A Perfect Paris Christmas

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘Did you want him to call?’ Keeley asked. ‘You did say you thought he was cute.’

  ‘But I obviously didn’t think he was cute enough to answer his text.’ She put the ring back down. ‘I don’t know. I think maybe I should start waiting.’

  ‘Waiting?’ Keeley wasn’t quite sure what Rach meant. Rach never really waited for anything in her life. She was a go-at-life-at-two-hundred-miles-an-hour kind of person. She hated even waiting for the time it took the kettle to boil for her coffee.

  ‘For the person who looks me in the eye and doesn’t care I’m wearing pyjamas,’ Rach elaborated.

  ‘Rach,’ Keeley said. ‘Are you really really worried about that?’

  ‘Not worried about it,’ Rach said quickly. ‘Just, you know, thinking maybe I might have sometimes… underrated myself in the dating arena and, you know, possibly made poor choices in case, maybe, the choices dried up completely.’

  ‘Oh, Rach,’ Keeley said, gathering her friend in her arms and hugging her close.

  ‘Don’t make me emotional,’ Rach ordered. ‘I put special mascara on today.’

  Keeley let her go but kept her eyes direct and focused. ‘Your man choices are not going to dry up if you say no once in a while. Saying yes should be about how you feel, not anyone else. And it shouldn’t be because you’re worrying that the next invitation might be a little while coming.’ She took Rach’s hand and squeezed. ‘You’re talking to Kidney Girl, remember, the woman who can’t usually say anything to a member of the opposite sex without adding in her transplant life story.’

  ‘Or a terrible joke,’ Rach said, a smile appearing. ‘Do you remember that time at the curry house with the cute waiter? You said to him “how do you ask a kidney doctor if they are there?”’

  Keeley cringed as she remembered the punchline. ‘Are u-rine?’

  ‘He didn’t know where to put his face let alone his poppadoms.’

  ‘See,’ Keeley said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about not responding to a text if you don’t want a date.’

  ‘Except Louis will be there tonight. At Silvie’s house. His home.’

  ‘And it will be fine,’ Keeley reassured. ‘I promise.’ She gave Rach’s hand another squeeze. Except Keeley herself was already nervous about tonight. The closer the evening got, the more the anxiety started to take hold and she was left second-guessing every one of her emotions. Yes, Silvie was nice, in fact she was more than nice, and Keeley had very much enjoyed their lunch, feeling that she had got to know Ferne a little bit better. But the café near the Louvre was very different to going to Silvie’s home. The house that had once been Ferne’s home. It was bound to be chock full of memories, a little like her home in Kensington that still held little touches of Bea in every corner. The white ring on the coffee table from Bea’s hot chocolate without a coaster when she was fourteen. A hairband down the side of the sofa. A charcoal drawing of the Bristol suspension bridge that was the cornerstone to Bea’s GCSE art coursework…

  ‘We could take prosecco,’ Keeley began. ‘You can’t go wrong with prosecco, can you?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Rach exclaimed. ‘Of course you can go wrong with prosecco… by it simply not being champagne!’

  ‘OK, change of topic. Tell me about the squirrels,’ Keeley said as they moved to another section of the absolutely huge market. Here there were maritime items, ships wheels and maps, anchors – yes, really – and old telescopes. Her dad would have got himself lost in here for days.

  ‘Tell me what time you got back last night, because you avoided saying anything at breakfast except that you thought the bacon was a lot thicker than it was the day before and you probably shouldn’t have had three slices,’ Rach countered.

  ‘Squirrels,’ Keeley said, halting by a canister of umbrellas.

  ‘Ethan,’ Rach replied.

  Keeley blushed fiercely despite doing everything she could to try and stop it happening. ‘Oh God, Rach.’

  ‘What?’ Rach exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

  Keeley’s insides were squirming now as the bubbling passionate fusion threatened to come pouring out. She had to calm.

  ‘We kissed,’ Keeley breathed, not doing the best job at containing her emotion at all. ‘We kissed and it was… well…it was the best kiss I’ve ever experienced.’ And it really had felt like an ‘experience’. A moment to be thought about continually until it hopefully happened again and led to more. Was that what she wanted? More from this man she barely knew?

  ‘Oh my God,’ Rach exclaimed, reaching out and seeming to steady herself on one of the umbrellas, the one with a handle carved like a crocodile. ‘You’ve… never looked like that before. Not with anyone.’

  How did she look? Keeley turned sideways and caught a view of her reflection in an Art-Deco mirror. Her hair colour had finally settled and was no longer leaking onto everything and the tint in it really suited her skin tone. But it was her eyes where the real difference lay. Even she could see it herself. Hope. Excitement. Life. It was all there now. All the givens she had basically given up on.

  ‘Jesus,’ Rach whispered. ‘You’re in love.’

  ‘No,’ Keeley answered quickly, turning away from the mirror and taking hold of her friend’s arm to move them both forward, Rach’s bags brushing against her shins. ‘It can’t be that. Because I’ve known him five minutes. And I’ve kissed him once.’

  ‘And you know that’s exactly what happens in the movies.’

  ‘But we’re not in a movie, are we? And he lives in France and I live in England.’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘Pretty significant details.’

  ‘We got here in a couple of hours.’ Rach gasped. ‘Or you could go completely retro and be pen pals like in the olden days. My mum used to get French letters.’

  ‘I’m not in love with him.’ But even as she said the words, Keeley knew, whether it was love or not, it was definitely something more than a passing infatuation. It was the way they seemed so in tune with each other’s thinking. How things always flowed so easily since their very first meeting. It was how she felt when he held her hand… ‘Squirrels,’ she blurted out. ‘Tell me about the squirrels now.’

  ‘You have to promise not to be mad.’

  Keeley dodged around the huge wheel of a Pennyfarthing bicycle and led the way towards a stall selling a selection of artwork, dust still on the frames. ‘Why would I be mad about squirrels?’ And then realisation seemed to sink in. This story could only be about Mr Peterson’s property.

  ‘Oh, God. What’s the demented taxidermist done now?’ Keeley asked.

  ‘Promise you won’t be mad,’ Rach said for the second time. Now Keeley was a little bit concerned.

  ‘Tell me, Rach.’ Her best friend made big eyes that seemed to say she wasn’t going to crack unless the declaration was made. ‘I promise I won’t get mad.’

  ‘OK,’ Rach breathed. ‘Your mum has been working on the Peterson place since we left. That’s why Roland signed our holiday forms without too much of a grumble. I was sworn to secrecy and… please don’t hate me.’

  Keeley watched Rach close up her eyes and grimace as if in real fear of her reaction to this news. This was typical Lizzie. Even when Keeley wasn’t in London, wasn’t there doing her job at House 2 Home, her mum was in the background, managing life for her.

  ‘You should have told me,’ Keeley said, sighing.

  ‘I know,’ Rach said, opening her eyes. ‘But I knew it would unsettle you and you were already dealing with coming here and everything so…’

  ‘So, what has that got to do with squirrels?’

  Rach sighed, repositioning her fingers around the handles of her bags of goodies. ‘A trio of them burst out of Mr Peterson’s airing cupboard, got caught in Lizzie’s hair and one of them bit her. She had to go to the hospital for a tetanus shot and some Steri-Strips.’

  Keeley was already reaching into her bag for her phone. No matter how irritating her mum was with her need to protect he
r, she didn’t want to see her in harm’s way.

  ‘She ordered me not to tell you,’ Rach said quickly. ‘She said, if I did, she’d tell her book club friends not to buy from Price Squash.’ She blinked. ‘Adie has six children, Keeley. And they all eat like Eddie Hall doing a food challenge.’

  ‘Go and find us some coffees,’ Keeley ordered. ‘I’m phoning her right now.’

  Forty-Three

  ‘What are we here for? Bo-Bo is bored.’

  Jeanne said the sentence through a mouthful of the biggest brioche Ethan had ever seen. A man had been selling them near the Porte de Clignacourt metro station. They had alighted there and Jeanne’s lips had started to quiver at the sight of them. Her small but strong hands had tugged at his sleeve like he had been completely oblivious to the stand and then she had given him those dewy, slightly piteous eyes she was obviously well practised at pulling out when necessary.

  ‘We are here to find inspiration.’ Ethan breathed in, drawing the cold air into his lungs like he was determined to also suck inside every nuance of the ambience of the enormous, sprawling flea market. It did always feel to him that it was a living, breathing beast, each stall owning its own pulsing heart of speciality.

  ‘You are in charge of props for a period drama series on TF1?’ Jeanne asked, pulling Bo-Bo away from a toy crib where he was sniffing around a quite disturbing-looking old-fashioned doll with half her porcelain face missing.

  ‘It is for the hotel,’ Ethan said, stepping towards a large dresser housing many oddly shaped lamps.

  ‘Which one?’ Jeanne asked, chocolate now smeared over her top lip. ‘Because I now know there are five hotels.’

  ‘All of them,’ Ethan told her. ‘But I will start with Tour Eiffel.’

  ‘But,’ Jeanne began, still munching, ‘according to your website, that is not your “flagship” hotel.’

  The kid was smart. Always smarter than he gave her credit for. And she had most obviously been making full use of his Wi-Fi today.

  ‘Is it because Keeley is staying at that one?’ Jeanne asked. ‘And you want to impress her? Even though she does not know that you own it?’ She screwed her petite features up, wrinkling her nose. ‘I think there is a flaw in your plan to excite her.’

  Ethan looked at the girl then, expertly tightening the lead on her dog while pushing the giant brioche into her mouth. ‘You think everyone is impressed by money?’

  She shrugged, the neck of her too big T-shirt almost swallowing her head. ‘Are they not?’

  ‘Does money impress you, Jeanne?’ Ethan asked. He wanted to know the answer, because whatever she said would give him an even deeper insight into her mind. This child from the street with all her brashness was, in his opinion, as vulnerable as she was intelligent. Jeanne seemed to quieten a little then, chewing but also looking like she was wholeheartedly considering her reply.

  ‘Money buys you opportunity,’ Jeanne said finally.

  ‘How so?’ Ethan asked her. ‘Because I believe most people would say that perseverance and determination really make for opportunity.’

  ‘I show up in the reception of one of your fancy hotels and the first thing the evil man behind the counter wants to do is call me a thief. Just because of the clothes I am wearing.’

  Ethan couldn’t deny that was the case. He had spoken to Antoine about being judgemental on a few other occasions. ‘Antoine likes neat and tidy. He has very high, possibly unreachable standards. He is too quick to react to those.’

  ‘How different would his reaction have been if I had say… styled my hair pretty, put on some make-up, a new dress perhaps, cleaned underneath my fingernails, worn shoes with a heel and… arrived to apply for the job of a chambermaid?’ She nodded with satisfaction at her answer. ‘I would need at least some money for the dress and the shoes and the make-up, for me just to be taken seriously and be given the opportunity.’ She nodded. ‘Money equals opportunity.’

  ‘You do not think you can be yourself and find success in life?’ Ethan asked.

  ‘I do not think it,’ Jeanne carried on. ‘I know it.’

  ‘I cannot believe that is true.’

  ‘Hello! I live on the street and have to beg for food to survive. No one wants me to be myself. Nobody wants me to exist at all.’ She gave a piece of brioche to Bo-Bo. ‘People turn away from people like me. They think if they cannot see me then I do not exist. Not all of them are bad people. They just do not want people like me on their conscience.’

  Her words rained down on him. He had thought the same thing over and over so many times before. His heart ached for her but it also ached for himself too. He had been so lucky. He’d had Ferne back then. Her kindness, their friendship, the bond they shared that never seem to acknowledge their difference in class. It had been everything.

  ‘Listen to me, Jeanne,’ Ethan said, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘Never apologise for being here, understand?’

  ‘Did you?’ Jeanne asked him, swallowing her mouthful of food.

  ‘Did I what?’ Ethan breathed.

  ‘Ever apologise for being here.’

  Sucked back into a reverie he would rather forget, Ethan recalled the mantra he and the other children had been made to chant at the orphanage. Be seen not heard. Speak only when spoken to. Respect elders. Think not of yourself. It had been drummed into every child until it was the very first thing Ethan thought about on waking and the last thing that drifted through his mind as he prepared to go to sleep. It had broken him. Eventually, he had decided to leave the roof over his head for a life on the street where nothing was guaranteed, not even his next meal… It had scarred him, there was no doubt about that. But he had moved beyond it. With help from Ferne. One person’s belief in him had made all the difference.

  ‘I know you are like me,’ Jeanne continued as Bo-Bo began to sniff around a stall offering crafts made from old off-cuts of wood. ‘Or you were like me, in some way.’ She bit into more brioche. ‘People like us know each other. You watched me in the hotel, trying to get the chocolates from the Christmas tree. Perhaps I was not subtle enough, but really I think you noticed me because you had been in the same situation yourself once.’

  He put an arm around Jeanne’s shoulder, steering her out of the path of a man on a bicycle. Bo-Bo popped his snout out from under the stall. ‘I was like you,’ Ethan admitted as they continued to walk. ‘I never knew who my parents were. I was left outside an orphanage when I was a baby.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘I was there for ten years until I could not stand it anymore.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ Jeanne asked.

  ‘Well,’ Ethan began, moving towards a glazed ‘shopfront’ with armchairs, dining chairs and all manner of seating outside it. Some of the chairs would not have looked out of place in a banquet hall, others seemed like they once belonged in a school. ‘When I was eight, I snuck out of the orphanage one day and I met a girl…’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Jeanne stated. ‘Not a romantic story. I cannot stand it. It is enough with the making love hearts with your eyes at Keeley.’

  ‘No,’ Ethan said. ‘It is not a romantic tale. It is a tale of friendship and… family.’ He thought about Ferne, but also he thought about Silvie and Pierre and… Louis. They had been the only family he had known and despite still feeling he was a little bit of a cuckoo, they had been there for him. ‘I had two years of visiting a very nice home in the suburbs and being taken on outings you could only dream of.’ He smiled at Jeanne. ‘With food you definitely dream of.’ He plumped down into one of the armchairs and spread his fingers over the fabric on the arms. It was rich, sumptuous green velvet but with small threadbare patches that seemed only to enhance its appeal. ‘But after each visit, I would go back to that freezing, soulless place where the people who were supposed to care and look after made it clear I was no better than something that was stuck to the sole of their shoe, and I would long to be anywhere but there.’

  ‘You lived on the street?’ Jeanne asked, sitting down in t
he chair opposite, Bo-Bo deftly leaping up onto her lap.

  ‘I lived on the street,’ Ethan answered with a nod. ‘I spent weekends with the family that took me out for visits, but I never moved in under their roof.’ Perhaps by refusing that offer – because it had been offered – he had made himself the cuckoo. That self-appointed status he was always using as a default position. ‘Perhaps I should have.’

  He hadn’t realised he had said those last words out loud until Bo-Bo let out a bark and brought him back to the now. Jeanne hadn’t said anything and he wanted to get across to her the point he was trying to make in all this. ‘I see your independent nature, Jeanne. I know you think you are tough and you can take on the world, but do not be afraid to take help from the world too.’ He swallowed, watching her features soften and her fingers squash the food in her hands. ‘I cannot be anything formal to you. My life, it is still as up in the air as it has always been. I do not have myself together.’

  ‘You own five hotels,’ Jeanne stated.

  ‘I part-own five hotels and, believe me, that job gets more difficult by the day.’

  ‘You said I could stay… for a bit,’ Jeanne reminded him, her tone cutting him to the quick. ‘You said we could go to the circus.’

  ‘I did,’ he answered. ‘You can, and we are, tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Then what is this “I cannot be anything formal to you” speech about if it is not to get rid of me already?’

  Ethan sighed, his body resting so comfortably in the old part-worn chair. It was like it was a piece of his own furniture, its cushions moulding to the shape of his body. ‘I would like to help you, Jeanne. Like someone once helped me. But we do not have to become a deep part of each other’s lives.’ He was not ready to be someone’s role model or moral guidance. ‘I will be your… benefactor. You can stay at my apartment whenever you like, there will be food in the fridge, but we will not always sit around the table together sharing anecdotes of our days.’