That Night In Paris

by Sandy Barker

  Her gaze shifted to the glass panes above us, then fixed on the wall across from us. “And I knew, even then, I’d made a mistake, that for all the things I loved about him—and he’s not a bad guy when he’s not drinking, which at the moment is almost never—him not drinking, I mean … sorry, I’m getting off-track.

  “Anyway, I used to say all the time how I wanted to go to Paris. It was number one on my list, you know? And he’d always make out like we would go for our tenth anniversary—Paris, Venice, maybe even Florence, ’cause they were on the list too. But I guess, for him, ten years was so far into the future, he didn’t think he’d ever have to make good on his promise.

  “And then when the drinking started to get really bad and he lost his job—when he kept refusing my help, or anyone’s help—I knew we weren’t going to make it to ten years. And I made the decision to leave …” Her voice cracked, and I didn’t have to look at her to know she was tearing up. I reached out for her hand, not turning my head in case she was embarrassed by her tears. She grasped mine tightly.

  “After that, I thought, ‘Screw it.’” She started laughing through her tears. I looked at her, and she smiled as she said, “‘I’m taking myself to Europe—I’m gonna see Paris and Venice and Florence.’ And then I booked this trip.” I smiled back at her. “Now here I am sitting in an incredible place, and I’ve met you and the girls and Craig. And …” She trailed off.

  I let go of her hand to pull her in for a side hug, letting her know she didn’t have to finish the thought.

  Sometimes you meet people not only because of what they will mean to you, but because of what you will mean to them.

  Louvre

  We moved on with time for a leisurely walk through the Jardin de Tuileries, the rough stones crunching under our feet. Then we crossed the vast and scarily busy Place de la Concorde and strolled up the Champs-Elysées.

  “Do you think we’ll run into Dani and Jaelee?” Lou asked after we passed the fiftieth designer shop.

  “Unlikely. They were going straight to the Marais. It’s supposed to be better for serious shoppers.” A perfectly timed group of American retirees filed out of Chanel babbling at each other in their thick accents, nary a Chanel shopping bag in sight.

  “Rather than for window shopping?” asked Lou as we detoured around them.

  “Exactly.”

  Champs-Elysées

  ***

  “Close your eyes,” I commanded. Lou did as she was told, which was trusting, because people were milling all around us. I led the way, keeping her close to me, until we were standing with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower—straight through the middle of the Trocadero Fountains and along Pont d’Iéna. I positioned her in front of me and said, “Now.”

  “Oh my gosh!” Giddy with glee, she jumped up and down on the spot, her hands waving as she made a sound something like, “Eeoieooeio.”

  I fell in line beside her. I’d seen that exact view once before. Scott had planned it just like I had for Lou, only I’d been a little distracted by our impending break-up. But being there with Lou, being able to give her that moment, swept the ghost of boyfriend past back where he belonged.

  “I just can’t believe I’m really here. And it’s gold! How did I not know it was gold? I always thought it was grey, but it’s not! I mean, when we saw it last night, all lit up, it looked golden, but I thought it was just the lights. Oh my gosh, Cat!” She was giggling as she dug her phone out of her bag. “Here.” She thrust it at me. “I need proof—proper proof.”

  I took the photo, then tucked in close to her so we could take a selfie. “And how cool, you lining it up like that? Thank you. Thank you so much. I mean it.”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I replied with a lilting laugh. “You’re welcome. Now let’s go, so we don’t miss our window.”

  By luck, we’d landed a perfectly blue sky and visibility for miles, and one of the incredible things about seeing Paris from that high up was the city’s symmetry. Looking south-east down the Champ de Mars to the military school, or back towards Palais de Chaillot, across to the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs-Elysées to the Louvre—every view was remarkable.

  It’s also the one place in the city that’s higher than Sacré-Cœur, which sat perched on Montmartre hill across the way. What a stunning city. I already knew I needed to return—and not for one of those boozy girls’ weekends that would pass in a blur, but for a proper holiday where I could take my time to savour the city.

  Eiffel Tower

  ***

  Several hours and some incredibly sore feet later, Lou and I perched on the edge of a fountain at Place de la Concorde waiting for the coach with some others from our group. The plan—well, Georgina’s plan—was to go back to the campsite, shower and change, then return to the city for a group dinner and free time to explore. Lou and I had already decided to skip the dinner.

  “I can’t believe how much we saw today,” said Lou, inspecting the beginnings of a blister on the back of her left foot.

  We’d left the Eiffel Tower and caught the Metro over to Musée d’Orsay, grabbing a couple of ham and cheese baguettes from a street vendor and eating them on the forecourt of the museum. I’d even used my terrible French to buy them, which—to my amusement—had impressed Lou.

  Once inside, we paused side by side, taking in the incredible architecture of the one-time train station. “Well, this doesn’t suck,” said Lou, eloquent as ever.

  I love the Orsay Museum. I think it looks like the set of a steampunk gothic murder mystery film. If I lived in Paris, I’d go all the time.

  Because Lou had particular pieces she wanted to see, we decided to go our separate ways and meet up at 3:30pm near the entrance. My sister’s like that too—someone who loves art enough to have favourite pieces. She’ll sit in front of a single painting for an hour, just taking it in—Sunflowers by Van Gogh is her fave.

  I prefer to wander. I’ll stop for a minute or two if I see something that captures my attention, and though I’d be hard-pressed to name a favourite piece, or even artist, I do like the Impressionists. It’s like the whole movement stemmed from wanting to capture the stuff of dreams—and not the weird, distorted dreams the Surrealists had—seriously, what were they smoking?—but the kind of dreaminess the Impressionists depicted by choosing the right colour and applying it just so.

  Maybe I do like art. And, of course, I love a marble sculpture.

  From the museum, we had walked to the Arc de Triomphe, where we watched a handful of idiots try to cross the road at the busiest intersection in the world, then took the underpass. We wandered around all four columns, through the smaller arches, and stood under the largest arch looking up.

  “Can you believe the detail, especially in the murals?” asked Lou, as we craned our necks.

  “It’s ridiculous. I mean—” The beeping of my phone interrupted me. “Hang on.” I took the phone out of my bag and read the text from the home screen. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “The roommate?”

  “Alex, yes.”

  “Are you going to reply this time?” She gave me a look. It said, “Reply already,” and I exhaled heavily. “Look, if you don’t, he’s just going to keep texting you—every day for the whole trip.” She said the last part really slowly, so I would get it. I knew she was right, but I was in Paris. Couldn’t I put Alex off until we were somewhere boring, like on a motorway or something? “Look, send him a quick text. You don’t even have to talk to him. Here,” she signalled for me to show her the phone. “What did he say?”

  I showed her the screen.

  I really want to talk to you. Is now a good time?

  “Okay, so, maybe it’s not just a text message then.”

  “Oh, bollocks. Just give me a couple of minutes.” I searched for a quiet place under the most iconic arch in the world and settled for a spot in the shade where I could face a wall. I tapped the “call” button and Alex’s phone started to ring.

  “
Hi! Hello!!” He sounded surprised.

  “Hi, Alex, what was it you wanted?” I asked with feigned politeness.

  I don’t think I pulled it off, though, because he stammered his reply. “Oh, I … I just … uh, wanted to say hello, to hear how it’s going.” I sighed, not thrilled that I was becoming a frequent sigher, but I realised I wasn’t frustrated with Alex. I was frustrated with myself.

  The whole “love fugitive” thing was already tiring, and it was only day two. Yes, I was having a good time. Yes, I’d met some interesting people, but I could not spend the next twelve days dodging Alex’s texts because I’d end up back in London with exactly the same problem I’d had when I left.

  “Cat, are you there?”

  “Sorry, yes, I’m here.” Deep breath. “Alex, I have to tell you something, all right?” I carried on without waiting for a reply. “I know you think us sleeping together was the start of something, and you have all these feelings for me. But, I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same way. For me, you’re just my flatmate—friend—my friend, and that’s all.” I wished I hadn’t made the “flatmate/friend” blunder, but at least I’d been clear.

  Silence.

  “Alex? Can you hear me?” I hoped my mobile signal hadn’t dropped out, or I’d have to say it all again—obviously without the “flatmate” part.

  “Uh, yeah, I heard you. Wow, I uh … I didn’t realise. I feel really stupid.”

  What? No!

  “You’re not, Alex. I should have said something before I came away. I’m so sorry. That’s my fault.”

  “God, I am a right idiot.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or thinking aloud. Either way, the call was going horribly.

  “No, Alex. This is all on me.” Great, I had resorted to, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “All good, Cat. Not to worry. I’ll, um, I’ll see you when you get back, I s’pose. Bye.”

  He hung up and I found myself, phone to my ear, frowning at a giant slab of marble. I tucked the phone into my bag and turned to look for Lou. She was standing at the ropes surrounding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, staring down at it.

  I joined her, the conversation with Alex pressing on me. “Hey.”

  “Hey. How’d it go?”

  “Not well.”

  “You were clear, though?”

  “Yes, crystal.”

  “But?”

  “He called himself a ‘right idiot’.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor guy,” she added.

  “Mmm.”

  “Doesn’t this make you sad?” For half a second I didn’t realise we were talking about something else. I looked down at the flickering flame.

  “It does, yes.” It also put things into perspective. So, things with my flatmate were a little awkward. So what? There were far worse problems in the world.

  ***

  The small group of fellow tour-trippers soon turned into a larger group, and at 4:50pm Dani and Jaelee showed up, each laden with shopping bags.

  “Hey, girls!” chirped Jaelee. She dumped her treasures at our feet with a loud, “Phew! What a day!”

  Dani was close behind her, but less ebullient. She dropped her shopping bags and joined me and Lou on the edge of the fountain. I noticed red marks on her wrists from where the bags had hung.

  “Did you have a good day, Dani?” I didn’t know her particularly well—was the look on her face fatigue or something else? Apparently, it was something else, because my question triggered a barrage of tears, the kind accompanied by boo-hoos. Even Jaelee seemed shocked, and they’d spent the day together.

  Jaelee sat next to her and patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Dani snuffled and wiped her nose with her hand. “I’ve tried to hold it together, but it’s today—Nathalie’s wedding day.” Oh, right. I’d completely forgotten—what an insensitive cow.

  Dani took the tissues Lou offered her and blew her nose. “My best friend is getting married today and I’m not there.” She dissolved into tears again. The three of us shared helpless looks. I tried to think of anything I could say to make it all right and I guessed the others were doing the same.

  I was not fond of this Nathalie person. How could she elope without her best friend? If Sarah went off and got married without me there, I’d bloody kill her!

  After a few minutes of soothing back pats and a wad of wet tissues, Dani’s tears started to subside.

  “Dani, we’re all so sorry.” Jaelee and Lou nodded in camaraderie. “Look, Lou and I were going to skip the group dinner tonight. Why don’t you and Jae come out with us? We’ll find a nice little bistro, have some delicious food and some wine, and you can bitch about Nathalie all you want.”

  She snuffled and wiped her nose again. She nodded. “Okay.” Not quite over the moon, but it was a start.

  “So, is there a reason for skipping the group dinner?” Jae looked at me over Dani’s head.

  “Tip from my sis. We’ll have a better meal if we find our own place.” I’d already told her about Sarah’s insider info and Jae nodded in quick agreement.

  “Well, why don’t we just go out from here?”

  “Jaelee’s got a point,” said Lou. “We can wait for the coach, tell Georgina what we’re doing, and find out where they’re picking us up tonight.”

  Part of me loved the idea of an extra couple of hours in Paris. The other part of me scrutinised my outfit. Did I really want to go out in boyfriend jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers—in Paris? Uh, no. I did not.

  Dani spoke up. “Uh, guys? Would you mind if we did go back to the campsite? I really want to clean up and I need to deal with this.” She waved her hand in front of her tear-stained and blotchy face. “And we have all our shopping bags.”

  “Actually,” said Jaelee, “I really should change my shoes. I don’t know how much longer I can walk around in these.”

  Dani gave us a diluted, but somewhat hopeful, smile. It was settled. We’d freshen up at the campsite, catch a ride back to the city, then head out to dinner, just the four of us.

  Or five of us. On the ride back to our sheds, Lou invited Craig to join us and he accepted. He was probably in for a night of girl talk, but hopefully he wouldn’t mind.

  As the coach pulled into late-afternoon traffic, I leant my head against the window and yawned, helpless to stop it. For a fleeting moment, I wished we were back in London and our girls’ night out was a girls’ night in at my place—pyjamas, no makeup, home-made cocktails, takeaway pizza and ice cream for dessert.

  But I was in Paris and I could rally.

  Ten Years Ago

  “Hello?”

  “Sez, it’s me.”

  “Hello?”

  “Sarah, it’s me, Cat. Can you hear me?”

  “Oh, I can now. Hey. What’s up? How’s the trip?”

  “Well … we broke up.”

  “What? Sorry, I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.”

  “Yes. We broke up. Me and Scott.”

  “Hang on. I’m going somewhere quieter. Okay, say that again.”

  “It’s Scott—we broke up—I’m leaving him!”

  “Oh, Cat. Shit, I’m so sorry. What happened? Are you still in Paris?”

  “Yes. I’m trying to get back to London—today. I’m at Gare du Nord.”

  “And where’s Scott?”

  “He’s at the ticket counter. He’s trying to get me on the last train back to London.”

  “But what happened?”

  “He cheated, Sez.”

  “What?!”

  “He cheated on me. He told me before we came away.”

  “Oh, my God! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t … I don’t know.”

  “But why’d you go away with him?” She was only asking me the same question I’d asked myself a thousand times this week.

  I sigh. “Because I thought it would be all right. I thought we’d work it out.
”

  “Oh, darling.”

  “But he lied. He said he’d ended it, but he lied. I read his email to her.”

  “His email? Hang on, how?”

  “He used my laptop and forgot to log out, the dickhead.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I wish I was with you right now.” I wish she was here too. Her voice quietens. “But who is she?”

  My throat tightens, but I answer. “Her name’s Helen. He works with her. It started right after I left Sydney.” Saying the words aloud somehow makes it even more real, and the lump in my throat sends snaking poison into my gut.

  “Oh, Cat. You poor love. This sucks.”

  I flick a glance at Scott. He seems to be arguing with the ticket agent.

  “He keeps saying he’s sorry. He’s been crying and everything, but Sez, I … I hate him so much right now.” I glare at him, even though he can’t see me.

  “Of course you do, darling. I hate him too. I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there—I’d smack him in his stupid head.”

  “Hah!” The thought of my affectionate, funny, sweet sister thumping my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend gives me a moment’s reprieve from the pain. “So, where are you?”

  “Rome.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s bad luck, the timing. I was in Paris last week. I could have come and got you … Cat, you poor thing. Are you going to be okay?”

  “I just really wish you were here right now.” I let the self-pity settle on my shoulders and feel the sting of tears. Scott suddenly appears at my side, interrupting my self-pity party. “Hang on, Sez.”

  “There are no more seats on the Eurostar, not ’til tomorrow. And they won’t swap the ticket. We have to buy a new one.” A double whammy.

  The poison from my gut rises and turns into words. “That can’t be right,” I spit.

  “I even told them there’d been a death in the family—but no luck.”

  The irony of him lying to get my ticket changed smacks my senses. I wonder if infidelity is a good enough reason to change my ticket, then remember we’re in France where infidelity is practically a given.