by Jane Tara
“Paris? Today?”
Calypso stalked over to her wardrobe and flung open the doors. The dramatic gesture was ruined when she realized none of her clothes were in the wardrobe, but scattered all over her floor. She began to gather them together. “Yes, didn’t I tell you I was going to Paris today?”
Taran climbed out of bed and slowly dressed. “Nope. Didn’t mention it.”
Calypso, still naked, threw her half-packed suitcase on her bed and began to toss some final things into it. She didn’t bother folding anything, and she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to put anything on.
Taran pointed at a pile of jeans in the corner. “Don’t forget those. Not that you seem overly attached to clothes.” He finished dressing and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Paris is lovely at this time of year. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”
Calypso watched as he let himself out and then reached for her robe. She suddenly felt cold without him.
*
Later, as she sat on the Eurostar, Calypso felt a twinge of regret. Her mother certainly thought she was mad.
“What do you mean you’re going to Paris? You’ve only just arrived home.”
“And now I’m going again.”
Batty put her hands on her hips and gave Calypso her “don’t mess with me, young lady” look. “What are you running from?”
“You know better than to ask me something so ridiculous,” snapped Calypso. “I’m never running from anything.”
“Except when you left New York last year. And now, all of a sudden, Mr Sex-On-A-Stick arrives in town and you’re off again.”
Calypso’s eyes narrowed and shot daggers at her mother. “I’m going to Paris for work.”
“Look, darling, what happened with Scott was—”
“It has nothing to do with Scott.” Calypso didn’t want to go there – ever.
“You keep telling yourself that, Callie.” Batty stormed out, leaving Calypso with the overwhelming urge to throw something after her.
The problem was, her mother was right. And Calypso hated it when her mother was right. She still wasn’t completely over Scott, and felt the need to put some space between herself and Taran. Sure, a few days in his company would have been nice – he was great fun, addictively sexy and a phenomenal shag – but she’d ditched him a year earlier for those very reasons. He was way too dangerous. She had no intention of ever falling in love again, and she knew that falling for him was a very real possibility if she spent any more time with him. She simply couldn’t risk getting hurt again. It had taken her years to piece herself back together after her last heartbreak.
Calypso’s life was fine just as it was. She had her bar, her wonderful – if occasionally interfering – family and friends, and she loved being able to go wherever the wind took her. She’d never find a man who’d understand her need to keep moving. And even if she did, who’s to say it would last? She’d met such a man once and had paid a very steep price for it.
Calypso met Scott at the Berlin Love Parade when they were both in their early twenties. She’d been dancing with friends when a gorgeous blond Aussie Adonis strolled up and stood in front of her.
“G’day,” he grinned. “I’m Scott … and I think I’m meant to meet you.”
One look at him and she knew he was right.
Her eyes skimmed his body. He was shirtless, his T-shirt tucked into the back of his shorts. He was tall, and muscular, with smooth, deep olive skin. His stomach was flat and toned. Calypso had an overwhelming urge to run her hands across it. She wrenched her eyes upwards and looked him in the face, but that was worse. Boyish good looks; golden hair that curled in all the right places; clear blue eyes that looked achingly familiar. Calypso fell instantaneously and passionately in love.
They drank and danced and he met her friends. Later that night they made love under the stars. It was so right, so perfect.
“What now?” asked Calypso afterwards, petrified that he was about to announce his plans to go back to Australia.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“I was thinking about Rome,” said Calypso tentatively. She’d change plans in a heartbeat for him.
Scott stretched lazily. “Cool.”
Cool? Was that good-bye in Australian?
“Yeah, cool,” he repeated, as if she should understand. “Rome. That’s where we’ll go next.”
And so they did. Followed by Venice, Barcelona, and San Francisco. Apart from his guitar, Scott had no attachment to anything material. Their mutual passion for life and each other fed every moment they shared. Calypso adored him – totally.
The relationship wasn’t perfect – what relationship is? – but it was close to it. The only thing that really marred her happiness with Scott was her fear that she’d lose him. Scott lived life on the edge. He needed to experience everything, no matter how crazy or dangerous it was. Filled with the naïve ignorance of youth, he thought he’d live forever, until one night in Thailand when he was robbed and nearly killed. It had been a horrible experience, but it had left Scott with the insatiable desire to live life to the fullest.
With wild abandon, he said.
Calypso realized then that he’d never change, and decided if she couldn’t beat him, she’d join him. And join him she did: skydiving, scuba diving, sailing. They traveled around the world together for the next two years, supporting themselves with his busking and Calypso’s tarot readings. They lived in Rome and Rio de Janeiro. They spent time on a commune in India and the ski fields in Canada. She truly and most joyously had discovered her soulmate, the man she thought she’d grow old with.
How wrong she was.
Calypso stared out the window at the ugly outskirts of Paris. It was a city famous for its cultured beauty, yet the reality could be a colorful mess of clashing cultures and grime. Paris kept her on her toes, which is why she adored it so. While she loved many places around the world, there weren’t many that truly assaulted her senses and attacked her heart so simultaneously: Tokyo, Jo’burg … and Paris. She loved this city and it was the perfect place to escape to for a few days, while she evicted Taran Dee from her system.
The train pulled into Gare Du Nord, and Calypso stood and collected her bag. She’d made a mistake loving Scott too much. She’d never make the same mistake again.
Chapter Ten
Sloe wine settles stomach upsets
It was normally too early for La Barre Noir to be busy, but word had spread that Calypso was in town so it was filling up quickly. She came to Paris regularly and always worked here. She didn’t offer the same assortment of cocktails and teas as she did in London, just a few of her more generic cocktails, using the base ingredients she carried with her everywhere. Anyone who wanted something more specific would eventually travel to London and her fully stocked Cauldron. But Parisians were easy to satisfy. On the whole, they came to her about love.
“My ’eart iz broken. She does not love me.”
“’E iz a bastard … he thinkz I do not know about ’er.”
“I am filled with fervor for ’im, but ’e does not notice me.”
Sure they were predictable, but passionately so, and Calypso loved them for it.
Tonight there had been no unusual requests or needs – thankfully, because Calypso still couldn’t summon even the smallest spell. She had already prescribed a number of premixed cocktails for lovelorn customers: a Sex on the Beach (vodka, peach schnapps, orange and cranberry juice); a couple of Orgasms (Cointreau, Bailey’s Irish Cream, Grand Marnier); and a French Connection (cognac, Amaretto Liqueur, two drops of Earth Essence) for a German banker whose French girlfriend had dumped him.
Pierre, the bar’s owner and Calypso’s old friend, came over to her and hung his arm over her shoulder. “I ’ave missed you, my little gypsy.”
“Oh Pierre, I was here two months ago.”
“You should come more often. Every month. I’ll pay you well.”
“No money is
worth the routine. You know that.”
Pierre nodded, resigned to the fact that he’d forsaken his own freedom the minute he opened his bar. He wasn’t able to juggle travel and the bar like Calypso did.
Pierre and Calypso had met on the road. Actually, it was more of an overgrown pass in Costa Rica. An immediate connection, a lot of rum, and the realization that they both loved Argentine men had led to the conclusion that they needed to move to Buenos Aires – together. A week later they were holed up in a flat in the capital, where they stayed for six months. Neither of them found true love, although they certainly gave it their best shot, but they did find true friendship with each other. They stayed in touch over the years, often joining each other in Prague or Nepal or wherever. Around the same time that Calypso met Scott, Pierre’s father died and left him some money, which he used to open his bar. Before long, he too fell in love, but unlike Calypso’s relationship, his was still going strong. Their friendship lasted through it all. Nowadays, Calypso envied Pierre’s relationship, while he envied her freedom, which only served to strengthen their bond.
Pierre searched her face. “So, you ’ave a new lover, yes.”
Calypso wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “No.”
“You certain? You ’ave that look.”
“What look?”
“The same one you ’ad after the Berlin Love Parade.”
Calypso stepped back, as though she’d been slapped. She couldn’t bear the comparison.
“Don’t look so shocked, Callie. I see it in your eyes.” Pierre reached out and touched her cheek. “You are all flushed, mon cherie.”
Calypso turned and pretended to prepare some garnishes. “You know you’re the only man for me,” she teased.
“That’s because I’m safe.”
Calypso turned and met his stare. “Well, yes, I did have a fling last night with an old boyfriend,” she admitted.
“I knew it!”
“Oh yes, Sherlock, aren’t you clever!”
Pierre gave her a sly grin. “’E was good, no?”
Calypso giggled. “No – he was great.”
Pierre clapped his hands. “You like this mystery man.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean it’s going anywhere.”
Pierre looked affronted. He’d been known to walk over hot coals for love. Love was worth it. “Why not?”
How could she explain? Because Taran was too hot, too gorgeous, too funny, too smart? And because of that he was too dangerous? She picked up a glass and began shining it. “Well for starters, because I’m in Paris and he’s not.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a drink for an old friend?”
Calypso looked up and dropped the glass she was holding. Taran was standing on the other side of the bar, a smug grin on his impossibly handsome face.
“Obviously you’ll need another glass.”
Calypso scrambled for a dustpan and brush, but Pierre snatched it off her.
“I’ll do it,” he hissed.
Calypso grabbed the dustpan back. “I dropped the bloody glass, I’ll clean it up.”
Pierre ripped the dustpan out of her hands. “If you touch the glass, I’ll kick your ass. Now piss off.” He crouched down and picked up the broken glass.
Calypso turned back toward Taran, seething with anger at both men. “What are you doing here?”
“I was kind of hoping for another one of those fantastic hellos.”
Calypso hated herself for blushing. “How the hell did you find me?”
“You once mentioned where you work in Paris.”
“My, what a good memory you have.”
“God gave us memories so we can have roses in December.”
“It’s not December.”
“No … but you are my English rose.”
Pierre choked back a laugh as he stood and emptied the broken glass into the bin.
Calypso glared at him and then turned back to Taran. “And you’re obviously my thorn!”
Taran gave her a wink and thrust his hand across the bar to introduce himself to Pierre.
“You ’ave a difficult journey,” said Pierre.
“No,” said Taran. “I just came from London.”
“I mean in front of you.” Pierre chuckled, which sent both men into fits of laughter.
“Excuse me,” snapped Calypso. “I have to work.”
Taran shrugged and turned his attention back to Pierre. Before long the two were drinking wine and chatting about football, French politics and, of course, love.
“My boyfriend, ’e made me run after ’im like a dog for three years before ’e said yes,” said Pierre. “There were other lovers … many, many—”
“Humph! Many? What a bloody understatement!” Calypso mumbled.
Pierre raised one neatly waxed eyebrow. “You are ’ardly Mother Theresa, mon cherie.” Pierre turned back to Taran. “Where was I? Ah yes, there is only one Adrien.” He looked misty eyed for a moment and then howled with laughter. “And thank God! ’E is quite a ’andful.”
Calypso pretended to ignore them both. She was dealing with a young man who had been offered the job of a lifetime in New York, but was nervous about leaving Paris.
She grabbed a cocktail glass and took a deep breath. She needed a clear head. Her intentions needed to be unambiguous, and her emotions couldn’t get in the way. Calypso tried to tune into her customer, but Taran’s voice, as he talked to Pierre, was distracting her.
Calypso was feeling somewhat defeated, but decided to make her customer a Manhattan – an obvious choice. She began to mix rye, red vermouth and Angostura bitters.
But Taran filled her head. What the hell was he doing here? Why couldn’t he bugger off back to New York, where he belonged? He certainly didn’t belong in Paris.
She shook her head. She had to stop thinking about Taran while she was mixing. She found it difficult to even summon up a small spell, so instead added a few drops of water collected during a lightning storm. It gave the drinker a big jolt and propelled them forward in life.
She decorated the Manhattan with a maraschino cherry and placed the glass in front of the customer.
“This should help you make the right decision,” she said. “Toss it back quickly.”
The guy swallowed his drink and stood still for a moment. Then he shook, as though a charge of light shot through him. The indecision had gone.
“What the hell am I doing here? I should bugger off back to New York where I belong. I don’t belong in Paris … shit.” He clapped a hand across his mouth. And then quietly, he mumbled, “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle. My decision has been made.” And bolted toward the door.
Calypso watched him go in horror. Damn. She’d somehow put her own energy into that drink, but not in a magical way. That was no spell. That was her thoughts, verbatim. What the hell was going on? That never happened. She couldn’t cast spells, and now Taran was affecting her standard cocktails. It was yet another reason why he had to go. That poor customer didn’t know what hit him. Still, he got a result and was off to New York. Perhaps she should make another one of those drinks for Taran.
She grabbed a cloth and wiped the bar down. She could hear Taran and Pierre talking in French now. So Taran was fluent in French? No doubt he played the saxophone, wrote poetry and could dance as well. Goddess damn him and his fluency!
And just how had he won Pierre over so easily? Normally Pierre was quite rude to strangers – unless he was drunk and trying to get laid – but they were getting on like a house on fire. At least, she presumed they were; her own French was a bit rusty. But Pierre regularly hooted with laugher and was hanging off Taran’s every word. Taran had him eating out of the palm of his hand.
The Frenchman turned to Calypso and whispered: “You are one crazy bitch if you let this one get away.”
Calypso had had enough. She couldn’t concentrate and needed some fresh air. She gave Pierre a kiss. “I’m done for the day. We’ll speak tomorrow.” An
d then turned to Taran. “You coming?”
Taran gave the lazy, devil-may-care, impossibly sexy grin that never failed to wind her up. “That’s a sweet offer, but I’m having a blast here.”
Calypso shot Taran one last withering look and stormed out the door.
A moment later he followed and grabbed her arm. “Hey, I was kidding. I didn’t come to Paris to hang out with Pierre … although he’s a really great guy. Did you know he beat testicular cancer?”
Calypso shook her head in wonder. Pierre never spoke about that to anyone. Obviously Taran was his new best buddy.
They wandered along in silence for a moment until Taran heaved a sigh. “This is a beautiful city.”
Calypso nodded. He was right. It was stupid to waste the opportunity to have some fun with him here. “Do you know Montmartre?”
“Not really. I’ve always stayed around the fifth when I’m here.”
“And you call yourself an artist,” she scolded. “Montmartre is my favorite area. Creative, free-spirited people have always been drawn to this area. The energy here is special. It’s so lively … but with this underlying power that stems back centuries to the Gauls and Druids. This area was sacred to them.” She took his hand and led him around a corner. “Come with me.”
It was still early, and the streets were bustling. They wandered up rue Poulbot, past Espace, the Dali museum, and through to Place du Tertre, where they stopped to view canvases from the resident artists. Calypso relaxed and enjoyed watching Taran as he chatted to some of the artists about their work. He wasn’t open and sunny like Scott, yet he was similar in that he took time to connect with strangers. There was nothing frivolous or superficial about Taran. His questions were deep, his compliments genuine. There was an intensity in his approach to everything, yet he balanced it with a sardonic sense of humor and she found herself laughing constantly.
“This is much more enjoyable than the last time I was here,” said Taran.
“When was that?”
“Years ago. I was with my mother and grandmother. Both miserable bitches.” He grinned. “Did I say that? I meant ‘witches.’”
