by Mandy Baggot
‘Rach, I’m going to meet the mother of my donor. There will be kidney talk.’
‘I don’t mean with her,’ Rach clarified. ‘Obviously the offal subject will be raised then. I mean… with the Parisian men. Because,’ she grinned, the snowmen earrings wiggling like they were taking part in a twerk-off, ‘if I’m coming along there will be Parisian men.’
‘I—’
‘Do we have a deal?’ Rach asked, striking out her hand ready for a fist-bump. ‘No tragic undertones to introductions anymore.’
Keeley drew in a breath. It wasn’t her fault she got tongue-tied on first meetings. Her transplant was always somehow an instant go-to for a conservational topic. But Rach had a point, she had made the last guy at the Wool and Goose cry…
‘Deal,’ Keeley agreed, connecting fists with her friend. ‘But I have a condition too.’
Rach looked suddenly suspicious. ‘Is it my Christmas dress you’re always telling me is too short? Because I have to take it to Paris!
‘No!’ Keeley exclaimed. ‘I want you to do something to stop this dye coming out of my hair!’ She presented her hands forward, streaked with brown again.
‘Is that all?’ Rach said, relaxing back into her seat again. ‘Phew.’
‘Can you do it?’ Keeley inquired.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Rach admitted. ‘But I’ll have a look on the internet. Someone somewhere has always had a similar experience. Even if your experience is… “what to do if you’ve got your left foot trapped between a fire extinguisher and man called Joey.”’ Rach picked the menu off the table again. ‘Can we order lunch now? I really fancy the lentils and nuts Haggis.’
Keeley smiled. Now all she had to do was reply to Silvie Durand and accept her offer… and break the news to her parents. And then there was Erica. She wasn’t quite sure who was going to take it better but there was only one person whose time was really running out.
Seven
Bistrot Vivienne, Galerie Vivienne, Paris
Ethan was late. Deliberately so. He would not be coming here at all if he had the choice. He stood stock-still, a few metres away from his destination, looking at the person waiting to dine with him. He supposed he did have a choice, but he had cancelled a few times too often lately and his conscience was prickling him about that. Plus, being absent would have hurt Ferne and still, even in death, he didn’t ever want to think about hurting Ferne.
He pulled his coat around him, fastening the buttons, and continued to look at the woman waiting for him to arrive. Her hair was that silver colour people choose when the greys begin to appear. It looked good and the soft fall of the cut, following the curve of her jaw, suited her. She had always reminded Ethan a little of Dame Helen Mirren. Sitting underneath the glass ceiling of the arcade, at an outside table, the mosaic tiles beneath feet clad in boots with a flatter heel than she used to wear, she definitely looked a little older. Ethan sighed. Everyone had been aged by circumstance and loss. No one came out of tragedy unscathed. He watched her pour a little vin rouge, then bring the glass to her nose. Was this her first glass? He shook his head. Why was he judging? Wasn’t alcohol one of the first thoughts in his head every morning, even after a heavy night before? Or rather, the thinking was more about the feeling alcohol gave him. It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t the high from the intoxication, it was simply the knowing it was going to bring on a numbing of his senses and a switching off from reality. He stepped out from the doorway that was shielding him and paced forward.
‘Ethan!’
She leapt from her seat the second he must have met her sightline and her voice was that slightly too loud version of itself – the kind that might be attributed to someone who had indulged in vin rouge already. He waved a hand and hurried to reach the table.
‘Silvie,’ he greeted. He leaned in, expecting the usual two-kiss greeting that was customary. Instead, Silvie Durand embraced him, hard, her arms coming around his body and drawing him in close. It was a determined hug, more than strong, and as the moment ended, Ethan realised that Silvie did feel a little more slender. The very last time she had held him that way was at Ferne’s funeral. He swallowed. That day had been soaked with emotion, with everyone who had attended trying to console each other and make some sense of Ferne’s loss. He stepped back. ‘You are well?’
‘I am well,’ Silvie responded, taking her seat. ‘And you are late.’ She passed him the menu. ‘I have ordered a bottle of Saint Joseph.’
‘So, I see,’ Ethan answered. He sat down.
‘Ah, you disapprove.’ Silvie smiled. ‘Good.’
He went to reply, but decided against it. What could he say? He had been the master of day-drinking this past year and today he had only not had alcohol already because Noel had kept him in the hotel talking about the Christmas décor. Currently his assistant was walking around like the happiest orchestra conductor with a choir of hotel employees ready to play the tune of Christmas on his command.
‘I have ordered the pink shrimps to start. Enough for us both.’
Ethan felt a tug on his heartstrings. Ma crevette. From the moment his friendship with Ferne had begun he had called her that nickname. It meant ‘my shrimp’ and was a light-hearted reference to the fact that he had always dwarfed Ferne as far as height went. The pink shrimp dish here was Ferne’s favourite. His best friend wouldn’t have shared the meal though. She was always able to happily devour an entire portion on her own and still have room for profiteroles to finish. Again, he went to say something and then reconsidered. Silvie had already made the decision on their food choices. He should let her have this gastronomic reverie.
‘You look tired,’ Silvie remarked. ‘Are you sleeping?’ She poured some vin rouge into his glass.
‘Of course,’ he lied. In truth, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for a whole night. Since Ferne had passed, the most he had ever slept was three hours and that had been when he had slipped into an unconscious drunken coma after an evening spent regaling a group of Australian tourists with La Marseillaise from inside the Fontaine Saint-Sulpice.
‘Then you need to start taking supplements for your grey skin,’ Silvie informed him. ‘You have the pallor of a street artiste mimicking Pierrot.’
He chewed the inside of his lip. So apparently he looked worse than her. He had almost forgotten Ferne’s mother’s straight talking ways. Ferne hadn’t been like that. Ferne used to say what she thought, yes, but with a lot more tact and diplomacy. Ethan took a sip of the wine. That was better. That first warming trickle of alcohol coating his throat and trailing its way to his stomach lined only with nut-based sweets. He definitely needed to eat some of the shrimps if he wanted to continue with the vin rouge.
‘Ethan!’ Silvie barked.
He almost dropped his glass of wine at the volume of Silvie’s shout. He cupped his hand around it quickly, desperate not to spill a drop on the table. Silvie always had the ability to make him feel that he had done something wrong. Or perhaps that feeling was inbuilt in him. The feeling that someone calling his name was going to lead to an accusation. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I promise, I will drink more orange juice.’
‘You are not listening to me,’ Silvie accused. ‘You have never listened to me.’
‘I have always listened to you,’ Ethan disagreed.
‘How about the time that you hid a dog in my living room when I expressly said no animals?’
He didn’t know whether to be amused or concerned. The dog incident had been fifteen years ago. And it had been Ferne’s idea not his. He had also told Ferne that the thin, yet tall, whippet would not fit in the spherically shaped bottom of the family drinks cabinet.
‘Silvie…’ he began.
‘I can see that you are not looking after yourself. Everyone can see it.’ She spoke hard and direct.
Ethan really wished he had made more of an effort this morning. He should have chosen one of the silk ties Silvie had bought him for Christmas a few years ago, or perhaps shaved, or eaten
more than candy… He should say that Silvie wasn’t looking her best self either. Retaliation. Always better to put someone else under the microscope so they were distracted from looking at you. But what would that achieve?
‘You are the face of Perfect Paris,’ Silvie continued.
He felt himself shrink into his seat. So, this wasn’t a simple catch-up lunch or touching base, this was about the business. The business he felt he was failing at. Perhaps this was a good thing. Maybe he could confess his difficulties with feeling love for the hotel franchise and perhaps Silvie could offer a solution.
‘I am not the face of Perfect Paris,’ he responded. ‘That was Ferne.’
Silvie didn’t seem to miss a beat. ‘And Ferne is gone.’
Ethan met her eyes with his. There was nothing but a formidable look. This was the very first time that Silvie hadn’t dissolved into tears at the mere mention of her daughter’s name. Usually, particularly when she came into the flagship hotel, her face was a leaking palette of eyeshadow and mascara whenever someone said the ‘F’ word. What had changed?
‘Ethan,’ Silvie began again, her tone a little lighter as she topped up her wine glass, ‘what plans do you have for the Christmas period at the hotels this year?’
He swallowed, having the most intense feeling that telling Silvie about the silver and blue decision for the décor wasn’t going to cut it. But what did she expect? Events weren’t his strong point. He wasn’t sure what his actual strong point with this hotel chain had ever been. He had just supported Ferne in this venture, like she had supported him when he needed it most. He hadn’t ever really looked beyond that, hadn’t needed to. He had worked hard. He had done whatever needed to be done. But Ferne had been the one with all the ideas.
‘I… thought we would go for… “simplicity” as a theme this year.’ He cleared his throat and reached not for the wine but the water. ‘Strip things right back and lead with light piano music in the lobby, then exquisite and festive artisan meals in the restaurant.’
Even before he had finished, Silvie was shaking her head. Ethan wasn’t sure whether to keep talking or to cut his losses and stop. Perhaps he should have paid more serious attention to Noel earlier.
‘Ethan,’ Silvie said with a heavy sigh. ‘The way you speak. It is like you think you are telling me what it is that I want to hear. Except what I am hearing makes me feel like you do not care about the hotels any longer.’
He didn’t care. He had only cared about Ferne. What did it all matter now she was gone? She had been his one true friend. She had never let him down… until she had, by leaving him. And in a dark, twisted and selfish way, he hated her for that! He could not count the number of nights of not sleeping he had spent cursing her name for not being around, for abandoning him. She had been his one constant and he had adored her. Why couldn’t she have held on a little longer? Fought a little harder? He swallowed. He couldn’t admit these feelings to Silvie, to anyone. Silvie would have him under the scrutiny of a shrink before he could say ‘brain drain’. But he needed to say something and fast…
‘I thought maybe ballet,’ he said tentatively. ‘Sleeping Beauty. The hotels could embody the story somehow. We could have a princess and a prince to greet customers, a small ballet performance after dinner on some evenings.’ He truly had no idea why he had said that. It was madness. ‘It is festive, but it is also different.’ What he did know was it wasn’t really leaning towards blue and silver…
‘Ferne loved Sleeping Beauty,’ Silvie breathed. There was definite reverie now, but still there was control.
‘I know,’ Ethan admitted.
Silvie then seemed to straighten in her seat, adjusting the scarf at her neck and taking him in anew. ‘But I do not think we should be looking at the past.’ She took a breath. ‘I think we should be looking at how to shape the future. The future of the Perfect Paris hotels and your future, Ethan.’
An uncomfortable feeling stirred in his stomach now. Suddenly all those calorific nut products were doing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, pirouetting amid the wine and water and the fear about what Silvie was going to say next. What exactly did the emphasis on ‘your’ future mean? Except he did know. Deep down he knew exactly what it meant. It meant what it always meant when it came from a figure in authority. Stupid boy. Idiot. Useless. Good for nothing. You couldn’t change the hand of destiny you had been dealt. And his cards had been marked from the very beginning. Here was the moment when the hotels were going to be stripped from him. And it wasn’t the financial implications of that that bothered him. It was the idea of losing another part of Ferne.
‘I am thinking of stepping back from… things,’ Silvie told him.
‘Things?’ He felt the need to repeat the word to seek some sort clarification.
‘Louis is coming back from America.’
Now Ethan’s hackles were really rising. Louis Durand. Ferne’s older brother. His nemesis. If you were allowed to have a nemesis within the family who had practically raised you. Ethan had never been able to put an actual finger on the reason he had always disliked Louis as much as he had always adored Ferne. Perhaps it was Louis’s entitled attitude and the fact that he was good at pretty much everything. He worked for a big corporation in the US as a head-hunter. Paris and Ferne’s hotels had always been small-time to him, like tiny Monopoly properties on a small-scale board.
‘Is he staying long?’ He couldn’t think of anything better to say, but he hoped he had managed not to weave too much animosity around the four words…
‘Perhaps,’ Silvie replied, pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how you feel about working with Louis instead of with me.’
Ethan’s chest tightened. He hated the idea. He hated the idea of the idea. He loathed it! He wanted to stamp all over the idea and set fire to it! Whatever Silvie was about to tell him, he was sure he wasn’t ready to hear it.
‘I am getting old, Ethan,’ Silvie explained, sighing. ‘I am too old to be concerned with profit and loss and accountability. I did not envisage taking this role. I did not foresee losing my daughter and…’
‘I know,’ Ethan said. ‘You were not the only one who lost her.’ Inside his mouth he pushed his front teeth into his tongue until the burn was enough to make him stop.
Silvie sighed again and there was much more weight to this particular sigh. It was a sound of discomfort. It told Ethan that there was a little more to this.
‘I need to be sure, Ethan, for the future of the Perfect Paris chain, for Ferne’s legacy, that the right person is leading the way. Preparing for the future, coming up with new ideas and aspirational themes to ensure we always offer that perfect Parisian experience we are known for, but, also, not to limit ourselves to what has gone before.’ She was looking directly at him now. ‘Do you understand what I am trying to say?’
Yes, he understood. He understood that Silvie was most probably going to gift her shares in Perfect Paris to Louis and put her son in charge of the organisation. Silvie didn’t need him. Didn’t want him. Louis was coming back and Ethan was being asked whether he could take a step back, let Louis in to Perfect Paris, work for him… He was rage-ridden now. He could feel it manifesting, starting to tip the scales heavily towards making a knee-jerk reaction. He had to try and calm. He bit down on his tongue again and when he spoke he tried to make it even and balanced.
‘Louis will take over your shares,’ Ethan said, managing a nonchalant shrug that defied completely how he was really feeling. ‘He will be the CEO and the face of Perfect Paris hotels. Your problem with my lack of forward-thinking will be solved. It will keep things in the Durand family.’
‘Ethan, you are part of the Durand family,’ Silvie insisted as a waitress arrived with their order of shrimps.
Ethan shook his head. ‘Ferne made me feel I was part of the family. You made me feel like I was… a stray you had to put up with to keep your daughter happy.’ He dow
ned his glass of wine. ‘Like the dog that would not fit in the drinks cabinet.’ He shook his head again, this time more forcefully. His cheeks were heating up. He wanted to hit something. He clenched his fists under the tablecloth.
‘Ethan, I… do not know what to say,’ Silvie breathed. Now the older woman was showing some emotion. Now her eyes were blurring with tears. ‘I do not think of you that way. I have never thought of you that way.’
‘You do not have to say any more. I understand what’s going to happen. I think I always knew it was going to happen one day.’ He stood up, buttoning his coat as swiftly as he could. ‘But you should know,’ he began again, ‘the hotels, they belonged to Ferne and a large part of them still belongs to me. And I will not stand by and let her be forgotten. I will not let Louis come over here and turn Perfect Paris into… Las Vegas!’
‘Ethan, please,’ Silvie began. ‘No one would do that. And of course your position will not be undermined, I just thought…’
White-hot anger was bubbling through his veins now as he leaned over the table and addressed his best friend’s mother. ‘You just thought you would remind me of my place,’ he spat. ‘Well, bravo, Silvie. As if I could ever forget!’
‘Ethan,’ Silvie said firmly. ‘That is just not true.’
‘Is it not?’
‘No, of course not. You have always been part of the family and… that is why… there is something else you should know.’ She waited a beat before carrying on. ‘There is another reason Louis is coming home.’
Something in Silvie’s tone now made him hold still, taper the anger for a moment. Whatever it was, it was even more serious than business…
‘I have… made contact with the person who received Ferne’s kidney.’
Now Ethan’s stomach turned upside down and threatened to banish the contents of last night’s drinking session. ‘I… do not want to hear this.’
‘Ethan, this is a good thing that has come from Ferne’s death. A life continuing because of Ferne’s generous heart.’