One Christmas in Paris

by Mandy Baggot

  He looked down at his body and his fingers found the scar on the left side of his abdomen. A red angry welt of ugly skin. That was what had repulsed Monique. She might have said it was his inability to open up to her but he knew better. Who would want to look at that for a lifetime? He didn’t. Grabbing a black shirt from the top of the sofa he slipped it over his body and began to fasten the buttons with haste. He was making too much of this. He had got too close, inviting Ava to see how he worked, taking her all over the city, asking for her help with the exhibition. He needed to take a step back... a few hundred paces back... not go on a romantic cruise up the Seine. He swallowed, checking his reflection in the mirror. But Didier had practically begged. It was for Debs. He should look at it as work. He could take some photos of the sights for the exhibition – he needed something if he was going to pull it off. He could make sure they both knew where they stood.

  From the desk his mobile phone erupted into life and his step-mother’s face blinked on and off in the half-light. Picking it up, he answered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Julien,’ Vivienne greeted, her voice tense.

  She sounded nothing short of pained. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s... your father, he came home from work and he drank and then he drank some more and he... smashed the photographs.’ Vivienne let out a sob that made Julien want to reach down the line and gather her up in his arms.

  ‘I tried, Vivienne, at the suit fitting,’ Julien began. ‘I tried to make things right like you asked but... he is still too far away.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’ It was an almost desperate plea. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  He didn’t know either, but he did know that his step-mother didn’t deserve to shoulder this worry alone right before her wedding. How could he tell her that his father didn’t even want him to be his best man any more?

  ‘I’m coming over.’

  ‘I don’t think you should right now – not while he’s like this.’

  ‘Perhaps he should see someone,’ Julien stated.

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘A counsellor?’ He swallowed. Vivienne had suggested this to him and Gerard shortly after Lauren’s death and both of them had flatly refused.

  ‘Oh, Julien, you know how he is with that subject,’ she said. ‘The very same way you are.’

  ‘I told him I wanted to do another exhibition. To honour Lauren and the other families who lost people in the fire.’

  ‘Oh, Julien,’ Vivienne exclaimed. ‘That is a wonderful idea.’

  ‘Dad didn’t think so.’ He sighed. ‘He said whatever I did nothing would bring Lauren back. As if I didn’t know that already. As if I didn’t already realise that nothing will be the same.’ He paused. ‘Vivienne, I just want to do something positive. Something I think Lauren would approve of. I know that locking myself in my apartment and hiding wasn’t solving anything. And I know Lauren would have hated that.’

  ‘Will you come over? Not now but later this week?’ Vivienne asked. ‘For dinner?’

  ‘I do not think he will want me there.’

  ‘I want you there, Julien.’ She sighed. ‘I need you there.’

  His heart ached as his step-mother’s tone pinched at him. He had to help her, and his relationship with his father was at a point where it couldn’t really get any worse.

  ‘I’ll come,’ he agreed.

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘Vivienne,’ he started, ‘you are OK for tonight?’

  There was a pause before... ‘He shut himself in the bedroom and cried himself to sleep.’

  Julien closed his eyes and held his breath before continuing. ‘If you need me, Vivienne, for anything, please just call me.’

  ‘I will.’

  He heard her inhale deeply. ‘I am so glad you are taking photos again, Julien. So very glad.’

  ‘Me too,’ he responded. His eyes went to his computer where the images he had snapped of Ava at the Panthéon, outside her hotel and at the Sacré-Coeur, slipped left and right. Why was he torturing himself with the images when what they had shared today was all about numbers on a list to her?

  ‘Do you have a theme for the exhibition yet?’

  ‘Beauty,’ he answered. ‘Beauty in every day.’

  He took the mouse on the desk in his right hand and clicked the button to shut down. Ava’s picture disappeared and finally, as he said his goodbyes to Vivienne, the screen went black.

  43

  Notre Dame boarding point

  Ava was wearing Debs’ boots again and still her feet were cold. She was also wearing a bright red dress she had found in her case that had only made it in there because she’d thought it was her favourite Hollister sweater. She hadn’t thought about romantic dinners on a riverboat when she was grabbing things for a trip with her best friend.

  She checked her watch again. Julien should be here already if they were going to get on board before the boat set sail. Maybe he wasn’t coming. She wouldn’t blame him. After the kiss today it was a little cliché that they were now being pushed into another couples’ event. And there were couples galore on the dock, accepting complimentary champagne from wine waiters dressed in pure white suits, even the snow looking a little beige in comparison. Other cruisers were already on board the long vessel, its inside completely encased in glass from which the travellers were going to experience the magic of Paris by night. Didier had shouted the information through the bathroom door to her while she was grabbing a five-minute cold shower after he had used all the hot water.

  From her vantage point she could see the elaborate interior, well-dressed guests standing, nibbling at canapés, beside a gold-and-purple-decorated Christmas tree, while around them the immaculately dressed staff put the finishing touches to the tables set close to the full-height windows. The sound of violins started up and Ava looked to her left where three young men in black jackets, white shirts and red bow ties had begun playing festive music. Everyone was happy. Everyone was relaxed. Except her.

  From inside the bag on her shoulder her phone vibrated. Perhaps it was Julien, making his apologies. She unfastened the zip and pulled it out. Before she saw who the message was from she saw the photograph. A selfie she had taken. A selfie she had deleted from her camera roll only a few days ago. Her and Leo underneath the Arc De Triomphe. She pressed hard on the off button and waited for the phone to shut down. He could text her a hundred photos, nothing was going to change.

  She looked at her watch again. How long before she had to make a decision? Should she get on alone or leave?

  * * *

  Julien held his breath the moment she came into view. The bright red of her dress beneath her coat, those knee-length boots again and the silver blonde of her hair made him come to a standstill a few feet away. What was he doing here? Torturing himself? His whole body was telling him just how he felt about her. His brain, in comparison, knew there were plenty of reasons to keep his distance, not least the fact that their kiss had just been something to accomplish for her.

  He couldn’t help himself. With the golden glow from the streetlamps, the silvery patterns on the water to her right, the violinists, the snow on the ground and the bateaux lit up in lilac and white, it was a perfect Parisian scene. He lifted his camera to his face and snapped. Zooming in he saw her look at the watch on her arm. He dropped his camera down, his fingers touching the strap around his neck. Was he really doing this?

  * * *

  Just at the moment Ava was certain Julien wasn’t going to turn up she spotted him across the quayside. Wearing dark jeans, a black shirt visible under his woollen coat, his camera around his neck, her insides dipped like the mercury in a thermometer on a really cold day. She waved a hand and watched him walk across the snow-covered pathway towards her.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ she greeted, with a grin. ‘Here we are again.’

  ‘Here we are again,’ he responded. ‘Pretending to be something we are not, non?’

 
Ava looked up at him then, the tone of his voice a little off. ‘Yes... I’m sorry about that. Debs... these articles and being worried about her mum and—’

  ‘Didier told me the details,’ he responded. ‘Shall we go on? I can take photographs of the real couples.’

  He walked past her then, stepping onto the short gangplank where someone was waiting to greet them. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat, gathering the material around her and following him.

  ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,’ the woman at the entrance said as Ava struggled on her heels down the three steps that led onto the boat.

  ‘Bonsoir, we have a reservation,’ she began, her eyes going to the retreating form of Julien who was already on the boat snapping photographs. ‘In the name of Devlin, I think.’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Ava!’ Julien called. ‘Come. It is this way.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ava quickly apologised before heading onto the boat.

  She stepped through the main door onto dark wood flooring, mahogany-coloured tables covered in white linen, sparkling glasses and perfect china set in place on each and every one of them. In the centre of each table was a large glass bowl, a selection of festive decorations in each – red and green baubles, a handful of white fluffy balls like clouds of snow and a fresh orange spiked with cloves. In the furthest corner, cleverly positioned so as not to block the views from the windows, was a band – a guitarist, a singer and a man on the keyboard – lightly playing something by Frank Sinatra.

  ‘Ava,’ Julien called again. ‘We are here.’

  She swallowed, looking at the table where Julien was standing. It was right up against the glass, set for two, a candle glowing next to the bowl of festiveness. If this was a date there was no denying this would be a particularly spectacular setting. She would make a mental note of that for Debs.

  Julien pulled out the chair for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, dropping down into it and watching as he moved to the seat opposite and sat down too.

  A waiter appeared with menus and quickly poured them both a glass of champagne, topping it off with a strawberry that floated on the bubbles. Ava smiled as he departed.

  She took a sip of the champagne. ‘Ooo, this is lovely. Do you like it?’ she asked him.

  He waved a hand in the air. ‘It is OK.’

  She smiled again. ‘Do I sense a little French champagne snobbery, Monsieur Fitoussi? I know we aren’t exactly connoisseurs in England.’

  ‘I am not really a great fan of champagne,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry. We’ll just order beer when he comes back,’ Ava suggested. ‘Or maybe a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  He was being brusque and not holding her gaze. She reached forward across the table towards his hands. He withdrew, moving his hands and sitting back in his chair. This was odd. She knew the vibe was a little edgy after the Eiffel Tower moment, but they had left each other on good terms earlier, friends like they had been, aiming to plan his exhibition.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he answered a little too quickly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘Because—’

  ‘I’m fine, Ava,’ he responded. ‘Everything is fine.’

  His tone was sharp and she withdrew her hands, picking up her napkin and looking out of the window at the choppy Seine, the winter breeze blowing the snowflakes across the water.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said a little softer. ‘I am just a little tired that is all.’

  She looked back to him. ‘It was all those steps. Up and down the Eiffel Tower.’

  The second she had said the name of the landmark she had kissed him at the top of, a charge ran through her and her lips reacted like they could still taste him. She reached for her champagne glass and inhaled the effervescent liquid.

  ‘What are you going to order?’ Julien asked.

  ‘Oh... I haven’t even looked at the menu,’ Ava said, putting her glass down and looking at the cream card she had laid down next to her side plate. It was all in French. As it would be, being in France. The only words she recognised was legumes and boeuf.

  ‘You would like me to translate the menu?’ Julien offered.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s OK.’

  ‘You understand this?’

  ‘I’m not fussy when it comes to food. I’ll just choose one.’

  Julien put down his menu. ‘I will have the cat I think.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not that gullible... and I know the word for cat.’

  ‘Ava, let me translate it,’ he offered.

  ‘I’ve found snails,’ Ava said, still looking at the card.

  ‘For starter there is foie gras, snails, salmon or crab,’ Julien said. ‘For the main course there is sea bass, beef fillet, duck or veal. And for dessert there is apricots and cherries, chocolate concerto...’

  ‘Concerto? A whole orchestra of chocolate! You really don’t have to read any further.’

  He put the menu down and picked up his champagne glass. ‘We will set off soon.’

  Ava glanced out of the window, across the width of the water, taking in the rows of twinkling lights woven into the trees and French life passing by – a family on a selection of bicycles – a man and a woman and two little girls trying to catch up, taxis and lots of Renaults...

  ‘Have you been on one of these cruises before?’ Ava asked.

  ‘A sightseeing cruise,’ he responded. ‘In the day time.’

  ‘Is it good?’ Ava asked, excitement coating her words.

  ‘It is a nice way to see the city. Everything is so much slower on the water. We drift, we take in the hurrying of others, the lights, the landmarks looking different in the dark.’

  ‘Everything is different, isn’t it?’ Ava said. ‘You look at something once and you never see it all the first time around.’

  * * *

  Julien shifted in his chair, his fingers curling around the stem of his glass. That was how he had felt about Ava. Before the piece of paper had fallen from her pocket.

  ‘It’s like filo pastry or... those last few layers of pass-the-parcel when you’re a child. You expect it to be more of the same then... wow, chocolate fondant or a colouring book.’

  He couldn’t help but smile at her analogy. This was the Ava he had got to know over the past few days, not someone who would make such a thoughtless, weak wish list.

  ‘What’s your favourite place here, Julien?’ she asked. ‘In Paris I mean. What do you like best?’

  Her eyes were fixed on him, those beautiful, clear green eyes full of interest for whatever he was about to say. He swallowed. ‘I like the Place des Vosges,’ he answered.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It is a square in the Marais district. And surrounding this are buildings that have been the home to many famous people of interest. Poets, painters and writers.’

  ‘What makes it special to you?’ Ava asked him.

  ‘I do not know... perhaps the fountains... or maybe it is just the peace. It is a big square, closed off from the rest of the city.’

  ‘Will you take me there?’ Ava asked.

  ‘It is near the Place de la Bastille. You have been here, non?’

  ‘Non,’ she said, sipping at her drink. ‘The only places I have really been are with you.’

  His heart suddenly felt so heavy. He took a swig of his drink. He couldn’t take her to the Place des Vosges any more than he could take her anywhere any more. It was all too complicated now. He had complicated things by buying a love lock, by kissing her, by sharing so much of himself with her, by being here tonight...

  ‘Maybe I am not the best tour guide,’ he offered.

  He watched Ava fold her arms across her chest and hit him with a dark look of suspicion. ‘What’s going on? Why are you being like this?’

  ‘I do not know what you mean. We should order the food,
’ he said, raising his hand and beckoning the waiter as the boat began to move.

  ‘Not until you answer one question,’ Ava said.

  He was scared to ask but there was no way out. ‘What?’

  ‘Why haven’t you called me Madonna tonight?’

  44

  Ava held her eyes on Julien, waiting for him to give her an answer. He had coiled his napkin up in his hand and was just looking back at her, no words forthcoming.

  ‘Monsieur,’ the waiter addressed Julien, giving a little bow. He said something else in French Ava presumed meant he was asking them if they were ready to place their order.

  ‘Ava?’ Julien asked. ‘What did you want to eat?’

  ‘Crab, duck and chocolate,’ she responded, draining the contents of her champagne glass. She put the glass back down on the table and listened as Julien told the waiter their order.

  When the waiter headed off again Julien cleared his throat and looked to the full-length window. ‘The lights of the Eiffel Tower,’ he began.

  Ava cast a glance to her left, looking out and up, seeking the very top of the structure. It was coated in a bright amber glow, spiralling up from its legs to the pinnacle, bands of silvery white lights at the two lower levels and small dots of red nearer the spike. It did look beautiful and Christmassy. She turned back, her humour unimproved.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ she repeated.

  He let out a sigh. ‘I will call you Madonna if you want me to, Ava.’

  ‘Not like that,’ she responded. ‘Not like you can’t bear to have the word on your lips.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he said immediately.

  ‘Something’s changed,’ she stated sadly. ‘If this is about what happened at the top of the tower... well, I thought we were forgetting about that.’