by Jojo Moyes
She has a shower and washes her hair. She sorts through the few clothes she brought with her and wonders whether any of them are Parisian enough. Everyone here is so stylish. They do not dress like each other. They do not dress like English girls.
Almost without thinking, she races downstairs to the little row of shops she had passed earlier. She stops in front of a window. She had noticed the green dress with the pineapples this morning. It had made her think of 1950s film stars. She takes a breath and pushes the door open.
Twenty minutes later she is back in her hotel room, with a carrier-bag. She takes out the dress and puts it on. She stands in front of the mirror, looking at its lovely folds, the way it nips in at the waist, and she realizes that she has not thought about Pete for the entire afternoon. She is in Paris, wearing a dress she bought in a Paris shop, getting ready to go out with a strange man she picked up in a gallery!
She pulls her hair back into a loose knot, puts on her lipstick, sits down on the bed and laughs.
Twenty minutes later she is still sitting on the bed, staring into space.
She is in Paris, getting ready to go out with a strange man she has picked up in a gallery.
She must be insane.
This is the stupidest thing she has ever done in her life.
This is more stupid than buying an expensive dress with pineapples on it.
This is even more stupid than buying a ticket to Paris for a man who had told her he couldn’t decide if her face looked more like a horse or a currant bun.
She will be in a newspaper headline or, worse, in one of those tiny news stories that aren’t important enough to be a headline.
Girl found dead in Paris after
boyfriend fails to show up.
‘I told her not to go out with
strange men,’ says mother.
She gazes at herself in the mirror. This is madness. What has she done?
Nell grabs her key, slips into her shoes and runs down the narrow staircase to Reception. The receptionist is there, and Nell waits for her to come off the phone before she leans over, and says quietly, ‘If a man comes for me, will you tell him I am ill?’
The woman frowns. ‘Not a family emergency?’
‘No. I – er – I have a stomach ache.’
‘A stomach ache. I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle. And what does this man look like?’
‘Very short hair. Rides a moped. Obviously not in here. I … He’s tall. Nice eyes.’
‘Nice eyes.’
‘Look, he’s the only man likely to come in here asking for me.’
The receptionist nods as if this is a fair point.
‘I – he wants me to go out this evening and … it’s not a good idea.’
‘So … you don’t like him.’
‘Oh, no, he’s lovely. It’s just, well – I don’t really know him.’
‘But … how will you know him if you don’t go out with him?’
‘I don’t know him well enough to go out in a strange city to a place I don’t know. Possibly with other people I don’t know.’
‘That’s a lot of don’t-knows.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So you will be staying in your room tonight.’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ She stands there, hearing how silly she sounds.
The woman looks her slowly up and down. ‘It’s a very nice dress.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘What a pity. Your stomach ache. Still.’ She smiles, turns back to her paperwork. ‘Maybe some other time.’
Nell sits in her room, watching French television. A man is talking to another man. One of them shakes his head so hard his chins wobble in slow motion. She looks at the clock often as it ticks slowly round to eight o’clock. Her stomach rumbles. She remembers Fabien saying something about a little falafel stall in the Jewish quarter. She wonders what it would have felt like on the back of that moped.
She pulls out her notebook and grabs the hotel biro from the bedside table. She writes:
REASONS I AM RIGHT TO STAY IN TONIGHT
He might be an axe murderer.
He will probably want sex.
Perhaps both 1 and 2.
I may end up in a part of Paris I don’t know.
I may have to talk to taxi drivers.
I may have problems getting back into the hotel late at night.
My dress is silly.
I will have to pretend to be impulsive.
I will have to speak French or eat French food in front of French people.
If I go to bed early, I will be up nice and early for the train home.
She sits there, staring at her neat list for some time. Then on the other side of the page she writes:
I am in Paris.
She stares at it a bit longer. Then, as the clock strikes eight, she shoves the notebook back into her bag, grabs her coat and runs down the narrow staircase towards Reception.
He is there, leaning on the desk and talking to the receptionist, and at the sight of him she feels the colour flood into her cheeks. As she walks towards them, her heart beating fast, she is trying to work out how to explain herself. Whatever she says will sound stupid. It will be clear that she was afraid of going out with him.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle. I was just telling your friend here that I thought you might take a few minutes.’
‘You are ready to go?’ Fabien is smiling. She cannot remember the last time someone looked so pleased to see her – except her cousin’s dog, when he tried to do something quite rude to her leg.
‘If you return after midnight, Mademoiselle, you will need to use this code at the main door.’ The receptionist hands her a small card. ‘I am so glad your stomach ache is better.’
‘You have stomach ache?’ Fabien says, as he hands her a spare helmet.
The Paris night is crisp and cold. She has never been on a bike before. She remembers reading about how many people die while riding bikes. But the helmet is already on her head and he is shifting forward on his seat, motioning for her to get on behind.
‘I’m fine now,’ she says.
Please don’t let me die, she thinks.
‘Good! First we will drink, and then maybe we eat, but first we show you some of Paris, yes?’ And as she wraps her arms around his waist the little moped leaps forward into the night and, with a squeal, they are off.
Chapter Nine
Fabien whizzes down the Rue de Rivoli, dipping in and out of the traffic, feeling the girl’s hands tighten around his waist whenever he speeds up. At the traffic lights he stops and asks, ‘You OK?’ His voice is muffled through his helmet,
She is smiling, her nose tipped red. ‘Yes!’ she says, and he finds he is grinning too. Sandrine always looked blankly at him on the moped, as if she were hiding her thoughts about the way he drove. The English girl squeals and laughs and sometimes, when he swerves to avoid a car that pulls out of a side street, she yells, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’
He takes her down crowded avenues, through back streets, whizzing over a bridge, so that she can see the river glittering beneath them. Then they go round onto another bridge, so she can see the cathedral of Notre Dame lit up in the darkness, its stone monsters gazing down at them with shadowed faces.
Then, before she can breathe, they are riding along Paris’s main street, the Champs-Élysées, weaving through the cars, beeping at pedestrians who step out into the road. There, he slows and points upwards, so that she can see … He feels her lean back a little as they drive past. He puts his thumb up and she puts her own up in response.
He speeds over a bridge, and turns right along the river. He dodges the buses and taxis and ignores the horns of drivers, until he sees the spot he wants. He slows and cuts the engine by the main path. Tourist boats float along the river with their bright lights, and there are stalls selling Eiffel Tower key-rings and candy floss. Then there it is. The Tower soars above them, a million pieces of iron pointing into the black sky.
&nbs
p; She releases her grip on his jacket and gets off his bike carefully, as if during the journey her legs have become stiff. She pulls off her helmet. He notices that she does not bother to fix her hair, as Sandrine would have done. She is too busy gazing upwards, her mouth an O of surprise.
He pulls off his own helmet, leans forward over the handlebars.
‘There! Now you can say you have seen all of Paris’s finest sights – and in … uh … twenty-two minutes.’
She turns and looks at him, her eyes glittering. ‘That,’ she says, ‘was the most bloody terrifying and absolutely best thing I have ever done in my entire life.’
He laughs.
‘It’s the Eiffel Tower!’
‘You want to go up? We will probably have to queue.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘I think we’ve done enough queuing for today. What I would really like is a stiff drink.’
‘A what drink?’
‘Wine!’ she says, and climbs back onto the moped. ‘Give me wine!’
He feels her hands slide around his waist as he starts up the engine and drives into the night.
An hour later they are drinking in a bar. There was a mention of food some time ago but it seems to have been forgotten. She has relaxed in here, with Emil and Sasha and that friend of Emil with the red hair whose name Fabien never can remember. She has taken off her hat and her coat and her hair swings around her face as she laughs. Everyone speaks in English for her, but Emil is trying to teach her to swear in French.
‘Merde!’ he is saying. ‘But you have to pull the face too. Merde!’
‘Merde!’ She throws up her hands, like Emil, then bursts out laughing again. ‘I can’t do the accent.’
‘Sheet.’
‘Sheet,’ she says, copying his deep voice. ‘I can do that one.’
‘But you don’t swear like you mean it. I thought all English girls cursed like sailors, no?’
‘Bouf!’ she says, and swings round to look at Fabien.
He finds he keeps watching her. Not beautiful, not in the way Sandrine was beautiful. But there is something about her face that keeps you looking: the way she screws up her nose when she laughs. The way she looks a little guilty when she does that, as if she is doing something she shouldn’t. Her smile, wide, with tiny white child’s teeth.
They lock eyes for a moment and he sees a question, and an answer between them. Emil is fun, the look says, but we both know that this is about us. When he looks away, he feels a little knot of something in his belly. He goes up to the bar, orders another round of drinks.
‘You finally moved on, uh?’ says Fred, behind the bar.
‘She’s just a friend. Visiting from England.’
‘If you say so,’ Fred says, and lines up the drinks. He doesn’t need to ask what they want. It’s Saturday night. ‘I saw her, by the way.’
‘Sandrine?’
‘Yes. She said she has a new job. Something to do with a design studio.’
He feels a brief pang that something so major has happened in her life without him knowing.
‘It’s good,’ Fred says, without meeting his eye, ‘that you are moving on.’
And in that one sentence, Fabien realizes that Sandrine has someone else. It’s good that you are moving on.
As he carries the drinks towards the table, it hits him. It’s a pang of discomfort, not of pain. It doesn’t matter. It’s time to let her go.
‘I thought you were getting wine,’ Nell says, her eyes widening, as he arrives with the drinks.
‘It’s time for tequila,’ he says. ‘Just one. Just – because.’
‘Because you are in Paris and it’s Saturday night,’ says Emil. ‘And who needs an excuse for tequila?’
He sees a flash of doubt on her face. But then she lifts her chin. ‘Let’s do it,’ she says. She sucks the lime, then downs the contents of the little glass, screwing her eyes shut with a shudder. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Now we know it’s Saturday night,’ says Emil. ‘Let’s party! Are we going on later?’
Fabien wants to. He feels alive and reckless. He wants to see Nell laughing until the small hours. He wants to go to a club and dance with her, one hand on her sweaty back, her eyes locked on his. He wants to be awake in the early hours for the right reasons, alive with the drink and the fun and the streets of Paris. He wants to bathe in the sense of hope that comes with someone new, someone who sees in you only the best of everything, not the worst. ‘Sure. If Nell wants to.’
‘Nell,’ says Emil. ‘What kind of name is this? It’s a normal English name?’
‘It’s the worst name ever,’ she says. ‘My mother named me after someone in one of Charles Dickens’s books.’
‘It could have been worse. You could have been – what is her name? – Miss Havisham.’
‘Mercy Pecksniff.’
‘Fanny Dorrit.’ They are all laughing.
She claps a hand over her mouth, giggling. ‘How do you all know so much about Dickens?’
‘We read too much. Fabien reads all the time. It’s terrible. We have to fight to get him to come out.’ Emil lifts a glass. ‘He is like a – a – How do you say it? A hermit. He is a hermit. I have no idea how you got him out tonight, but I am very happy. Salut!’
‘Salut!’ she says, and then she reaches into her pocket for her phone, and stares at it. She looks shocked and peers closer, as if checking she has read correctly.
‘Everything is OK?’ Fabien says, when she says nothing.
‘Fine,’ she says, but she is distracted. She fiddles with the edge of her scarf. ‘Actually …’ she says. ‘No. I think I need to go. I’m really sorry.’
‘Go?’ says Emil. ‘You cannot go, Nell! The night is just beginning!’
She looks stunned. ‘I’m – I’m really sorry. Something has …’ She is reaching for her bag and coat. She stands, and begins to make her way towards Fabien. He gets up to let her pass. ‘I’m sorry. Something has – someone has turned up to see me. I have to –’
He looks down at her, and he can see it on her face. ‘You have a boyfriend.’
‘Sort of. Yes.’ She bites her lip.
He is shocked by how disappointed he feels.
‘He has turned up at the hotel.’
‘You want me to take you?’
‘Oh, no. I think I can walk it from here.’
They go to the door. ‘OK. You walk down to the church there, then turn left, and you are on the road of your hotel.’
She cannot meet his eye. Finally she looks up. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘I had such a great time. Thank you.’
He shrugs. ‘De rien.’
‘It was nothing,’ she translates.
But it was something. He realizes he cannot ask for her number. Not now. He raises a hand. She looks at him once more. Then, almost reluctantly, she turns away, and she is off, half walking, half running down the street towards the church, her bag flying out behind her.
‘You said she was impulsive,’ said Emil, appearing behind him. ‘But … what happened? Was it something I said?’
Chapter Ten
He is waiting in Reception. He sits, legs apart, arms wide along the back of the sofa, and doesn’t get up when he sees her. ‘Babe!’
She is frozen. She glances at the receptionist, who is looking very hard at some paperwork.
‘Surprise!’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I thought we could turn your weekend in Paris into one night in Paris. Still counts, right?’
She stands in the middle of the reception area. ‘But you said you weren’t coming.’
‘You know me. Full of surprises. Hotel looks nice.’
It’s like she is looking at a stranger. His hair is too long, and his faded jeans and desert boots, which she had thought were so cool, just look tacky and tired.
Stop it, she tells herself. He has come all this way. He has done the very thing she wanted him to do. That must count for something.
&nbs
p; ‘You look gorgeous. Do I get a welcome?’
She steps forward, kisses him. He tastes of tobacco. ‘Sorry. I – I’m just a bit shocked.’
‘I like to keep you on your toes, eh? So, shall we dump my stuff and get a drink? Or we could spend the evening upstairs with a bit of room service?’ He grins and lifts an eyebrow. Nell sees the receptionist out of the corner of her eye. She is looking at him in the way she would look at something nasty a guest had trodden into her hallway.
He hasn’t shaved, she thinks. He hasn’t even shaved.
‘They don’t do room service here. Only breakfast.’
He shrugs and rises from his seat. ‘Top dress, by the way. Very … chic.’
‘Just one thing,’ she says. ‘I just – I just want to know – how did you end up coming after all? You said you weren’t going to make it. That’s what the text said.’
‘Well … I didn’t like to leave you here alone. I know how anxious you get about stuff. Especially when plans change and that.’
‘But you were fine leaving me alone last night.’
He looks awkward. ‘Yes. Well.’
There is a long silence.
‘Well … what?’
He scratches his head, smiles his charming smile. ‘All right. Well, Trish got in touch and said she was a bit worried about you.’
‘Trish rang you?’
‘She texted me. She said she couldn’t get hold of you and she wanted to make sure everything was OK.’
Nell is rooted to the floor. ‘What did she say?’
‘Does it matter? Look, I’m here now. Let’s enjoy it, shall we? Come on, we’ve only got till tomorrow. And this ticket cost me a small fortune.’
She stares at him. He holds out his hand. Almost reluctantly, she hands him the key and he turns and begins to walk up the stairs, his bag slung over his back.