One Christmas in Paris

by Mandy Baggot

  He looked out of the window as he fastened up his pale blue shirt. The sky was azure, the sun low in the sky as it woke up, a golden sheen across the water of the Seine. He could see the Hotel de Ville, its dark-grey rooftops, the stone statues below and that tall turret at its centre standing proud. Still it was snowing, but a light flurry, like God had opened up a pillowcase and was sprinkling feathers down over the city.

  He checked his watch again. He had an hour before meeting his father. Shirt on, he walked across the bare boards to where his Macbook was showing a black screen. One shake of the mouse and there was Ava. Her head was turned away so you couldn’t see her face, just her body, encased in her dark coat, bright white hair unleashed after she’d dropped his hat, hands flicking up drops of water from the fountains at the Louvre, the sky a moody grey behind the pyramid of glass. The thought that no one would get to see this, that not even his subject would get to see this, felt wrong. This was beauty, the resilience of human nature, finding joy in everyday life.

  He leant forward, clicking his mouse on the next image. Ava again, last night, looking into the mid-distance at Bettina’s. The contrast of her hair against the black of her dress, those high boots she didn’t seem comfortable in, the expression on her face somewhere between lost and hopeful...

  He should stop taking her photo... or ask her if he could take more. But he knew what her answer would be and right now, he wasn’t ready to give up his new muse. But photos or no photos, maybe as soon as she found out he had lied about his sister, he would lose whatever choice he had.

  Ava sat on the balcony, one of the hotel’s gold-and-red bedspreads on the seat of the chair, another one wrapped around her. She was gazing out at Paris at nine a.m., coming to life fuelled by café and crossiants to the soundtrack of car horns, bicycle bells and Christmas carols played by accordions. She breathed in the scent of snow, winter air and the faint aroma of freshly baked baguettes, trying to wake herself up.

  She hadn’t slept well. Debs had snored loudly and, after she had rolled her friend gently onto her side to make sure none of her hair blocked her airway, Ava’s mind was working overtime on just about everything. Last night had been more fun than she could have imagined until it was over... rather abruptly. One minute they had been saying goodbye, talking about what they were going to do today and the next... Julien had looked slightly flustered. Didier had seemed bothered about something too and then they had left, with a wave of hands and little else. She pulled the bedspread tighter around her. What more had she been expecting? Just because she and Julien had shared beers and talk of Chris Martin’s attributes didn’t mean... well, it didn’t mean anything at all. Men were all the same. A big testosterone-filled ball of confusion she didn’t need in her life. Except she had one man-sized problem to fix here. One she needed to figure out for Debs and for the woman who had mothered her properly when Rhoda was still trying to nurture her with Rimmel.

  She shook her head, looking through the wrought-iron railings at the Parisians below, rushing through the snow in their winter boots and wool coats. She couldn’t believe Gary would do this. She wanted Debs and Sue to have got the wrong end of the stick because the thought that he could be deceiving them made her sick with fear. But, no matter what was or wasn’t happening, she was going to get to the bottom of it and be there for her best friend. Just like she had the first time when Debs’ dad had packed and left and Debs had turned up at Ava’s house looking like she had rubbed coal under her eyes. Rhoda had taken one look at the make-up horror and almost closed the door again until Ava had whipped it out of her mother’s grasp, taken Debs by the hand and led her three streets down to the café that did the best and biggest lattes with squirty cream on top. Ava had drawn a caricature of Jon with Devil’s horns and it had made Debs laugh and then she had drawn a picture of Debs and her mum with Ava in the background eating a giant ice cream and that drawing had made Debs cry. Ava had held her then and whispered gently that everything was going to be all right. And everything was going to be all right now. It just had to be.

  ‘Ava!’ Debs called from inside. ‘Have you seen my hairband with the reindeers on?’

  27

  Saint-Honoré

  At just after ten a.m. Julien stood outside the boutique Vivienne had messaged him the details of. In the window was a pale-grey suit with a matching waistcoat, a pink handkerchief in the top pocket of the jacket. Next to it was another mannequin dressed all in black, long tails on the coat. It looked like something someone would wear to a ball… or to a funeral. He sighed, watching the snow settle on the front window of the shop. There was no getting away from this. He may as well put his best foot forward and face it head on. Taking a breath, he pushed at the door.

  A bell rang as Julien entered and a tiny man dressed in a green checked suit sprang forward, a tape measure wound around his neck. He held out his hands, just catching a Christmas wreath as it fell from the pane of glass on the door.

  ‘My apologies. We have yet to fix this on correctly,’ the man said, cradling the pine cones, holly and spruce as if it were a new born baby.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Julien answered. ‘I am—’

  ‘Monsieur Fitoussi,’ the man said, nodding. ‘I am Jean-Paul. Your father is already here.’

  Of course he was. A couple of minutes past ten and his father would make comment that he was late. Julien swallowed his irritation and nodded to the man.

  ‘This way please,’ the man said.

  Julien followed Jean-Paul past rows and rows of different suits in every shade imaginable, past a large Father Christmas with eyes that lit up and a fat tree decorated with hanging ornaments and strings of sparkling tinsel. And there was his father dressed for business as usual. Julien stopped walking a little short of the space and just observed. Did Gerard look a little thinner? His hair a little greyer at the temples? He swallowed. Perhaps Vivienne was right. Maybe his father was dealing with his grief in a different way, but feeling it just the same.

  ‘Monsieur Fitoussi,’ Jean-Paul greeted. ‘Your son is here.’

  Gerard turned then and faced Julien before dropping his eyes to the expensive watch on his arm. ‘You’re late.’

  Julien stepped into the room and spread his arms wide. ‘Then we had better get started.’

  * * *

  They had begun being measured almost in total silence, apart from comments from Jean-Paul and the scribbling of his pencil as he noted final adjustments down. Julien swallowed as the tape measure was held to his groin and then down to the floor.

  ‘Stand up straight, Julien,’ Gerard ordered. ‘Vivienne wants this wedding to be perfect.’

  He closed his eyes and willed the measuring to be over. ‘So, how is business?’ he asked.

  ‘Why would you want to know that? You have no interest in my business.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ Julien responded.

  ‘You left the company, remember?’ Gerard stated gruffly.

  ‘I am well aware of that. I didn’t realise that this meant I could never enquire about the business in pursuit of conversation.’

  Jean-Paul stood up and urged Julien to stretch out his arms. Had his father always been this difficult to talk to? When had he turned so hard, so unreachable? The man Gerard used to be smiled and laughed and shared conversation around the dinner table. He showed interest, listened intently, gave opinion but never judgement...

  ‘You were not interested in my business when you stormed out of the party the other night,’ Gerard snapped.

  He had to give his father that one. It had been immature and he had behaved without respect, he could see that now. He swallowed down any urge to be drawn into another combat he was sure neither of them wanted.

  ‘I apologise,’ Julien spoke. ‘I should not have done that.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Gerard responded tightly.

  ‘So,’ Julien said. ‘The wedding. It is an exciting time, no?’

  ‘Hold still,’ Jean-Paul said, the tape me
asure poised.

  A sigh came from his father and Julien lifted his head from watching the tailor to look at Gerard. There were definitely more worry lines, an aura of vulnerability about his father that had never been present in the past.

  ‘Everything is on course?’ Julien asked. ‘That venue for the reception... the caterers...’

  ‘I told Vivienne to hire a wedding planner,’ Gerard said, his hands at the lapels of his jacket. ‘But she seems to want to do everything herself.’

  Julien smiled as Jean-Paul turned him around for more measurements. ‘She is a very capable woman. And this means a lot to her. It is a brand new start for both of you.’

  ‘I do not see the point,’ Gerard stated softly, almost under his breath.

  ‘What?’ Julien asked.

  ‘All this stuff,’ Gerard said, arms flying up then down again.

  Jean-Paul looked up, addressing Gerard. ‘Monsieur Fitoussi, you would like to try on the suit now?’ He wrapped the tape measure back around his neck. ‘I will pin and make final adjustments.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ Gerard responded, resigned. He plumped down onto one of the plum leather banquettes, another sigh escaping.

  Julien smiled at the tailor and waited until he had scurried off before taking a seat next to his father. He removed the camera from around his neck and set it down on the seat next to him. He watched Gerard shift slightly, his eyes falling to the camera.

  ‘You are taking photos again,’ he stated.

  Julien nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  It seemed an odd question and for a second Julien didn’t know how to respond. He opened his mouth to speak until Gerard spoke again.

  ‘The other night you were adamant you were not taking photographs.’

  ‘I wasn’t then.’

  ‘But you are now?’

  ‘I’m not taking photographs for other people,’ he said, ‘like Parisian Pathways. I’m taking photos for me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Gerard asked, turning to face him.

  ‘It means,’ Julien began. ‘I am taking photographs again because I want to. Not because anyone is telling me to.’ He swallowed. He hadn’t meant that statement to come out as harsh as it had. He quickly spoke again. ‘I simply mean, perhaps you were correct, maybe now is the right time to move on.’

  A long, slow sigh left his father’s lips, his head hanging, hands pressed to his thighs.

  Julien could almost feel his father’s sadness. It was written so obviously in his body language. How had he not seen it before? Had it always been there? Hidden just under the surface, beneath the public face and the businessman bravado?

  ‘I want to do another exhibition,’ Julien stated.

  There was no reaction from his father. Julien wet his lips and carried on. ‘An exhibition to remember Lauren.’

  He watched his father close his eyes then and suck in a breath that rolled his shoulders.

  Julien continued. ‘I want it to raise money for the Croix-Rouge.’

  Gerard looked up then. ‘Why?’

  Julien thought for a moment before answering. ‘Because that is what Lauren would have wanted.’

  He matched his father’s gaze, waiting for what he had said to sink in before saying more. ‘Lauren would want something positive to come from her death. She would not want her whole life to be defined by the moment she died and how horrible that time was for everybody.’ Julien sighed. ‘Lauren was a bird on the breeze, a sweet, warm, generous person who embraced everything. We cannot forget all that.’

  ‘You know there is nothing you can do to bring her back,’ Gerard stated.

  Julien nodded. ‘I know that.’ He sighed again. ‘Just lately I have been trying instead to remember everything we shared, to make her still a part of my life.’ He swallowed, thinking of Ava’s mistaken assumption.

  ‘That will not work, Julien,’ Gerard snapped. ‘You think you can just take a few photos and make things all right again?’

  ‘Unlike you, I know I’m not going to focus on the Paris attacks just so I can pretend the fire Lauren died in didn’t happen.’

  He held his breath as the angry, bitter words dissipated. He remembered how his father had said nothing about the fire but instead had gone to dinner parties where he rallied against the state of France, picking apart the logistics of each terror attack. Meanwhile, Julien had watched as the newspapers filled with articles about terrorism, day after day, with only one small article in three papers about the fire that had taken the life of his sister.

  At the time he had felt like the whole world was saying not all lives mattered, that some lives meant more than others, more than Lauren’s. It was like the city of Paris, along with his father, was belittling his grief. Now, as the months had gone by, he could see that it had simply been a case of timing. There was a difference between what was important and what was deemed newsworthy. And his father had just done exactly the same as the press. Gerard had hidden his grief. He had buried the seething rage and anger he felt at the injustice of the death of his daughter and directed it straight towards the Paris attacks. The attacks had perpetrators, someone to blame. The fire was an accident with no one to point a finger at.

  ‘I don’t know why you came here today, Julien,’ Gerard said, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t know why you are even involving yourself with this wedding. You’re not moving on. You are fooling yourself. Still, now, it is all about dwelling on the past... an exhibition!’ Gerard scoffed.

  ‘I am not dwelling on the past. I am facing up to it. Trying to make something good come from it.’

  ‘Nothing good can come from it!’ Gerard barked. ‘How can it?! Lauren is dead!’

  His father’s voice had cracked on the last word and Julien got to his feet, ready to reach out...

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Gerard hissed.

  ‘I came here today because Vivienne asked me to,’ Julien stated, putting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘She is worried about you. She does not want this widening gap in the family.’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘It is not her business.’

  ‘Of course it is, Dad. She’s a part of this family. She is about to become your wife. She loves you.’

  ‘Who do you think you are? To tell me what should happen. To tell me what I should do and how I should feel?’

  ‘That isn’t what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘I don’t wish for your opinion,’ he snapped. ‘And I am certain, if it has to be this way… that a wedding can take place without a best man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should go,’ Gerard stated.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Jean-Paul!’ Gerard called. ‘Could we look at something for business too, while I am here? Something for the spring.’

  Julien couldn’t believe this was happening. He watched his father head towards the very back of the shop. The conversation was over.

  28

  Outside Cosmos Protection offices

  Ava looked at the photo of Francine Duval on her iPhone. She had sleek, shoulder-length black hair, brown eyes and, in Ava’s opinion, a little too much red lipstick for the corporate photograph. She also looked to be in her late thirties at most. It wasn’t impossible but seemed a little unlikely that Gary – edging towards mid-fifties – would be having an affair with someone who could, theoretically, be young enough to be his daughter. She opened her mouth to say as much to Debs but then saw her friend was regarding the entrance to the office through a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Where the hell did you get those from?’ Ava exclaimed. ‘Binoculars!’

  ‘There’s a little shop a few doors down from Agincourt, it sells all manner of winter holiday necessities.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t have put binoculars on a list of winter holiday necessities,’ Ava responded.

  ‘Shh, I’m watching,’ Debs said, waving her free hand in the air then training her concentration back on the building.

  �
��Have you thought through what we’re going to actually do if a) Gary is actually the person she’s meeting and b) if he’s not?’

  Debs sniffed. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘if he is the person she’s meeting I’m going to cut his balls off with the little scissors from the sewing kit in my handbag.’ She let go of a breath. ‘And if he’s not the person she’s meeting today then there’s always tomorrow. He’s in…’ – she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers – ‘Toulouse until Thursday.’

  ‘Oh, Debs, seriously? I think we have to come up with a better strategy than this. Following this woman around the city doesn’t seem like the best way.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. Mum made me swear not to do any digging but she’s got her head in the sand... and I have to know.’

  ‘I know you do, but if he isn’t doing anything I think he would be mortified to know you were spending your time stalking one of his colleagues and Sue was worrying herself to death over it.’

  ‘Shh... I think that’s her,’ Debs said, one hand resting on the metal bike rack at the side of the street, the other gripping the binoculars as she leant forward.

  ‘Where?’ Ava asked, straining her eyes to look across the street.

  ‘There... totes gorgeous Wang handbag... the bitch.’

  ‘In the lemon trouser suit?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Yes! And who wears lemon in the winter apart from the French? Fucking stylish bitch.’

  ‘Debs!’ Ava exclaimed. ‘Is now the point where I’m supposed to remind you that she hasn’t actually done anything yet?’

  ‘That we know of,’ Debs countered. ‘Gary has been coming to “Toulouse” for the past six months. She could have been parading her whole selection of stylish outfits for him... shit, is she hailing a taxi? If she hails a taxi we’re screwed.’