Why had Kate decided to just book a ticket and come without any warning? Since children, the new, sensible Kate just didn’t do stuff like this. Whenever Shannon had asked her to visit, she’d always had some excuse. The children were always breastfeeding or teething or had just had injections. Was it that she couldn’t come or was it that she didn’t want to? People always changed when they had kids. Suddenly their lives revolved around their children and they got new friends who also had children and all they talked about was their children. Which is part of the reason Shannon had never wanted them. Part of it.
The tights were on. Now, where had she put her skirt? It had been thrown to the floor in her haste to make it to the bathroom in time. At least that was one benefit of this tiny Parisian apartment: less distance to run. This lounge was the size of a hotel bedroom back in Chicago, and the kitchen area was almost an afterthought. Shannon found her skirt dangling from the back of a chair and slipped it on. Was she imagining it or was the waistband a little tighter than usual? Hopefully it had just shrunk in the wash. Don’t think about it till you know for sure. Think about Kate instead.
Something big must be up if Kate was coming out to Paris alone. Hopefully there wasn’t some problem. It couldn’t be her marriage, surely? Luke was a cool guy; the two of them always seemed real happy together. He was funny. And kind. And he looked at Kate as if she was the most fabulous woman on the planet. It was almost enough to make a woman jealous. If she was looking for that kind of thing.
But maybe things had changed. Shannon hadn’t seen them in a year. Even when she’d gone to the UK with Robert six months ago, she hadn’t looked them up. Hadn’t even told Kate she was there. Of course, it had been a business trip. There hadn’t really been time to leave London to visit Kate. But she should have made time. You didn’t find friends like that everywhere. Kate was a keeper.
Now the skirt was on too, it was time to get going. Although, maybe she should try and force down a couple of ginger cookies before heading for the Métro. The cookies were in the cupboard in a jar she’d bought especially a few days ago. Before that, she hadn’t allowed confectionery of any type in the house. Now it was her best friend. Speaking of which, she’d better call Robert and tell him she was going to be late.
He picked up on the first ring. ‘Hi.’
Was he still mad at her from their argument last night? She’d been pretty mad too, but right now she was too wrung out to carry it on. ‘Hi, I’m going to be late.’
There was a long pause at the other end. He was still mad. ‘Why?’
Shannon took a small bite of the ginger cookie, chewed and swallowed. Two could play at this pausing game. ‘Just running late.’
At the other end of the line, Robert took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe it was her excitement at seeing Kate again, but it almost made Shannon laugh. He could be so dramatic. So deliciously French. ‘You know we are meeting the sales team at one thirty at the hotel? It was your idea to waste time sightseeing. As if strolling around the Louvre staring at paintings is going to help them get anywhere near their targets.’
Of course she knew. She was the one who had booked everything. The conference room, the hotel, the minibus and the tour guide for the Louvre. ‘Yeah. About that. I need an hour at lunchtime to meet an English friend at Gare du Nord.’ She purposefully enunciated the ‘d’ at the end of ‘Nord’. It really irritated him.
But Robert was more interested in who she was meeting. ‘What English friend?’
Shannon took another bite of her biscuit. She could picture him right now, frowning into the phone, running an irritated hand through his thick, dark hair. He was too easy. ‘Oh. No one you know.’
‘A man?’
Fun though it was to make Robert jealous, Shannon didn’t have the energy this morning. ‘No. A girlfriend. Kate. We worked together in the UK. I have mentioned her before.’
Despite the short notice, it was going to be great to see Kate. Shannon had been so busy since she came to Paris to work for Robert that she hadn’t had time to make any friends here. Of course, dating him made that even more difficult. He didn’t have a large social group himself. Although his divorce had happened a long time before he met Shannon, his ex-wife seemed to have won most of their mutual friends in the settlement. He also had two almost-adult daughters. Shannon hadn’t met them either; families weren’t her thing.
Robert’s voice was so sharp he was in danger of cutting himself. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why is she coming this weekend? We have work to do.’
Shannon took another cookie and snapped it in half. If he was going to talk to her like that, he didn’t deserve an answer. This was why she hadn’t let him stay over last night. He’d started on at her about meeting his girls. She’d tried — again — to make him understand that she just wasn’t the maternal type. With any luck, God had got that memo too.
Finally, when he didn’t get a response, Robert’s voice softened. A little. ‘Okay. Meet your friend from the station. I can do the Louvre on my own. I’m in the office now. How long before you get here?’
This was usually how their disagreements went. He would blow up and then back down. But he’d irritated Shannon now. ‘Actually, I have my laptop, so I may as well work here until I go and meet her. Otherwise, I’ll be wasting time on the Métro. If I come in to the office, I’ll only have an hour before I have to head to Gare du Nord.’ She pronounced the ‘d’ again.
But he didn’t bite. ‘Well, I’ll see you at the Louvre later, after the tour. Maybe we can have coffee together when they have their free time this afternoon?’
The ginger snaps were doing their thing and Shannon felt less like she’d just come off a rocky sea voyage. ‘Maybe.’
Her laptop was charging by the apartment door, beside a full-length mirror. Shannon stood in front of it and straightened her skirt. There was a definite pull in the fabric across her stomach, even though she had eaten hardly anything in days. For the last two weeks, she’d barely been able to keep her breakfast down. She couldn’t put this off any longer. She would find out today. Like she told the sales guys when they panicked about cancelled orders, there was no point worrying about it until she knew for sure.
Chapter Three
Kate
Despite the taxi driver’s penchant for Kiss Radio, it was quite nice to be a passenger without being responsible for crowd control on the back seat. Most long car journeys for Kate these days involved alternating between threatening ‘don’t make me come back there’ and throwing packets of sweets over her shoulder.
Kate had caught Nina — the one school mum friend she’d managed to make — and Nina had kindly agreed to collect the kids from school with hers if Luke couldn’t make it back in time.
Kate had almost made it back to the safety of her car, when a familiar strident voice rang out. ‘Kate! Kate!’
Could she ignore her? Just keep walking? No, she couldn’t do it. Kate took a deep breath, plastered on a smile and turned around. ‘Melissa?’
‘Gosh, you can move fast when you want to, can’t you?’ Melissa put a hand to her throat. ‘Just checking whether we can rely on you for a cake for the bake sale?’
There was something overwhelmingly irritating about people who spoke about themselves in the plural. The damn bake sale. Kate had forgotten all about it. Why the bloody hell would she want to make a frickin’ cake on top of everything else? She’d rather boil her own head in baby oil. Kate swallowed. ‘Of course, Melissa.’
Melissa smiled. ‘Great. I’ll ping you an email with the deets.’
God, she was irritating. Kate wished she could ping her and her flippin’ ‘deets’ into outer space. ‘Great. Sorry, I have to dash off.’
At least the traffic wasn’t too bad, and the taxi driver seemed as keen to get to the station as Kate was, so being caught by Melissa wouldn’t make her late. She checked her mobile again. There was a reply from Shannon: Can’t talk but would love to see you. Text me your t
rain details. I’ll meet you at the station x. While she had her phone out, she thumbed through Facebook. Melissa had already posted, obviously. Apparently her daughter had gone up to the next stage reading book. This was a relatively tame piece of self-promotion when compared to Melissa’s recent epistles in which her child was ‘eating a home-grown strawberry’ and ‘discussing Brexit’. At five years old.
Kate never actually posted anything on Facebook. She just crept around it reading other people’s updates about their perfect lives: a bit like self-flagellation without the need for extra equipment. It was surprising how bad you could make yourself feel just by checking the profiles of your high-achieving, Tough Mudder-running ex-schoolmates. Or your career-driven, designer-clad ex-work colleagues. Or indeed your good-looking, saxophone-playing ex-boyfriends.
She’d bumped into Tim again at the hospital. Wandering round those soulless corridors, trying to remember which colour signs she was supposed to be following. She hated it: the smell, the squeaky floor and the hushed voices everywhere. Nosocomephobia, it was called – a fear of hospitals. Another useless nugget of information gleaned from her parents’ love of quiz shows. Between them they could have answered the whole of a Trivial Pursuits box; even the Arts and Literature questions.
Tim had spotted her first. ‘Kate? Kate, is that you?’
She’d turned and seen him down the corridor. Her traitorous heart had flipped. Thirteen years and he didn’t look any different. Thick, dark hair, tight jeans, black shirt and some kind of metal symbol on a leather thong around his neck. Wasn’t he a little old to still be dressing like that? The young nurse checking him out as she walked past hadn’t seemed to think so. Don’t waste your time on this one, love.
Kate swallowed. Frowned. And pretended she was running through a mental Rolodex to work out who he was. ‘Tim? Tim Watson? Oh, my gosh! How are you?’
When you meet up with your ex-boyfriend from ten years ago, you are supposed to look fabulous. Kate, on the other hand, had looked like a crap-bag. She’d just arrived at the hospital after wrestling Thomas in and out of the shower before lying next to him in bed, praying for him to go to sleep before the end of visiting hours. Luke had told her to leave Thomas to him, but how could she leave the house to the soundtrack of her son crying for her? It made her stomach hurt. Besides, Thomas always went to sleep quicker with her than Luke. He’d twiddled her hair into a set of complicated knots that she hadn’t had time to brush out properly before dashing to the hospital to spend the next two hours sitting by her dad’s bedside, willing him to wake up.
Tim had walked over with a huge grin on his face and kissed her on the cheek. Like they’d only seen each other yesterday. ‘How great to see you. I’m just visiting my sister; she’s had surgery on her foot. What are you doing here?’
Wasn’t that one of the questions you should never ask someone in a hospital? ‘It’s my dad.’
The heart attack had come completely out of the blue. Her dad had just retired, had bought himself a new set of golf clubs whilst her mum stockpiled cruise brochures and left them in the toilet for him. Guerrilla marketing for the over-sixties.
The call had come on a Saturday. Just after lunch. Kate had been home with Luke and the kids. Her mum was at the hospital. Could Kate come? She’d been too shaky to drive herself, so Luke had driven her with the kids strapped into the back of the car. They’d been squabbling and fighting over a broken yo-yo and Kate had had to squeeze her fingernails into the palm of her hands not to scream at them. My dad could be dying! Stop arguing about a stupid piece of plastic! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
The shock of seeing him in that bed. He’d looked old. And vulnerable. And not like her dad. She’d just wanted to run. Her mum had gripped her hand. ‘Come on. We have to be here. He would do this for you.’
The taxi arrived at the station, jolting Kate out of her reverie. It was busier than Kate had expected. She made it through customs to the concourse, which was mainly full of adults in ones or twos – but there were a couple of families. She felt a slight pang watching one of the mothers peeling a banana for her little girl. Alice loved bananas. The pang lessened somewhat as she watched the little girl pluck the fruit from its skin and mash it into her mother’s trouser leg.
According to the departures board, her train was leaving shortly, so she headed straight for the platform. About to step on the train, she paused. Was this a ridiculous thing to do? Before last night, this trip to Paris had been a pleasant daydream. Surely every mother of young children fantasised about jumping on a plane or a train – or even a bicycle – and escaping for a couple of days? During long evenings lying next to Thomas, waiting for him to stop rotating 360 degrees and go to bloody sleep, she had mapped out the whole thing in her brain. The secrecy. The clandestine arrangements. The Eiffel Tower. She’d never thought she’d actually go through with it.
It would be so easy to turn around and go home. She hadn’t even sent a text to Luke yet. She could spend a couple of hours up here shopping and be back in time for the kids leaving school. No one would know what she’d planned. Nothing would change. Life would go on as normal.
She got on the train.
* * *
The train carriage was stuffy and every seat was filled. Kate stowed her bag overhead and got comfy. There was a young woman sitting in front of her: probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Pretty, in a wholesome way; shoulder-length glossy brown hair, well put-together; she looked like she had a facial every month rather than when a friend bought her a voucher for her birthday. Tapping away into a small computer; checking a folder on the table which looked like it was full of sales figures or something similar; she was so absorbed in what she was doing that she hadn’t even looked up when Kate had slipped into the seat opposite.
Hitting the return key with a final flourish, the girl sat back with a sigh and picked up her water bottle. Ten years ago, Kate had worked at a computer like that. She’d had manicured fingernails. Had worn suits and shirts and high heels. She’d left it all behind without a backward glance when Alice was born. Child rearing had been the perfect excuse to leave a job which bored her sideways. But now?
She smiled at the younger her opposite. Might as well make conversation. ‘All done?’
The girl sipped at her water and pulled a face. ‘Yes, I have a big catch up with my boss tomorrow morning and I’m just trying to make sure I’ve got all my figures straight.’
‘What do you do?
The girl wrinkled her nose and shut one eye. ‘Sales. Computer printers. I know it sounds completely boring. I mean, I get to travel quite a lot, which I like. But it’s a bit stressful at the moment – sales are slow.’ She shrugged and put out her hand. Those fingernails looked fabulous. ‘I’m Laura.’
Kate shook her hand – her own fingernails were short, rounded and practical. ‘I’m Kate. And I used to work for an IT company, too. Before I had my children.’ Those had been the days when life was more organised. When they’d called her the Queen of the In Tray. It was where she’d met Shannon. And Luke.
They’d got together one Friday night at the pub. Kate had been single for six months. Shannon – only an admin assistant in those days – had been the one to introduce them. ‘You are gonna love him! He’s so cute! And such a gentleman!’ Kate had wondered why Shannon hadn’t gone for him herself. ‘He’s a settling-downer,’ she’d said. ‘More your type than mine.’ And she’d been right.
The girl, Laura, nodded slowly. ‘Oh, you have children? How lovely. Girls or boys?’
‘One of each.’ And then, before Kate could stop herself, she was doing that thing she hated when other people did it. Getting her mobile out and showing Laura the most recent pictures of Alice and Thomas. Pictures, plural. Because, clearly it wasn’t enough to bore her with just one photo of children who she didn’t know or would ever be likely to meet. And what was she going to say? What could she say, except:
‘They’re very cute.’
‘Tha
nks. Every wrinkle is their fault though. They’ve made me look way older than forty-one.’ Kate laughed with more humour than she felt and slipped her mobile back into her handbag. She still didn’t know when she should text Luke to tell him that she’d left. She wanted to leave it as late as possible, but needed to give him time to ensure he didn’t agree to work late. Or get ‘pulled along’ by the Friday night pub gang. Again.
Laura shook her head and smiled. ‘You so don’t have wrinkles. But how come you’re travelling to Paris without them? Are you on holiday?’
‘I’m visiting an old friend.’ An old friend who hadn’t even known she was coming until a couple of hours ago. This was quite possibly the most hare-brained thing Kate had ever done. And the most exciting. Shannon would be proud.
‘Unfortunately, I’m getting the train back tomorrow.’ Laura picked up her water bottle again; it was one of those trendy metal ones. ‘Which is a shame as I haven’t been to Paris before. Actually, I need more than this water; I’m going to get a coffee from the snack bar. Would you like anything?’
‘No, I’m fine. You go ahead.’ As Laura left, Kate fished her copy of The Catcher in the Rye from her bag. But the train was busy and loud and it was difficult to concentrate on Holden Caulfield and his nervous breakdown. Should she text Luke yet? How was he going to react? How would she have reacted if the tables were turned? Actually, she’d have been excited by such a display of spontaneity. Before the children, Luke would often surprise her with a Groupon hotel break or a bunch of her favourite white roses. Now she was lucky if he brought home a Starbar from the garage without being asked.
She should definitely text Shannon with her arrival time. After sending the message, she managed to resist checking Facebook again. But made the mistake of looking at her email.
One Way Ticket to Paris: An emotional, feel-good romantic comedy Page 2