The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  They stood for a moment amongst the mourners. “It’s not much, is it?” Livi said. It seemed a shabby, mawkish memorial for anyone, let alone the object of so much adoration. The nearest tree and the tomb in front of the grave were covered in graffiti. “I feel a bit sorry for the people who have to spend their eternity next to Jim and his entourage.”

  “It is pretty tacky.”

  They looked around at the motley group. Someone began quietly singing ‘Riders on the Storm’. Equally quietly, Cam started to hum ‘People Are Strange’.

  “Shhh!” She shoved him, hard, but he just laughed.

  “I think Jim has enough company. Let’s go.”

  After Père Lachaise they played tourists. For lunch they ate baguettes and cheese in a pocket-handkerchief park. They visited the Arc de Triomphe and strolled down the Champs-Élysées (giving the McDonalds a wide berth). In the Tuileries they admired the flowers and stopped to watch the children dangling their feet in the round pond. Around every corner, there seemed to be a pair of lovers, unashamedly kissing and caressing as if determined to prove the ‘City of Love’ label true. At the Louvre, they took one look at the ribbon of tourists queuing in the hot sun and decided to keep walking. The queues at the Musée D’Orsay were shorter, so they went in for some culture, and some air-conditioning.

  Livi enjoyed herself so much that the American barely crossed her mind. She might almost have forgotten why they were there, except that Cam spent the whole day with the satchel slung across his body. As evening approached, they found a small bistro nearby.

  “I think seeing all that van Gogh made up for missing the Mona Lisa,” she said, as the waiter set down steaming bowls of onion soup. “And seeing Camille Claudel’s work. Although, to be honest, I probably wouldn’t know about her if it wasn’t for the movie. Sad stories, both of them.”

  “Genius and madness,” he replied, blowing gently on his soup. “We had to do one art gallery, at least. Keep up tradition.”

  “This whole day has felt like being in a painting,” she said. “Like the children being pulled into Narnia.”

  “It is a bit unreal,” he said. “But then, this is just everyday stuff for the locals.”

  “I could do this every day.”

  She raised her glass, and they clinked in agreement. His gaze lingered on hers, warm and amused, and she felt herself blush and look away. The romance of their surroundings was going to her head, she thought, even before the wine.

  After dinner they decided to make one last tourist stop, at the Eiffel Tower. It had to be done, they agreed. Their taxi found a space between two tour buses to drop them off, and they paused on the wide pavement to take in the view. A grassy avenue stretched out in front of them, lined with tall, square-clipped trees. At the end, the tower was a beacon reaching for the sky, twinkly from tip to toe, its searchlight a beckoning beam across the city.

  Even now, at almost ten o’clock, people were enjoying the still summer night. Couples lay on blankets on the grass, basking in the reflected romance of the fairy-lit tower. Well-to-do tourists spilled out of a coach and mingled with sandal-clad backpackers, all taking photos, all equally rapt with the magical scene. Even the usual unruly skateboarders clattering about didn’t spoil the atmosphere.

  They wandered out onto the grass and found a spot to sit. Not far away, a couple of young guys were sitting on backpacks, strumming their guitars, singing ‘Let It Be’. A crowd of tourists was gathered around, singing their hearts out, feeling the lyrics, swept up in the moment.

  Livi watched them, enjoying their heartfelt enthusiasm. “This should be too cheesy for words, but actually it’s perfect.”

  Cam laughed, and she looked up at him. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “That’s okay.” He smiled and put his arm around her. “I’ve got your back.”

  She leaned into the warmth of his body, relaxing into her own moment. London and Len, the reporter and the cameraman were a distant memory, the whereabouts of the American irrelevant, the dramas of New Zealand nothing but a faint recollection from a past life. Here, now, however temporary, was a somewhere she was pleased to be. She let her head rest against his chest, welcoming the feeling of peace.

  But all at once he jumped up, leaving her to fall sideways on the grass. He strode across to the singing tourists, the satchel bouncing against his body. For a moment she wondered if he’d been struck with the urge to join in, and was racing across to whisper words of wisdom too.

  But then, standing up, she saw what he must have noticed. Slinking around the edge of the group, in the shadow of the good will glow, two quiet figures were waiting for a chance to dip in for wallets and purses.

  Cold reality swept back in.

  She watched as he quietly said something to an older lady whose bag, on a long strap, had slid around to her back. Livi couldn’t hear what she said, but she was obviously grateful as she clutched the bag safely in front of her. Next, keeping an eye on the pickpockets, he tapped the shoulder of a man whose back jeans pocket had an obvious wallet-shaped bulge. Then he turned and came back, as casually as he could. She anxiously looked to see if anyone would follow him, but he made it back without incident.

  She was torn between wanting to hug him and shake him. “That was a really, really good thing to do. But, God, you could have got in trouble.”

  “No, no.” He shrugged.

  “I can’t believe it. Everyone was having such a beautiful time.” She shook her head, embarrassed now at being taken in by the false display. “I really am a sucker.”

  “Don’t let that ruin it,” he said. “All the more reason to hold on to the magical bits. Look.”

  He took her hand and turned her around. Suddenly, countless thousands of white lights were flashing all over the tower, a crazy firefly riot against the gold backdrop. All around them, people broke into spontaneous applause, whistling and whooping in appreciation.

  It was perfection. Not even slightly cheesy. She focused high up on the tower, blinking hard, not wanting him to see that she was moved to tears. He squeezed her hand, looking at her under the scatter-gun brightness. His grip was firm and his hand was warm. They were so close. If she looked around now… For a moment, she hovered on the brink. Then, with the hypnotic sparkles of light reflecting in her eyes, she couldn’t hold back any more. She turned to him, her carefully guarded resolve forgotten, and in an instant his lips were on hers, her arms around him. His warm breath mingled with hers as he gave an audible sigh, and she laughed in the kiss, all caution gone. The satchel slipped around between them as he leaned down, but she pushed it aside and pressed against him. As she stood on tiptoe to meld further into his kiss, the crowd seemed to be clapping only for them. In that moment, the city’s magic was as real as the grass under her feet and the tingle of sunburn on her bare arms.

  As if on cue, his phone rang again.

  Instantly, she felt him tense and pull away. She opened her eyes, dragging herself back from the far-gone, hazy place she’d fallen into. That she thought they’d both fallen into.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping back. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. “I really have to get this.”

  Before he lifted the phone to his ear, she saw the name that was showing on the lit-up screen. It was upside down, but she could read it clearly. Well, she thought, there you go—the mystery caller. Sasha. Sasha Fernsby. She phoned, he jumped.

  He turned and walked away as he answered the call.

  As she stood alone, waiting on the grass, the light show finished. The crowd dispersed and the pickpockets sauntered past, looking her up and down. They laughed and said something to each other that she couldn’t understand. But scorn sounded the same in any language. She remembered now. The world was full of fancy light shows, sleight-of-hand, smoke and mirrors, waiting for the naïve and hopeful. Search high and low, around the world if you like. Finding something to believe in doesn’t make it real.

  Twenty-Seven


  Going back to London was not a happy prospect the next day, especially as it meant facing the possibility of more Len madness. But her time off was coming to an end. Cam said he had things to do too, though he wasn’t leaving the country just yet.

  Neither of them mentioned that moment, the night before, when something shifted between them. It was better that way, she told herself. If she’d developed an unexpected crush, and got caught up in a Paris moment, it wasn’t his fault. Maybe they’d crossed a line, but it was easy enough to step back over. After the phone call, she’d been determinedly brisk. They’d taken a taxi back to the hotel, gone up the stairs, and said goodnight at her door. They were friends. Cam had helped her when she was in trouble, and then helped her look for another man. And soon he was going home, to the other side of the world.

  So that morning, it was back to the Gare du Nord. They’d managed to fit in a flying visit to Notre Dame—she couldn’t leave Paris without seeing it up close. But now, of course, the train was running dead on time. She wouldn’t get even an extra half of a Parisian hour. No fighting it.

  They went through the usual check-in procedure and found their carriage. She went ahead down the aisle, wheeling her small suitcase behind her, and he followed with his backpack and the leather satchel.

  She looked back. “That damn bag had as good a tour of Paris as we did,” she said. Poor guy, he’d carried it around all day, uncomplaining. She had to laugh. But, as she turned back to check for their seats, she came to an abrupt halt. Behind her, Cam dodged sideways to avoid stepping on her suitcase.

  Sitting in a window seat, looking right at her, was the American. A hot rush whipped around her body. Her stomach turned, her cheeks flamed, and her heart hammered. Jelly-legged, she held on to the back of a seat.

  He stood up, knocking his denim-clad thighs on the table in front of him. His dark hair was as shiny as she remembered, his tan even deeper. He grinned, teeth as bright as last night’s flashbulbs on the Eiffel Tower.

  “This is a surprise,” he said. “A great surprise. Trains must be our place.”

  She unsuccessfully searched her head for two meaningful words to put together. “Uh…yeah.”

  Now, jolted back to that Saturday night on the tube, she couldn’t believe she’d started to forget. He was disarmingly, alarmingly handsome, a bit older than she remembered, the stubble and a worn check shirt giving him a rugged, indie edge. Still, he was so obviously, glossily American that he could have just stepped from an episode of his own reality show. But being out of place was clearly no discomfort for him.

  “The mystery woman.” He ran his eyes over her, taking his time, taking her in. Then he looked right at her, his dark eyes mischievous and appreciative. “You look beautiful.”

  Caught in his direct gaze, for a moment she was oblivious to anything around her. But then he looked over her shoulder, and she suddenly remembered Cam, and the satchel. Oh, God. Here it was, the embarrassing moment she’d desperately hoped to avoid. And worse, trapped on a train.

  “We should sit down,” Cam said from behind her. “We’re causing a traffic jam.”

  “Sorry, yes.” With a physical effort she shook herself out of the American force field, and rechecked their seat numbers. They were right across the aisle. “We’re just there.”

  But the people sitting in the seats across the table from the American were listening. With terribly British politeness, they insisted on swapping, so the three of them could sit together. Her heart sank as Cam ushered her into the other window seat, and returned the satchel to the American. “This must be yours.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’d kind of given up on it.”

  They eyed each other. Cam was younger, but he had the height advantage. There was definite man-tension in the air.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Livi as they sat down, trying to lessen the atmosphere. “Everything’s in there. I should have handed it in to lost property, but Cass wanted me to find you, and then she hid it when I decided I would hand it in, and then there was a bit of a nightmare so it seemed a good escape to come to Paris, but we didn’t find you…” She bit her tongue, forcing herself to stop blathering on. From paralysis to verbal diarrhoea. Smooth, Livi.

  She felt Cam looking at her sideways. Then he held out his hand to the American. “Cam Holden.”

  “Ryan Velez.” They shook hands manfully, then both turned to her.

  “Oh, right.” She held out her hand. “Livi. Livi Callaway.”

  He smiled at her as they shook, his eyes daring her to hold his hand a little longer. Painfully aware that her pink cheeks were obvious to both men, she removed her hand quickly, putting it on her lap under the table. It seemed to reverberate as she covered it with the other hand, so she tucked it between her thighs.

  There was an awkward silence as the train started to move.

  Then Cam’s phone rang. He pulled it from the pocket of his leather jacket., but this time he was less keen to answer. For the briefest moment he considered the screen, just giving Livi time to see the name—Sasha Fernsby again. Then he excused himself and answered it, glancing back at them as he went away along the aisle. “Hello…no, no, that’s okay…”

  Ryan Velez looked at her across the table. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “It’s fine. It has to be.”

  He let the cryptic comment go. “You came to find me.”

  There was no denying it. “Well…I wasn’t going to, but...” She didn’t want to remember what had made her leave London that day.

  He grinned. “But you did.”

  “Things kind of got out of hand. And out of my hands.” She held them up in front of her, as though the physical action would push away the memory of Len.

  He waited, but she wasn’t saying any more, so he changed the subject. “You know, I saw you at the carnival. But when I made it to your side of the road, I couldn’t find you.”

  “It was you!” So she hadn’t imagined it.

  “I thought it was a pretty crazy coincidence. And now, seeing you here…meant to be.”

  His words gave her a little shock. “That’s what Cass said.”

  “Well, whoever Cass is, she’s right.”

  “Maybe.” She looked at him, wondering. A romantic would call it fate. A cynic would call it coincidence. Once she would have been firmly in the first camp…these days, not so much.

  “So now I know it’s not Australian, but that is a cute accent you’ve got. Not completely British.”

  “Thanks. My family moved to New Zealand when I was a kid. I’m back now though.”

  “Really? I thought it was like paradise down there. You didn’t want to stay?”

  “Oh, it’s a big wide world, lots to see,” she replied vaguely. She was definitely not going there. When it came to her TV drama, she operated on a need-to-know basis—and he definitely didn’t need to know. “But what are you doing in England? You said your mum was English?”

  “Yeah, she was from Dorset. You know, the Jurassic Coast.”

  Now it was her turn to wait, but nothing more was forthcoming. “I haven’t been there yet, but I hear it’s really interesting. How did she end up in the States?”

  He paused before answering. “She was a geologist. Dad said she grew up messing around with rocks and fossils from the beach. She met him in Idaho, when they were both working on a big dam project for a hydroelectric power plant. He’s from Puerto Rico. He’s an engineer.”

  He looked out the window. For the first time, his cool confidence slipped away, and she saw vulnerability reflected in the glass. There was obviously more to tell.

  Very gently, she said, “What happened?”

  “I was only a few weeks old. She’d gone up to see him in his lunch break, as a surprise. It was the first time she’d left me with anyone else.” He looked at his phone sitting on the table between them. “He didn’t know it, but she was already on her way when the dam collapsed. Even if he had known, he couldn’
t have warned her—not everyone had mobile phones then. And anyway, there was so much water…” He stopped.

  “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t want to imagine the rest. The young woman washed away, the tiny baby motherless, the husband left behind.

  “He blamed himself. He was on the engineering team that designed the dam.”

  “That’s so awful. I’m really sorry.” It was the only thing to say.

  But he shrugged, one shoulder at a time, as though pulling the real world back on. “Well, life’s hard. A lot of people have it much worse. You get on with it.”

  He looked at her properly then, straight and level. She knew her eyes were glistening with emotion, but she looked right back. For a moment, the air hummed between them. Then he winked at her, the bravado back, and it was over.

  “Where’s your sidekick?” He looked pointedly up and down the carriage. “Or should I say boyfriend? I don’t want to step on any toes.”

  “Oh, well…no, it’s okay.”

  “Really? What’s wrong with him?” he teased. “Paris, the city of love, and no romance?”

  She was back to blushing. Parisian romance was surely to blame for the night before’s kiss, but it wouldn’t be leaving France with them.

  “It is romantic,” was all she could say.

  He was going to push for more, she could tell. But then, mercifully, his phone rang. He went to answer it, but stopped, giving it a dismissive wave. “They can wait.”

  The implication was clear—he wasn’t a slave to his phone. He wouldn’t rudely interrupt their conversation. But she could see he was itching to pick it up. She sighed. Men could make a competition out of anything.

  “No, honestly, that’s okay. Answer it.”

  “You sure?” But before she could reply, he’d already answered. She looked out at the French countryside, trying to give the impression she wasn’t listening.