One Christmas in Paris

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I know but we have a late train, don’t we? Julien asked me to go to the wedding with him,’ Ava stated.

  ‘You haven’t told him you’re going back to the UK yet, have you?’

  ‘I mentioned it. A while ago. With my mouth full of cheese.’ She sniffed. ‘We’ve been sort of caught up with this event.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, what would you write on your wish list?’ Debs asked.

  ‘That I wish my crazy friend would live for the moment more? That they really should do strong coffee in bigger cups here? That I wish Prince was still alive.’

  ‘Ava...’

  ‘Ooh, look, there’s a mime artist.’

  65

  Julien had wanted to be early but thanks to the Parisian traffic he was stepping out of the car with his father and Vivienne only twenty minutes before the event was due to start. And in his pocket, his fingers curling around the paper, was the very best picture he had ever seen. He had found it earlier when he got out of the shower, propped up on his desk. It was a portrait. Of him. Sketched in blue biro with a message from the artist.

  Monsieur Fitoussi, to the possibility of possibilities and believing in the impossible, Madonna xx.

  ‘Oh my!’ Vivienne exclaimed, her hands going to her mouth as she observed the scene before them.

  This was now overwhelming. He had seen the bones of it earlier when he had supervised the setting up of his work but it had been transformed even more since then. The entire square looked like something out of a Disney film. White lights surrounded the black metal fence and hung from the trees, two large marquees were set up either side of what looked like hundreds of chairs – almost all of them filled with people – their gaze on a large screen at one end of the park that was currently lit up with a photo of his sister interchanging with the other people who had lost their lives in the fire, red, white and blue spotlights moving up and down in sequence.

  ‘You have done all this in less than a week,’ Gerard remarked, his voice thick with emotion.

  ‘Not alone, Dad,’ he answered. ‘With a lot of help from a lot of friends, some people I do not even know but who wanted to help.’ He paused. ‘And Ava.’

  He saw her then, running across the frosted grass towards him, skidding on the high boots as she attempted to stop. He put his hands out to catch her.

  ‘Thank you, sorry, stupid shoes again but I didn’t think Converse was right for the occasion.’ She took a breath. ‘Bonsoir, Gerard and Vivienne, welcome to the Julien Fitoussi Fundraiser for the Red Cross. Would you like a catalogue?’ She offered them out to Julien’s parents.

  ‘Thank you, Ava,’ Vivienne stated. ‘I am so sorry I was unable to get here this afternoon.’

  ‘I completely understand. The wedding being... two days away. Gosh, you must be nervous... I don’t mean nervous because you know what you’re doing but...’

  Vivienne smiled. ‘You received my parcel though, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ava said. ‘We did. I’m really hoping we won’t have to use them but, if we do, c’est la vie, as they say in France.’ She laughed, then took a strong grip on Julien’s arm. ‘We really need you mingling.’

  ‘There are hundreds of people here, Ava,’ he remarked, his eyes roving the patrons in the park.

  ‘I know. I did say you can count on my mother. We are practically out of canapés. Debs has gone begging to restaurants.’

  ‘Julien,’ Gerard said. ‘You should go. We will find some seats.’

  ‘Please, have some champagne, my mother’s company donated it and I really hope none of it goes to waste,’ Ava called.

  ‘Your mother bought champagne,’ Julien said, turning to her.

  ‘I know. Don’t say anything, but I really think that proves she likes you more than me.’

  He shook his head, still astounded by the number of people who were here. ‘Look at this place, Ava.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, breathing deeply.

  There were wine waiters handing out sparkling drinks and nibbles, guests snuggling under blankets, others standing beneath large patio-style heaters in just formal wear, excited chatter filled the air... and nerves invaded his stomach.

  ‘Come and look at your pictures,’ Ava encouraged, slipping her arm through his. ‘Debs and my mother have been tasked with selling them until I can get back there.’

  ‘I do not know what to say,’ Julien spoke. ‘Or how to thank you. Not just for this tonight...’ He breathed out. ‘For my picture.’

  He watched her blush a little.

  ‘You liked it?’

  ‘It is amazing, Madonna. You need to believe that.’ He gently touched her hair. ‘Thank you.’

  Ava looked up at him, smiling. ‘Oh, Monsieur Fitoussi, I can think of lots of ways you can thank me thoroughly later.’

  * * *

  ‘Julien Fitoussi is... an artist. No, I would go further than that and say... a photographic genius. His photos are going to be like gold dust after tonight’s exhibition. If I were you I would snap up a couple of these tonight while the prices are so low... and remember it is all for charity.’ Debs smiled at the guest who had stopped by Julien’s photo of the Saint-Jacques Tower.

  ‘Debs, how’s it going?’ Ava asked, smiling at the guest who was moving through the twisted board some of Julien’s photos were mounted on to replicate the shape of the Seine.

  ‘It might help if the photographer was here. I’m running out of things to say,’ Debs admitted, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  ‘He’s here, he’s just talking to a Red Cross representative and one of the other families... Where’s my mother?’ Ava asked.

  ‘She’s with the Prince of Somewhere and there was a countess at one point.’

  ‘The countess didn’t eat any of the Brie, did she?’

  ‘I have no idea. I didn’t realise I had to keep an eye on people’s eating habits as well as their chequebooks.’

  ‘Sorry. Listen, why don’t you take a break? Find Didier and take your seats. I’ve got this and Julien will be here any minute before the show on stage starts.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Debs asked, inhaling more champagne.

  ‘Yes, go,’ Ava urged.

  ‘Gone!’ Debs said, heading for the marquee door.

  Ava gazed around the room at the people observing the pictures and then something she hadn’t seen before caught her eye. Slightly larger than any of the other photos, on canvas, in the centre of the display on the back wall was another photo of her. It was one she hadn’t seen earlier when she had been making sure everything was in place.

  She weaved around the guests, muttering excusez-moi’s until she was stood directly in front of the photo. She knew then when it had been taken. The clouds had blocked out the sun and Julien had gone to get coffee. She had been waiting for him, sitting on a bench, the buckets of bright red flowers at her feet, eyes focussed on two little boys who had been chasing each other with sticks as pretend guns.

  She had thought nothing of it at the time but here, looking at the dark, moody sky behind her image, the boys shouting and poking each other, the red flowers at her feet, it held a simple message... She put her hand to her chest, just soaking in the haunting image.

  ‘Madonna,’ Julien addressed her.

  The sound of his voice brought her back into the moment and she turned to face him. ‘I... didn’t see this one.’

  ‘It is frightening, non?’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone is going to want it hanging on their wall,’ she admitted.

  ‘No,’ Julien said. ‘I agree. Your mother tells me the photographs of war veterans and love locks are selling the very best.’ He smiled.

  ‘So...’

  ‘This photo is not for sale,’ he stated. ‘See, no price.’ He touched the edge of the canvas before drawing in a breath. ‘But when I saw how it had turned out I needed it to be here tonight. To remind me of what is important...
the beauty of Paris... you... innocence in a changing world.’ He sighed. ‘Tonight isn’t just about Lauren and the fire; it’s about everyone that has been lost in this country this year. And what and who it affects the most. The future. Our future. The future of our children.’

  There were tears in her eyes as he finished and the next thing she knew the people in the marquee were clapping their hands together in a heart-felt applause. Ava stepped back, turning to the guests and stretching out a hand. ‘Ladies and gentleman, the extremely talented, Monsieur Julien Fitoussi.’ She began to clap loud and hard and everyone else joined in again.

  66

  Julien was suffering from the same sweaty-palm scenario that had afflicted him when Ava had suggested he sat in a window seat of the restaurant near the Sacré-Coeur. On stage the lady from the Croix-Rouge was telling the audience about the charity’s progress all around the world and the good work the donations received tonight was going to do.

  Any moment now it would be his turn under the spotlight, gazing out into the darkness, the only light out there provided by the loops of bulbs hanging from the trees and in the windows of the buildings surrounding the Place des Vosges.

  He balled his hands together in an attempt to stop the sweat and looked out into the dark.

  * * *

  ‘He looks like he might be sick,’ Didier announced. ‘Does he look to you like he might be sick?’

  ‘Ava?’ Debs asked.

  ‘He isn’t going to be sick.’

  ‘He has done this before,’ Didier remarked. ‘At his last exhibition.’

  ‘I know,’ Ava said. ‘He told me.’

  ‘He is swaying,’ Didier stated. ‘Does he look to you as if he is swaying?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Ava begged.

  ‘I don’t know if I can watch,’ Debs admitted, hands in her hair.

  ‘Shh,’ Ava said. ‘We are all going to watch, because Julien standing up there talking about Lauren is a lot easier to bear than the night she died. I don’t care if he’s sick all over the Countess of Whatever as long as the night is a success and he feels a little peace again.’ She shivered and put a fingernail in her mouth, biting down.

  ‘She’s right,’ Debs said, placing her arm around Ava’s shoulders and pulling her close.

  ‘D’accord,’ Didier said, his arm going around Ava too.

  * * *

  ‘...I give to you, Monsieur Julien Fitoussi.’

  The noise from the crowd caught him unawares and the spotlight swinging to capture him left him temporarily blinded. He had to do this. He had to move. Just one foot in front of the other. Just focussing on the fact he was still here and he owed it to his sister to be brave right now. Sheer grit carried him to the lectern and he offered the audience a smile, waiting for the applause to cease.

  ‘Good evening, everybody. I would first like to say thank you to all of you from the very bottom of my heart for coming here tonight. It is cold in Paris in December, no?’

  There were some titters of amusement from the guests.

  ‘I know you have all paid for the pleasure of sitting on freezing cold chairs looking at my photographs and I only hope that the champagne and food has cheered you a little.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Tonight, I want to talk to you about my sister, Lauren.’ He glanced to the screen behind him and another photo of Lauren appeared – a selfie with him, taken at a birthday party for one of their friends.

  ‘Lauren Fitoussi. A sister. A daughter. A friend. But never to be a sister-in-law, an auntie or... a wife.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Those milestones we all take for granted will be ours. Time is endless. We can take our time. We can live our life... at a steady pace, with no worries... because we will all live until we are at least eighty.’ He looked out into the crowd, not seeing anything but black. ‘But that is only true if you are fortunate. You have looked after your health, you have not drunk too much red wine or eaten too much Camembert, maybe you have exercised... But does living to less than eighty years make you unfortunate? Does this mean that Lauren was not lucky? No,’ he stated. ‘Lauren...’ He looked up at her photograph. ‘She lived a life that was good, a life that was true. She drank too much red wine and she ate too much Camembert and she loved to laugh and to dance until her feet were so sore she had to walk home barefoot.’ He smiled as he remembered. ‘I do not think that if Lauren was asked what she would do that was different in her short life that she would make any changes... only to do more of the same.’ He leant on the lectern with both hands, steadying his body as well as his nerves. ‘And that is what tonight is all about. Our lives. Our choices.’ He sighed. ‘Tonight is about helping those in need, remembering my sister and the loved ones of so many who died in the fire on Rue Auzenne. Ordinary people. Just like you, just like me.’

  The photo on the screen changed to a group shot of the relatives of all the victims of the fire, all holding placards with the name of their loved one and a photo of them doing something that made them happy, smiles, laughter, the best memories. There in the centre were Vivienne and Gerard, arm in arm, one holding a photo of Lauren, the other with the sign bearing the slogan #ForeverWithUs.

  He leaned in a little closer to the microphone, before letting the next words escape in a broken whisper.

  ‘Lauren Fitoussi, forever with us.’

  * * *

  The crowd were on their feet in an instant, clapping hard and Ava joined them, tears in her eyes, Julien’s words battering at her heart. And as the audience applauded the heavens suddenly opened and rain began to flash down onto the square.

  ‘Shit! Not now!’ Ava exclaimed, leaping up from her chair.

  ‘What do we do?’ Debs asked. ‘We don’t want people to leave until they’ve been totes fleeced. In a charity sense obviously.’

  ‘The boxes,’ Ava said. ‘The boxes Vivienne sent over. Where are they?’ She flapped her arms up and down as the rain began to fall a little harder.

  ‘Relax,’ Didier said, sitting back in his chair. ‘I have this under control.’ He folded his arms behind his head and looked a little smug.

  ‘Didier, you were in charge of those boxes,’ Debs reminded him.

  ‘I know,’ he answered coolly. ‘I delegated. Ah, regarde.’

  Ava followed Didier’s line of vision and watched as Pierre, Anais, David and a troupe of Didier’s other relatives appeared carrying the red, white and blue Fitoussi Finance umbrellas and began a human chain, passing them along the rows for the guests to put up and keep dry under.

  ‘You are wonderful,’ Debs said, flinging her arms around the Frenchman. ‘Utterly totes wonderful.’

  ‘I know,’ Didier answered. ‘And now it is time for the mime.’

  ‘What?’ Ava asked. ‘Mime? I don’t remember signing off on mime.’

  ‘Artistic friends of mine will mime acts based on scenes from Julien’s photographs while the guests buy them all up,’ Didier explained.

  ‘Please, Didier, promise me there are no clowns.’

  67

  Julien shook hands with someone who had just paid double the quoted price for his photograph of the artists at Montmartre. It was going well. There were only now a handful of photographs without sold stickers on them. He was, however, exhausted.

  ‘Julien.’

  He turned at his father’s voice and greeted Gerard with a smile. ‘Dad.’

  Expecting his father to speak, he was taken aback when Gerard’s arms clasped around him and drew him into a heavy embrace. He closed his eyes, holding onto his dad and relishing the closeness that had been missing from their relationship for so long.

  Gerard drew away and plucked the handkerchief from his top pocket, dabbing at his eyes quickly. ‘You were wonderful up there tonight.’

  ‘I do not know about that. I am not one for the spotlight.’

  ‘You should be proud, Julien. I am proud.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I should have been prouder sooner,’ Gerard admitted. ‘It will be stu
bbornness that kills me, not red wine.’

  ‘You are going to live to over eighty, Dad,’ he assured.

  ‘If this wedding planning does not kill me first.’

  ‘Where is Vivienne?’ Julien asked.

  ‘Talking to someone about last-minute chocolates... What we need these chocolates for I have no idea. The wedding is the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I know,’ Julien answered. ‘It is going to be a wonderful day.’

  ‘And... you know... I never really meant it about you not being my best man,’ Gerard stated.

  ‘I know,’ Julien said again.

  ‘There is no one else I need more by my side,’ Gerard insisted.

  ‘It will be an honour.’

  He watched his father’s gaze move across the marquee. ‘Will you be bringing Ava... to the wedding?’ Gerard asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Julien said.

  ‘Good,’ Gerard answered. ‘Because we would very much like to invite her for Christmas Day too.’

  Julien swallowed. Gerard’s invitation brought home the matter that he knew Ava was going home for Christmas but he had no idea when she was leaving.

  ‘I don’t know if this will be possible. She will probably be returning to England and—’

  ‘Julien, what are you thinking? You have just delivered a speech on that stage telling people to fight for want they want in life, that they only have one chance... You are going to let her go back to England?’

  ‘It is not a case of “letting” her. She is her own person. She makes her own choices and that is the way it should be.’

  ‘You say you love her,’ Gerard said.

  ‘More than I have ever loved anything,’ he answered.

  ‘Invite her to Christmas dinner, Julien.’

  * * *

  ‘See the way Monsieur Fitoussi has captured the light so perfectly here?’ Rhoda leant forward and brushed her hand through the air near the section of the photograph she was describing.