A Perfect Paris Christmas

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘It’s ANTOINE!’

  Eleven

  ‘This isn’t a hotel room,’ Rach announced, throwing open the balcony doors and letting in a blast of frosty air. ‘This is like an apartment!’

  Keeley couldn’t deny it. This suite was as palatial as it got. Not that she was one to judge hotel suites as she hadn’t actually ever stayed in one before. The hotels she had stayed in were usually either something cheap and cheerful her dad had managed to get at an even cheaper price thanks to collecting tokens from the newspaper, or they were not really thought about as destinations themselves, more for practical purposes. Like when she had travelled up to Birmingham to an expo on home design. Bea had gone with her. They had eaten all the free biscuits in their room and Bea had encouraged the drinking wine out of the hotel mugs. And they had eaten pizza and chips at midnight, watching Naked Attraction and being horribly judgemental about the contestants’ body parts while mozzarella grease got all over the duvet covers. Bea had always gone with her to shows when she wasn’t working – which wasn’t often when you were someone in charge of designing bridges and roads. Her sister had been clever and brilliant and often Keeley had felt pride oozing from her when Bea talked about her career. Those weekends with Bea were the ones Keeley had looked forward to the most. Arriving at an exhibition, Keeley would always look at everything from a home interiors angle – smooth arches and fluffy cushions – whereas Bea would be there eyeing up a standard lamp and telling Keeley how bright a wattage you could get away with before the shade would catch fire. Bea had always been as practical as Keeley was creative. Not that Bea wasn’t creative, they just went at things from different perspectives… and Keeley missed that. She shivered, in the midst of her unpacking.

  ‘Rach, could you close the doors? It’s not really the weather for letting the air in.’

  ‘We’ve got a balcony though! With the most amazing view of the Eiffel Tower!’ Rach was shouting from the balcony where she seemed to be leaning out over the railings and embracing the Paris skyline. Keeley put down a burgundy jumper she didn’t even remember packing and stepped towards the outside.

  And the vista blew her away. There was that grand lady of Paris, a little to their right, its feet planted just behind two buildings ahead of it. It wasn’t quite close enough to touch, but it was near enough for Keeley to feel even more awestruck from this position outside. She was already wondering exactly how much more spectacular it was going to look at night.

  ‘Brilliant, right?’ Rach asked, nudging Keeley. ‘I’ve already taken a million photos. You can help me pick the best one for Instagram. I’ll tag Roland and the firm in it, try and get him a bit of attention so he isn’t pissy with us when we get back.’

  ‘He was pissy, wasn’t he?’ Keeley said with a sigh. ‘Maybe coming here now was completely the wrong timing.’ Maybe she wouldn’t have a job to go back to because of this surprise holiday…

  ‘Until your mum spoke to him,’ Rach piped up. ‘Then he wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Rach asked. ‘Your mum came in when you were at the house belonging to that Serbian couple with all the houseplants and the dog that pukes the moment anyone comes through the front door. She was in his office for about half an hour – Roland even made the coffees – and when she left he was in a much better mood and that’s when I got the signed holiday form back.’

  Keeley shook her head. Her mum interfering again – but also going against all the ‘please, don’t gos’ and ‘Paris is full of beggars and wannabe Monets’ she had been spouting since Keeley had replied to Silvie Durand’s email. This was a shock.

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of your mum… I have to tell you… she gave me a whole load of your tablets for my bag in case you fall off the wagon with them.’

  ‘She didn’t!’ Keeley gasped, hands going to her face. That was definitely a step too far. Her pills. The pills were something she had been taking for over a year now to stop her body rejecting the kidney. After her last check-up the consultant had said everything was working brilliantly, even better than anyone could have expected, and that when she hit the twelve-month anniversary of the transplant they could significantly reduce the medication. Except Lizzie hadn’t wanted to hear the word ‘reduce’. And the very first thing her mum had said when they got back to the car park was, ‘it would be silly to reduce the tablets before Christmas, wouldn’t it? Because, you know, everywhere winds down for Christmas, and, if something happens and we have to call the doctor, we don’t want him turning up more soaked in brandy than a Christmas pudding and his mind around the Bendicks.’

  ‘She told me not to tell you,’ Rach admitted. ‘You’re not pissed with me, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Keeley exhaled, her breath as visible in the air as the thin vapours of smoke rising from the chimney pots on frost-glazed rooftops. ‘I’m annoyed with her. Every time I think she’s releasing a little control, like by not commenting on my consumption of food with a higher fat content than celeriac, then behind the scenes she’s doing something else. I’m twenty-six! I should have moved out. I should be running my own business.’

  ‘You do run your own business, Keels,’ Rach said, turning away from her photo-snapping for a moment.

  ‘I work for Roland. I basically desk share with Jamie who overspills the second he has more than two files on his desk and a takeout from Subway.’ Keeley sighed. It wasn’t in the same league as the small office overlooking lush green parkland she had put a deposit on that had made her feel all the feng shui realness from the moment she set foot on the deep pile cream carpet. That had been her dream. Her own interior design business – not working for someone else – somewhere with her own professional premises. She’d picked up a couple of jobs right off the bat through word of mouth recommendations after successes at Ulterior Interior. She had ordered a desk and a sofa and had bought the comfiest armchair at a flea market in Camden Passage. But she’d never got to move in. After the accident, somewhere in-between the vomiting, the exhaustion and the trying to walk again, Lizzie had sent back the sofa and the desk. But the armchair had survived the cull and it was in Keeley’s bedroom, reminding her of what obviously hadn’t meant to be…

  ‘Jamie’s a dick,’ Rach remarked. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

  ‘No,’ Keeley said in a rush. ‘Don’t.’ She softened her tone a little. ‘You don’t need to fight my battles for me. I don’t need two people trying to control me.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to…’ Rach began.

  ‘Sorry,’ Keeley said, annoyed by this conversation but knowing her friend wasn’t at all to blame. ‘Sorry… I didn’t mean that. It’s just, I want being here to be different and, with my mum at home and me being away for the first time, I didn’t expect her to be so… present.’

  ‘I should have kept my mouth shut about the pills. Binned them or something,’ Rach said.

  ‘No,’ Keeley said. ‘It’s fine. It’s not your fault.’ It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. And that made it even harder. The accident – the lorry skidding on ice and crushing the side of the taxi Keeley and Bea were travelling in – was just that: an accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. There was no one to blame. And Keeley couldn’t blame her mum for being overprotective really. Keeley losing her sister had been unbearable – was still unbearable – but she couldn’t imagine how much worse it must have been to lose a child. Lizzie and Silvie had that awful, awful thing in common.

  ‘You could move out though,’ Rach suddenly said. ‘You mentioned it before we left. I mean, Lizzie would probably go ape-shit for a bit, but she’s not going to be able to make you stay.’

  No, Rach was right. But was it really Lizzie making her stay? Or was it somehow her own guilt? Her guilt about being here. Surviving. Not being Bea…

  ‘I… don’t know.’ Keeley swallowed, a breeze whipping her hair around her face. ‘Places are expensive and… I didn’t get my deposit back on the office and…’<
br />
  ‘And Ken Jeong might one day know exactly who The Masked Singer is.’ Rach put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You could make excuses all day long. If you want something you have to go for it. That shouldn’t change just because you’re packing someone else’s piece.’

  Rach was right again. And why did Keeley really need telling what she already knew. She had to start living life for herself and not for her parents. It wasn’t like she was going to move to the other side of the world. Although Lizzie did once say that a Tube ride to Tottenham had been like being aboard a Cambodian bamboo train she had no desire to revisit…

  ‘I mean, if you were looking to move, I could be persuaded to shift out of my tiny room in the tiny apartment with chain-smoker Bertram and look for something a bit bigger and more conducive with trying to get a proper boyfriend, not just one who eats, shoots and leaves.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Keeley asked, turning her attention to her friend.

  ‘What?’ Rach asked, suddenly looking like she wanted to retract her last words.

  ‘A proper boyfriend,’ Keeley said. ‘Someone long-term.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Rach.’

  ‘I just want someone to look at me and see me,’ Rach admitted in a rush. ‘You know, not just the blonde hair and the big smile and the even bigger…’ She stopped then sniffed. ‘Someone who would… love me even if I was in my pyjamas.’

  Keeley put an arm around her friend’s shoulders and squeezed. ‘You know I love you in your pyjamas.’

  ‘Which is why we need a place together. I’ve been thinking about leaving Bertram’s for ages. I just don’t have enough money to manage it on my own and I guess I thought you were settled at home, or I would have mentioned it before now.’

  ‘OK,’ Keeley said, excited by the sudden potential of change. ‘Obviously it wouldn’t be sensible to think about anything before Christmas but… after New Year… shall we look at some options?’

  ‘Yes!’ Rach said, turning and getting closer to Keeley to snap a selfie. ‘Yes, let’s do it. God, why didn’t we think of this before? It’s going to be brilliant. We can eat takeaway together and we’ll find a place with a pub on the corner we can walk to together and we’ll… get a dog… or a cat… or a giant African land snail.’

  Keeley didn’t have the heart to tell Rach she was running away with herself a little. Moving out of home was going to be expensive. It was likely there wasn’t going to be spare cash for drinks at the pub or Just Eat or pets. But she wasn’t going to dampen Rach’s happiness now and it felt really good to make plans. Maybe this chance in Paris was going to be the start of something much more than finding out about her donor, maybe it was going to be the beginning of everything.

  Twelve

  L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Opera District, Paris

  Ethan picked a sugared almond from the bowl now on the reception desk and popped it into his mouth. It was either keep eating the sweets or start biting his nails again. Except his nails were already down to the quick from an earlier nibbling session when the Christmas décor began to arrive. He checked his phone again. Nothing. Desperate to know what time he should expect Louis to turn up, he had sent an email and a text to Silvie. There had been no reply. Was it so hard to respond? He couldn’t help feeling, after his last meeting with Silvie, that mother and son were both working to catch him by surprise. It was as if they wanted to find him or the hotels lacking somehow.

  ‘Please!’ Noel directed, red-faced and a little sweaty despite the winter temperatures that swept in every time someone opened the door. ‘You are not listening to me.’ He stepped towards the two men who were currently trying to position a slightly too large Christmas tree. Despite Noel saying that going all-out Galeries Lafayette wouldn’t work for Perfect Paris, here they were with a spruce whose tallest branches were scratching the ornate ceiling. ‘The tree, it needs to be perfectly straight. Do you know what perfectly straight means?’

  Surely it wasn’t too much to ask to know when Devil Durand was descending on his hotels? Or was the not telling the shape of things to come when Louis got himself back behind the boardroom table? Ethan swallowed, the taste of last night’s Calvados on his tongue.

  ‘Straight!’ Noel said again, putting his arms out like he was a 747 lining up with the runway. ‘Like… my teeth!’ He opened his mouth, gurning at the men, two rows of pearls in perfect white rows shining an example.

  The door of the hotel opened and Milo, their head chauffeur entered, dodging the goings-on with the tree and heading into the bowels of the hotel. Ethan hurried forward to catch him.

  ‘Milo,’ he greeted.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Bouchard, good morning.’ Milo straightened his hat as if he was about to be pulled up on his appearance.

  ‘Milo…’ Ethan stopped. He shouldn’t be asking this. He hated himself for asking it. ‘Do you… have you… been asked to collect Monsieur Durand from the airport?’ He swallowed, feeling a little like someone collecting covert information to sell on the dark web.

  ‘Yes,’ Milo responded immediately. ‘I went this morning. I dropped him at the hotel at a little after nine.’

  Ethan felt the nervous tension drop away, replaced quickly by fear and a sheen of ice-cold perspiration on the back of his neck. ‘The hotel?’ he queried. ‘Not the house.’

  ‘No,’ Milo replied. The driver looked a little unsure now, almost as if he had made a mistake. ‘Madame Durand said… did I do the wrong thing?’

  ‘No,’ Ethan said quickly, his thoughts now speeding like the fastest TGV. ‘No, I…’ He tried to inject some professionalism into his demeanour. ‘I was expecting him here, that is all. Which hotel?’

  ‘The Tour Eiffel hotel,’ Milo replied. ‘Should I go to collect him? Bring him here?’

  ‘No, no, no, it is fine. Fine.’ It wasn’t fine. There were no Christmas decorations at the Tour Eiffel hotel yet. He had been convinced Silvie and Louis would visit the flagship branch here at Opera first. It wasn’t like Louis was a tourist who needed a view of the tower to make his Paris trip complete. But was he actually staying at the hotel? And, if that was the case, could Ethan get Noel to arrange for the temporary ice rink and other festive touches to instead go to the other Perfect Paris branch? His mind was conflicted. What should he do? Make a decision. You are in charge. Except he wasn’t in charge in his heart. Ferne had always led. She wouldn’t have left anything to the last minute. Everything would have been precisely planned out and actioned without encountering any hitch.

  ‘Can I do anything for you, Monsieur Bouchard?’ Milo asked.

  The driver was looking at Ethan as if gauging what the right course of action was. He needed to immediately play this down. Because it was nothing. Ethan was going to ensure it was nothing. Louis was not going to come here and take over. Louis was all about chasing the money. He had never understood his sister the way Ethan had.

  Ethan shook his head. ‘No, Milo, thank you. Everything is… perfect.’ Just like their brand. He nodded then, like he was decreeing it so and ended the conversation.

  The second the driver was gone, Ethan skidded back across the tiles to Noel.

  ‘We need to move the tree,’ Ethan hissed.

  ‘What?’ Noel exclaimed, eyes bulging, sweat running down his nose.

  ‘The tree,’ Ethan said again. ‘It needs to go to the Tour Eiffel hotel. Now.’

  ‘But…’ Noel began.

  ‘You said it was not straight,’ Ethan remarked, trying not to give out all the harried he was feeling. ‘We can… get it moved.’ He smiled at the delivery men who looked less than pleased that none of this was going to end for them soon.

  ‘Monsieur Bouchard…’ Noel started.

  ‘Noel,’ Ethan countered quickly, lowering his voice slightly as guests approached the reception desk to be greeted by Monique and Annika. ‘I need your help. Louis Durand is at the Tour Eiffel hotel. We need to make there the priority today. Now.’ He took a decisive breath. ‘Deal with the
tree, then call the company about the ice rink.’

  ‘Monsieur Bouchard, this is—’ Noel began, the bead of sweat now on the very tip of his nose and threatening to drip down onto his tie.

  ‘Possible,’ Ethan interrupted, pointing a finger and keeping a smile on his lips. ‘Only tell me it is possible.’ He let his sentence hang in the air and then he rushed towards the door knowing exactly where he was going next.

  Thirteen

  The Eiffel Tower, Paris

  It was breath-taking. Absolutely breath-taking. Keeley held onto the railings, her gloved fingers clinging tight as a very keen wind whipped around her ears and tried to sneak under the knitted hat she hoped wouldn’t be covered in hair dye when she took it off again. She hadn’t imagined coming to the famous tower on the very first day they arrived in Paris, but Rach had insisted they had to. And, after a glass-walled lift ride, they had arrived at the uppermost section, choosing to brave the elements for the outside vistas. And what a view it was! Stretching out before them was Paris in all its glory. The cream-coloured buildings in contrast to the oblongs of green set around the grey roads, traffic like tiny insects but still visible even from this height. Then there was the river. The Seine and its bridges delicately winding its way through the city like a slick silvery ribbon. It was incredible to think that they were actually here. It felt like a world away from Kensington.

  ‘This is so much better than sizing up Victorian terraces, right?’ Rach said with a contented sigh of approval at what they were seeing.

  ‘It’s better than everything,’ Keeley replied wistfully.

  ‘You can’t say that,’ Rach replied, looking away from the view and towards her friend. ‘You haven’t seen “everything” yet.’ Rach sighed again. ‘Tunisia is cool. I rode a camel into the Sahara dressed as a Sheik and ate bread straight out of a hole in the earth.’ She sniffed. ‘Ryan was a bit nonplussed about the bread thing. I think that was when I realised we weren’t going to be a long-term match.’ She sighed. ‘Still, as discussed, it’s better to know than to not know, isn’t it?’