One Christmas in Paris

by Mandy Baggot

  She pushed open the door with one foot and stepped through, trying to act confident. Shit, it was all open plan and now she was faced with glass screens and dozens of people talking into headsets at their desks, moving around the floor looking like they were performing important business, and she had no idea where Francine’s desk was.

  But she was a delivery girl. She had the ultimate excuse in her hands. An important package. And she needed to be quick.

  She swallowed and stepped forward, tentatively at first until she remembered she was acting and needed to be convincing. ‘Excuse me,’ she addressed a woman in a navy pantsuit. ‘I’m looking...’ She tried again. ‘Je cherche Francine Duval.’

  The woman pointed. But to nowhere specific, just to the main clump of desks in the centre of the room. Ava supposed it was a start. She nodded and moved on, walking past employees of Cosmos Protection and trying to appear nonchalant.

  When she got a fair way into the mire of wood, pleather seats and paperwork she addressed someone who looked young enough to be a school leaver. ‘Francine Duval?’ Suddenly aware of how weak and non-authoritative she sounded she put her shoulders back. ‘Un cadeau.’

  The young man smiled. ‘She has gone to see a client but I can take this for you.’

  And he spoke excellent English. Fuck.

  ‘Oh, no, non, thank you. I have instructions to put this... right on her desk,’ Ava said, her cheeks reddening.

  ‘You do?’ the man asked.

  ‘I do.’ She cleared her throat. ‘So, if you could just tell me where her desk is then...’

  Her phone erupted then. The Star Wars theme tune blaring out for the whole floor to hear. It couldn’t be time for her to get out of there already. She held the box in one hand and disabled her ringing phone with the other, smiling at the man. ‘Francine’s desk?’

  He furrowed his brow but pointed. ‘By the window.’

  He had barely got the word ‘window’ out of his mouth before Ava was skipping over to it way too eagerly for a delivery girl. She didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. When she was rifling through Francine’s belongings she needed everyone to be looking at something else other than her.

  The desk was neat. Very neat. With a pristine keyboard and computer screen, not one Post It note stuck to it. There were no coffee rings on the desk or escapee paperclips and not a crumb on the clean mouse mat.

  This was a woman who kept things tidy. How likely was it that she was going to keep evidence of an affair here? A dirty secret was going to clutter up her work surface no end.

  Ava wrenched open one of the drawers. Francine had perfumed liners and little wooden trays housing everything. There were highlighters in four different colours, beautiful tapestried notepads and envelopes sorted by size. It was actually Debs’ dream drawer of stationery – that was ironic.

  Star Wars erupted again and it made Ava jump, frantically pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans to get her phone out and stop it.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Shit. She knew who that was without needing to turn around. Francine. No more than a few yards behind her. She could practically feel the breath on the back of her neck. Confidence. She had to play a role.

  ‘Yes,’ Ava said, spinning around and pretending she was chewing gum. She had no idea why she felt the need to do that but the up and downward motion of her jaw was stopping her blurting out things best kept to herself. ‘I have a parcel for you.’ Debs was going to have to be parted from the grow-your-own-rainbow kit after all.

  ‘A parcel?’ Francine looked immediately suspicious. Why would someone look immediately suspicious if they had nothing to hide? Or maybe it was because she had neat eyebrows as well as everything else and they could only express suspicion.

  ‘A present,’ Ava continued, eyes roving over the desk, looking for anything, anything that might be evidence of an affair with Gary. ‘Un cadeau.’ She was really rocking the French language.

  ‘Really?’ Francine exclaimed, her voice a note lighter, eyes showing a little excitement. ‘Who is it from?’

  Who was it from? She really hadn’t thought this through. Who could it be from? It was so tempting to say Santa. She swallowed. ‘I don’t know... perhaps a client.’

  She handed the box over to Francine and watched the woman begin to tear at the paper. She didn’t need to be here to see Francine discover that someone had given her a grow-your-own-rainbow kit... but she needed every second to try and see something of use while she was here, living out this charade. And then it happened, just as Francine was pulling the gift from its box, the woman’s computer binged and a notification popped up on the screen. An email. From Gary Lyons. Debs’ step-dad Gary.

  Ava expelled air in shock, then quickly scrutinised the screen looking for the subject of the message. Would it be a love heart emoji? A saucy ‘hey babe’? Something dirty?

  It said ‘private’. And then there was the very first line. ‘Francine, the other night was amazing...’

  Ava stepped back, walking into a metal bin that fell, scattering an empty plastic bottle and a takeaway coffee cup over the carpet. She had to get out of there.

  ‘There is no card... no message...’ Francine called to Ava’s retreating form.

  She shrugged. ‘Sorry... I’m just the delivery girl.’ And then she turned towards the door to the stairs, desperate to escape, even though she knew what came next would be harder.

  38

  Eiffel Tower

  She hadn’t told Debs anything yet. ‘Francine, the other night was amazing.’ She swallowed. What did you read from that? She knew exactly what conclusion Debs would jump to. But it couldn’t be that, could it? Maybe Francine was working on a joint French project. Maybe they had Skyped through an ‘amazing’ new insurance concept. Ava had come out of the offices trying to look nonchalant and told Debs she had found nothing. But she had, and even if the email wasn’t as incriminating as it appeared, it did seem to indicate that Gary was in Paris not Toulouse. And no one lied about where they were unless they were covering up something really big, did they?

  She had left Debs – worried, frustrated, dying for answers – heading off to research a new coffee shop afternoon for singles and Ava only hoped the coffee and the need to write something Trudy couldn’t would distract her friend until Ava worked out what to do next.

  ‘You are here, Madonna?’

  Julien waved a hand in front of her face, his voice just loud enough to hear above the sound of a brass band playing to tourists who, even in the cold, were congregating around Paris’ most famous landmark. Some were waiting to ascend the tower, others just sipped hot chocolate and munched on crepes, browsing the stalls of tacky souvenirs, of which there seemed to be many.

  ‘Here,’ she replied, nodding.

  The trouble was, now she was here she remembered the last time she had been here. She’d squeezed Leo’s hand tight and almost burst with excitement when she saw the fountains and the trees, the infamous tower like an upside down ice-cream cone. She’d turned to him, ready to say this was the best place she’d ever been and then she saw in his free hand he was holding his mobile phone, tapping out an email to work or... perhaps even then he was sending messages to someone else... someone like Cassandra.

  ‘Look at them all,’ Julien stated. ‘Everyone always wants to take photographs of the tower.’

  His voice dragged her back to the present and she turned to face him. ‘Of course they do. This round-the-wrong-way Cornetto is what most people come to Paris to see.'

  ‘And you too think this is beautiful?’ Julien asked.

  ‘I think it’s iconic, yes,’ Ava admitted.

  ‘Why? Because everyone tells you it is?’

  ‘Monsieur Fitoussi, you really are cynical about everything, aren’t you?’

  ‘It is simply an iron building.’

  Ava sucked in a breath. ‘You can’t say that! It’s your national symbol!’

  ‘You know that most of the Fr
ench people think this is ugly, no?’

  ‘They can’t!’ Ava said, appalled.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked her. ‘It is too big, it towers over the skyline and looks out of place.’

  ‘I’m outraged and am deeply offended on its behalf,’ Ava said. She turned to face the tower and raised her hands in the air. ‘Madame Eiffel, don’t listen to the crazy photographer. You are not just a pile of girders, you are an icon... a beacon of solidarity for all the not-quite-perfect models out there. So what if your lines are metal? You’re sleek and original. Who cares if your lifts are always going out of order? You’re special!’

  ‘You are crazy,’ Julien stated, laughing.

  ‘So, if you come here and don’t take photographs of the tower, what do you take photos of?’

  She watched his eyes come away from the tower and she tried to follow his line of sight.

  ‘You know the Musée Rodin?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. Until this trip she hadn’t set foot in a museum here or anywhere else. Most holidays she’d been on involved lastminute.com.

  ‘There is a sculpture,’ he said. ‘It is called... The Kiss.’

  She swallowed, her cheeks heating up. ‘You take photos of a sculpture?’

  He shook his head. ‘Non.’

  ‘Then what?’

  He spread his arms wide, indicating the snow-covered grass between them and the Tour Eiffel, the trees lining the avenues leading the way to the structure. ‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘You said it yourself, people come here to see the ugly tower.’

  ‘I didn’t call her ugly, you did,’ Ava protested.

  ‘So, tell me, what type of people come here the most?’ Julien enquired.

  ‘I’ve seen quite a number of Japanese.’

  ‘Not the nationality,’ Julien stated.

  ‘Students?’ Ava guessed again.

  ‘Couples,’ Julien said. ‘Men and women, women and women, men and men... lovers.’

  At the word ‘lovers’ Ava’s stomach paraglided down to somewhere near her Converse. What was it with the French accent? She regrouped quickly. She had been part of a couple in Paris before, high on the romance and the lure of plastic statues and key rings of the tower. This time she was completely, utterly immune. With a two-timing rat as an ex and Gary’s alleged infidelity in the air she didn’t need to look hard for reminders that single was better. Single was simple. She cleared her throat. ‘What does that have to do with a sculpture?’

  ‘Well,’ Julien started. ‘I like to watch the lovers. I watch how they interact with each other... look at each other... kiss each other.’

  A shiver ran through her as those dark eyes met hers and she quickly screwed her face up. ‘There’s a name for people like you and it almost rhymes with Sacré-Coeur.’

  ‘Photographer?’ he asked, blinking.

  Ava shook her head and let out a laugh. ‘I think you need to show me, Monsieur Fitoussi.’ She breathed in. ‘Show me what’s going to make the cut in your charity exhibition.’

  ‘D’accord,’ he answered. ‘Regarde.’

  * * *

  Julien had taken her across to one of his favourite spots, a bench with a view of the comings and goings around the bottom of the tower. Usually, in spring, the trees would be in blooms of pink and white, now there was no foliage, just dark boughs sprinkled with snow, tourists not in shorts or summer dresses but thick coats, hats and scarves. Ava cradled the coffee she’d bought, looking at passers-by as if she expected some sort of revolution to occur. Already he knew patience wasn’t her strong point. If he wasn’t able to find the couple he had described he feared she would be bored. And what would her boredom say about his idea for beauty, simplicity and life going on as the backbone of his exhibition?

  ‘What are we looking for?’ she whispered as if they were part of some top-secret covert mission.

  ‘It is not as simple as that,’ he answered.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re looking for, do you?’ she guessed.

  ‘You are finally understanding my work,’ he stated, smiling as his eyes still scanned a crowd congregating around the carousel. Old-fashioned painted horses rose sedately up and down on gilt poles, piped fairground music accompanying them, riders red-cheeked and smiling.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she admitted.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Go out with your camera and not know if you’re going to find anything.’

  ‘Oh, Madonna, that is the very best part of my job.’

  ‘It would drive me mad. Particularly if I planned on having an exhibition.’

  ‘Is it not a little like selling apartments?’ he asked.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You do not sell an apartment every day?’

  ‘Actually most weeks lately I’ve sold at least one every day.’

  ‘But until that sale, perhaps when the clock is ticking around to the end of the day. Maybe you are tired and you think there is no possibility of anyone coming to view and then... a rich sultan arrives and buys a whole floor.’

  She smirked. ‘There’s only been one rich sultan in Canary Wharf and unfortunately Milo got the commission on that one.’

  ‘But you understand what I am saying. When we wake up, when we greet the day, none of us know exactly what is going to happen... good or bad.’ He quickly smiled. ‘The only thing we do know is that something is going to happen.’ He caught hold of her arm quickly. ‘Look!’

  ‘Where?’ she hissed.

  ‘The couple there.’ He moved his camera up to his eye.

  ‘What? The man with the grey hair in jeans and the elegant woman who looks like she wants to punch him in the face? Are they even a couple?’

  ‘Yes,’ Julien breathed, taking another shot. ‘They are a couple.’

  ‘But they look like they’ve had an argument,’ Ava stated. ‘They’re walking three feet apart.’

  ‘I know,’ Julien stated, sitting forward on the bench. ‘Wait.’

  ‘The look on her face tells me we could be waiting a very long time for her to thaw. When I look like that it’s usually days.’

  ‘Unless someone buys you food?’ Julien asked. ‘Or perhaps strong coffee?’

  Ava folded her arms across her chest. ‘Maybe.’ She sniffed. ‘Is that what’s going to happen? Is he going to buy her a bag of madeleines and a Java and all will be forgiven?’

  ‘Sshh,’ Julien said, one eye on the couple through the camera.

  ‘I’ll sing if you shush me again.’

  ‘Please, not the ‘La Marseillaise’. You sang all the wrong words last night.’

  * * *

  Ava concentrated on the couple Julien had pointed out. They looked to be in their forties. The man had shoulder-length grey hair swept back behind his ears, a brown leather three-quarter-length coat buttoned up to the neck, smart dark blue jeans and he was carrying a large bag with thin handles that looked like it came from a boutique. She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about boutiques or cadeaux any more today.

  The woman’s hair was ebony, her glossy red lipstick a stark contrast to her pale skin, a short coat belted at the waist stopped at knee-length boots with heels higher than the pair Ava had worn to Bettina’s. Even from this distance she could clearly see the woman’s expression was fixed somewhere between sad and angry, not interacting in any way with the man who walked next to her. Ava didn’t know what Julien was thinking, picking this couple for his ‘the kiss’ moment. If they ever kissed again it would be some sort of Christmas miracle.

  ‘He’s had enough,’ Ava remarked, watching as the man walked away from the woman. ‘I’m really not sure they were even a couple in the first place.’

  ‘You are not watching closely enough,’ Julien responded.

  ‘I can see that she’s pissed off with him and he’s leaving her.’ She took a swig of her coffee, swallowing then blowing the steamy breath out into the air.

  ‘And where is he going?’ Julien asked her.
/>   She looked back to the scene, her eyes finding the man and following his movement across the avenue to a stallholder, two buckets sat on the concrete in front of him. Roses.

  Ava let out a laugh. ‘He isn’t really going to do what I think he’s going to do, is he?’

  ‘What?’ Julien asked.

  ‘Roses,’ she stated. ‘From a street seller?! The woman looks like she’s walked out of a chic boutique. She is never going to fall for a rose from a street seller when she looks as mad as she does right now.’

  ‘You really have no faith at all, Ava?’ he asked. ‘Now who is the cynical one?’

  Ava swallowed at his words. Why should she have faith in love? Two words. Leo. Gary. Two more. Her parents. She had every right to be cynical.

  ‘Ava,’ Julien said, ‘look.’

  She concentrated back on the man in the leather coat who now had a single red rose in his possession. The woman was standing a few yards away, her gaze on the Eiffel Tower, the winter sun reflected off the grey steel. Ava was holding her breath. Part of her wanted the woman to knock the rose to the ground and stamp her feet at his weak attempt at reconciliation. The other part of her wanted the woman to take the rose and smile, perhaps lift it to her nose and inhale the sweet, velvety scent. She wet her lips, eyes almost hurting as they focussed.

  Ava could hear Julien’s camera clicking away as the man approached the woman, the rose hidden behind his back. The man said something, making the woman turn and give him her full attention. Then he bowed to her before reaching out and taking one of his hands in hers. The woman was looking at him, the expression on her face a work in progress. The rose was presented and Ava watched the woman transform. Her whole body softened to the man, her face lighting up with surprise and utter excitement at this single stemmed flower with red petals. Ava swallowed, tears pricking her eyes without her even realising it, watching intently as the woman threw herself into the man’s arms, the rose held tightly in her hands as she embraced him with everything she had. Ava couldn’t look any more. Love. Simple. Honest. Not for her.