her and decided not to wait.

  By the time he got back, she’d eaten almost all her half. “You’d better hurry.”

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I had to take that.”

  “That’s okay.” She waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Although she was dying to be nosy, she held her tongue. Cam as a man of mystery was a new concept. She realised that she didn’t think much of it.

  When they finished breakfast, he stood up purposefully. “Come on, you have a mission to complete.”

  “Oh…” She wasn’t enthusiastic.

  “I don’t want to get in trouble with Cass. Go and get that bag.”

  So she went reluctantly, and met him again downstairs by the concierge’s desk. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  He took the satchel from her and slung it across his body. It rather suited him, she thought. He offered her the guide book, but she waved it away.

  “I’m just going to absorb everything.”

  Although it was still quite early, the streets of the little island were already busy. They came to the Pont Saint Louis, where camera-draped tourists, in happy holiday mode, were easy pickings for buskers. Teenagers on skateboards made a menace of themselves, weaving between sightseers, and the wicker chairs outside the cafés were already filling with people-watchers.

  Livi looked across hopefully in the direction of Notre Dame, but Cam turned her and steered her away, down a small street lined with bicycles and scooters. “First things first,” he said firmly. “We’ll be back later.”

  As they crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe, she looked back at the island. Grand townhouses stood proudly along the edge, untroubled by the petty activities of the tour parties at their feet. Further below, along the lower, tree-shaded quays, she could see people reading books and newspapers. A couple lounged against the warm stone walls, and two small children were feeding the ducks that swam close to shore.

  She sighed. “How civilised to be a Parisian duck.”

  But, just like a man, he didn’t see the romance of it. “Yeah, until you end up on a Parisian plate.”

  She gave him a shove, but turned her attention to the Right Bank. The road they followed along the Seine was busy, and they began to wish they’d walked the length of the island instead. But soon they turned into quieter, narrower streets.

  Cam checked the map on his phone. “Okay, here it is. Rue Beautreillis, the scene of Jim Morrison’s final bubble bath.”

  “I don’t think you’re bringing a sufficiently reverent attitude to this,” Livi told him. “This is pilgrimage territory, apparently.”

  He grinned back at her, and she shook her head, laughing.

  Although there were cars parked along one side, the little one-way street was quiet enough for a couple to stroll down the middle of the road with their baby in a pushchair. Livi and Cam stopped on the narrow flagstone pavement opposite number seventeen, and looked up.

  Above the dark, oversized doors, a stately building rose up, its finely worked wrought-iron balconies underpinned by ornately carved scrolls and wreaths. Like so many Paris buildings, its creamy tone was slightly tarnished with age. A black bicycle leaned against the building, looking like it had been carefully placed there by a set designer.

  A few feet away, a knot of black-clad Jim Morrison pilgrims were also staring up. No one said anything. Soon they were joined by a grey-haired couple, who with their leather jackets and faded tattoos were obviously Doors fans from the same vintage as Jim himself. Livi thought they could well be comrades of Journey. They all gazed up at the third floor, clearly very moved to be there.

  “This feels like one of those tricks, where people stand and look up at nothing and see how many others they can get to join in,” Livi whispered, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere.

  Cam laughed. “Are we doing the tricking, or being tricked?”

  “Good question.” She rubbed her neck. “I don’t know what they’re hoping to see up there.” Or what she was hoping to see.

  Then his phone rang again, the sound shrill in the street. He hurried to answer it as the Morrison pilgrims shot dirty looks in their direction.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He waved apologetically in their direction before turning and walking down the street away from them. “Hello…”

  Livi couldn’t hear any more, and it obviously wouldn’t do to follow him, ears flapping. So she hovered about until he came back.

  “You’re in demand today.” It was more a question than a statement, but he wasn’t playing.

  “Mmm.” He looked up and down the street. “Still no sign of this American?”

  “No.”

  Same old story, of course. He might not be there now, at eleven in the morning, but he might be there at eleven thirty. Or at five o’clock. Or…he might be up in Jim’s apartment, looking out the window, wondering why the hell she was standing in the street like an idiot, with some guy wearing his satchel. She looked up again, but the grand old building was giving nothing away.

  Once again she felt ridiculous. If it wasn’t for the repulsive Len she wouldn’t be here at all—she could blame him and Cass both for this one.

  After a while they sat on the footpath and leaned against the cool stone of the building opposite number seventeen. Time ticked by as tourists came and went, but none of them were the American. Finally Cam said, “Well, we’d better go and see him.”

  “Who? The American?”

  “No, the other American. Jim.”

  “Oh! I suppose we should. Pay our respects. Mia said he’s somewhere at Père Lachaise cemetery.”

  “Come on then, let’s try the Metro.”

  She cast a last glance over her shoulder as they left. So much for that. Cass would be disappointed, but she was actually kind of relieved.

  They figured out the Metro without any trouble, and made it to Père Lachaise, where the steps took them up between cast iron balustrades to one of the classic art nouveau Métropolitain signs. Livi felt like she was in a movie, and wouldn’t have been surprised this time to find a film crew waiting—just as long as it wasn’t the New Zealanders.

  They crossed the road. There was only a small gate, right at the end of the stone cemetery wall.

  “Do you think this is the right way in?” She looked along the road. The wall stretched as far as the eye could see, with no sign of another entrance. So they ventured in through the gate, and found a vendor selling cemetery maps.

  But when she told him which grave they were looking for, he shook his head.

  “Non non non,” he insisted, pointing ba
ck out the gate and up the street. “L’autre façon. L’autre façon.”

  So they turned to go the other way, thanking him, but he insisted they buy one of his maps first. Livi looked at it, then at the wall going into the distance.

  “La cité des mortes. The city of the dead. It must be huge.”

  As they set off down the road she had a déjà vu moment—walking to cemetery number two, another man in tow carrying the satchel. Madness. This trip was definitely, absolutely, the last stop on the American trail.

  They got hotter and hotter in the summer heat. Now she was glad she’d worn Sketchers with her sundress instead of ballet flats. They would’ve been very Parisian, but not so good for hiking the city streets. Finally, they came to the main gate, with a monumental entranceway of stone befitting the stature of the permanent residents inside.

  “This is more like it,” said Cam.

  They went through onto a wide boulevard. On each side, grand family tombs and more modest graves sat between tall trees. She was surprised to find that the cemetery was quite hilly. Cobbled roads led on to narrower lanes and uneven paths, where some of the tombs were immaculate, but others were blackened and broken. In places, so many trees rose up between the graves that they made a green canopy high above. She was captivated.

  “This is really, properly beautiful. What a place to spend eternity.”

  They followed a winding route, backtracking once when they thought they’d taken a wrong turn down a leafy lane. Then they passed a tree marked with an arrow and ‘Jim. This way.’ Further on, a tomb was inscribed ‘Break on through to the other side.’

  “We hardly need the map now,” Cam said.

  In the end, a cluster of people gathered on a small byway told them where Jim was. They stopped in front of the barrier. The grave was nothing more than a plain, square headstone with a simple plaque, behind someone else’s large tomb. A few flowers had been flung over, landing awkwardly on the next-door plot, or upside down between the graves. But some determined visitors had obviously clambered right in. The dusty plot was scattered with Doors memorabilia, photos of Jim, tea-light candles, and flowers, some alive, some dead or dying in their plastic wrap. More pragmatic visitors had offered plastic blooms. Here and there was a cigarette butt.