It Started With a Note

by Victoria Cooke

  Olivier squeezes me hard. ‘You’ve brought his memory to life.’ He steps back, holding me at arm’s length and looks me straight in the eyes. ‘Just by being here, by living, you’ve made sure he didn’t die in vain.’

  I wipe the moisture from my eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  We take in the view across the memorial park one last time before heading back down for the Last Post.

  People have already lined the pavements underneath the gate and the road has been closed off. We weave our way through the crowd hand in hand to find a spot where we can see.

  Everyone is waiting quietly, all seemingly lost in independent thoughts. I assume they are paying silent respects and follow suit. A short while after, five buglers in greatcoats march by, commanding our attention as they step onto the road and make their way down to stand in a line beneath the memory arch, marked with the names of over fifty-four thousand men who gave their lives for freedom.

  It is such a moving experience, and I can already feel myself welling up before the bugle call to attention. The rough, forced sound begins and I allow warm tears to flow. It’s such a sad sound, but strangely, it seems such a fitting tribute for the strong men, living in rough conditions, largely forced into war. After the Last Post is played, and the bugles are lowered, there’s a minute’s silence. A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to swallow, as I give silent consideration to all the men who, just like my great-grandfather, were killed in the Great War.

  ***

  We go for a drink back at the hotel, and just after Kevin has placed two glasses of apple juice in front of us, I hear Jackie’s familiar voice bellow my name.

  ‘Jackie.’ I hug her as she walks over and she grins and tips her head towards Olivier in a ‘what’s going on here then?’ sort of way.

  ‘Olivier, it’s nice to see you again.’ She doesn’t hug him; she just pats him on the hand he’s resting on the bar.

  ‘Hello,’ he says with a vague look of recognition in his eyes.

  ‘I’m just having a tipple before my coach arrives. I’m going home.’ She sticks out her bottom lip in mock sadness.

  ‘Of course. It’s today!’ I get a pang of guilt, realising I’ve missed her last day.

  ‘It will be nice to get back to normality.’ She smiles and then orders a drink from Kevin. Normality. The word pings around my head like a squash ball. A few days ago, I’d been okay with getting back to normality, but since Olivier and I decided to enjoy the last few days together, my feelings have escalated. We’ve been in each other’s pockets and there have been a few more of those kisses that kept me awake before, except now they send me into a soft, dreamy sleep. I’m not sure normality is on my radar anymore. In fact, I may need the Hubble telescope to ever find it again.

  Olivier excuses himself to go to the bathroom, breaking my thoughts. ‘So, anything more happened between the two of you?’ Jackie asks, with a twinkle in her eye.

  I tell her everything.

  ‘Oh, Cath. You’ll come crashing down like a lead balloon when you have to leave, but I can’t say I’d be able to resist him either.’

  I force an unenthusiastic smile. The lead balloon might as well land on top of me.

  ‘I just thought that we may as well enjoy our last few days together, but I didn’t expect to enjoy them so much, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I got ya.’ She winks.

  ‘Oh, no. Not like that, more on an emotional level. We’ve really connected. I don’t believe in soul mates, not after Kieran’s father ran off at least, but I do believe if there were such a thing, he could be it.’

  ‘Oh, love. These holiday romance type things always feel more intense. I fell head-over-heels in love with a Turkish waiter when I was seventeen and I’d only known him a week. As it turned out, he had a besotted teenager for every night of the week.’ She rubs my arm in sympathy. ‘Not that Olivier is like that. I’m sure you two do have a real connection.’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. He’s such a lovely man. I don’t know if it’s the fact he’s so different to any man I’ve met before that is drawing me in. Either way, I’ll miss him incredibly.’

  Olivier is walking back towards us and Jackie starts rambling on about her plans for next week when she’s home – they’re almost all food-related. A man in a tour guide uniform walks in and shouts for anyone waiting for the 5 p.m. bus.

  ‘That’s me,’ Jackie says, sliding out the handle of her cerise wheelie case.

  ‘It’s been lovely to have met you. I hope you’ll stay in touch,’ I say, hugging her.

  ‘Definitely. You have my number.’

  I let out a huge sigh as she follows the rep out of the revolving doors. ‘All these goodbyes,’ I say, imagining how hard the next one will be.

  ‘Cath, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ Olivier says.

  ‘Okay.’ I draw out the word. Something about the way he said it makes me think it’s going to be a big ask.

  ‘I wondered if you’d let me come with you to Paris?’

  I pause. Shocked. I’ve been psyching myself up to say goodbye in three days and now he wants to extend this purgatory? No, it isn’t a good idea. I bite my lip while I mull it over.

  He must sense my discomfort. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Ignore me, I’ve just been caught up in the whirlwind of the past few days.’

  The thought of going to Paris alone is quite daunting and having Olivier there would mean I don’t have to worry as much. Plus he’d know the best things to see and do and help me avoid tourist traps and it would mean I wouldn’t be all alone, which I’ll soon be experiencing a lifetime of anyway so I might as well say …

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes widen. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘You won’t regret it – I’m something of an expert.’

  I laugh. ‘I can believe it.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He’s already waiting for me at the train station when I arrive. I’d almost bottled it and told him not to come. I can’t shake the image of those pills by his bed. What if he’s taking them again? Could saying goodbye in Paris make things worse for him? Especially since we’ve practically become a temporary couple, like those paper knickers you wear when you get a spray tan. What we have has offered momentary comfort and security but it isn’t meant to last. Actually, that’s a terrible analogy as those knickers are far from comfy or secure. If he feels the same as I do, saying goodbye will surely push him back to taking them – if he isn’t already.

  In the end, after all my reasoning, I decided to let him come, because being away somewhere new might be the best place to talk about them, if they come up. I can hardly tell him I’d been snooping in his room, can I? I’m hoping he brings them and they fall out of his bag or something. Somehow, I’m going to have to make sure it comes up because I can’t go back to England knowing he could have a problem.

  When I spot him, my stomach flips like a teenage girl’s at a Harry Styles concert. He’s wearing beige chinos and a white shirt that is tucked in beneath a brown leather belt. His hair has been cut but still flops effortlessly to the side, and he has a neat glossy-black weekend case on wheels beside him. My stomach is fluttery with excitement and nerves and when I say ‘hello’, it comes out all child-like and small.

  He kisses me on the cheek and we go to buy tickets. Once on the train, I relax a little while Olivier pulls out his guidebook. He points out various things to see and do, and I find myself needing to snuggle in to him to be able to see properly. He smells delicious – like mint and lime – and I just want to bury my face in his chest. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and that makes me feel a whole melting pot of emotions ranging from joy and desire to sadness and fear. In a way, it’s nice to feel this way again. The start of a relationship is the exciting part after all, but saying goodbye is going to be as hard as saying goodbye to Kieran when he left for university. Perhaps even harder since
saying goodbye to Olivier will be for good.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Olivier asks, as if reading my mind.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just happy,’ I say honestly and force a smile. He kisses me on the top of my head and carries on talking me through the pages of the guidebook.

  When we arrive at the Pullman Hotel, I’m in awe. There’s a partial view of the Eiffel Tower from the doorstep. I’m giddy. Partly because I’ve never seen the Eiffel Tower before, but mostly because I never splash out on myself, and this is one of the first proper luxuries I’ve treated myself to in forever, if you discount the fifteen-euro glass of champers that seems like forever ago. I even have the extra bonus of Olivier by my side.

  We go to reception to check in and while the receptionist taps away on her computer, Olivier pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek, relieving the tension in my cheeks from all the grinning.

  ‘Are you celebrating anything this weekend?’ the receptionist asks. Only living a dream.

  ‘No,’ I say politely.

  ‘We are, darling. Don’t play down your special birthday,’ Olivier says, sliding his arm around my waist and squeezing me gently. I wonder if he thinks I’m passing for thirty or forty.

  ‘I am just seeing a notification on the screen that you have been allocated a room upgrade,’ the receptionist says with her front-of-house smile. ‘An Eiffel Tower view.’

  ‘You sneak!’ I say as we fall into the lift, giggling.

  ‘She wanted an excuse to upgrade us, I could tell.’ He shrugs.

  The room itself is plain but ultra-modern and an improvement on the studio in Arras by gigantic proportions. The sight of the king-sized bed chokes me a little when my eyes land on it. I’d been so hell-bent on convincing myself I was going to be okay when I left that I hadn’t really thought about the sleeping arrangements. ‘We can top and tail or build a pillow fortress, or if you’re still uncomfortable, I will sleep on the floor,’ Olivier says, sensing my discomfiture. I don’t reply because I don’t really know what to feel, but the last person I had in bed with me was a tonsillitis-ridden nine-year-old Kieran who stole the covers and kicked them to the floor before finally dozing off with his knees in the small of my back.

  When we step out onto the balcony, the view of the tower takes my breath away. ‘Just wait until you see it all lit up at night,’ Olivier says, sensing my awe.

  ‘Can we go and see it now?’ I ask, almost jumping up and down.

  ‘We can …’ I sense a ‘but’ and look up at him with impatience. ‘But—’ there it is ‘—I think you should experience Paris first. You should connect with the city on a deeper level and really feel it first. You’ll appreciate the Eiffel Tower so much more after that.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m not really buying it but I’ll play along. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Soon, we’re wandering the narrow, winding streets of the Latin Quarter, and I can feel myself absorbing the diverse café culture. Perhaps Olivier had a point. ‘This is the authentic Parisian experience. Much better than just dashing to take a selfie by the tower, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re such a know-it-all.’ I bump him playfully.

  ‘Hey! I was just about to share with you an interesting fact.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I pull a mock-serious expression. ‘Sorry again. I really do want to hear it.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Okay. The Sorbonne, or the University of Paris, was founded in the twelfth century in this neighbourhood, and back then, the language spoken at universities was Latin so the students walking around here all spoke Latin, hence the name the Latin Quarter.’

  ‘Huh,’ I say. So it’s just one big student village. I giggle.

  Olivier looks puzzled. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m just thinking about all the warnings I gave my son Kieran when he left to go to university, about student nights and girls, and here I am, romping around a student village with a strange man.’

  Olivier puts a dramatic hand on his chest. ‘I’m not that strange, I hope.’

  I shoot him a playful sideways glance.

  ‘How about we do something more grown-up?’

  I raise my eyebrows, more than a little concerned.

  He laughs and a piece of hair falls over his left eye. ‘I was thinking more a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, but we can do the thing you have in mind if you like?’

  I hit him playfully and ignore his last comment. ‘The gardens sound wonderful.’

  The gardens themselves are serene and beautiful and contrast hugely to the packed streets of the Latin Quarter. We stroll the gravel paths, taking in the statues, and amble by the octagonal lake, watching children and their parents sailing model boats.

  ‘How do you always get it so right?’ I ask Olivier, as we stop to watch, hand in hand.

  ‘It is my job.’ He flashes a grin.

  ‘I don’t just mean that.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘You seem to always say and do the right things.’

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘You’re hard on yourself.’ He doesn’t reply. ‘That’s my opinion of you, anyway.’

  ‘From my point of view I’ve got things quite wrong.’

  I consider his words. I suppose rattling around in that big farmhouse all alone probably feels like something went wrong somewhere, and honestly, I don’t know how he ended up alone. There’s no shortage of interest: the teacher on the train trip, the waitress in Arras, me.

  ‘It’s you, Cath. You listen to what I have to say and you’re interested in the same things as me.’ He picks up a pebble and skims it across the water. ‘Not many people would want to listen to my history lessons, not these days anyway. Not even Elena, and it is her job too.’

  ‘You’re different to the men I know.’ He twists his mouth and I laugh. ‘Good different,’ I clarify. He leads me over to a bench where we take a seat.

  ‘I’m going to miss you when you leave, Cath.’ My chest aches in response to his words. I don’t even want to think about it. ‘I hope we will stay in touch.’

  ‘Of course.’ I touch his leg without thinking and immediately feel awkward and look out across the water to avoid meeting his eye.

  He places a gentle hand on my chin, turning my head to face him. The breeze blows a ribbon of hair across my eye and he brushes it away gently before kissing me softly on the lips, sending a jolt of fizz through me.

  ‘What was that for?’ Not that I’m complaining.

  ‘It’s just a perfect moment. The lake, the sun beating down and you, here by my side. I wanted to … put a cherry on top.’

  And what a delicious cherry it was too. ‘Saying goodbye to you is going to be hard,’ I admit.

  ‘How about we don’t talk about it or think about it until we absolutely have to?’ he says.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply as he pulls me into a hug, but it’s easier said than done.

  We sit there for a while, just people-watching, silently, while enjoying the warm comfort of each other’s bodies.

  ***

  After announcing I was starving, which I really was (and still am) we end up back in the pretty seventeenth-century streets of the Latin Quarter. Olivier is leading me by the hand through one of the bustling, café-lined streets to his favourite Parisian restaurant. We’ve passed several decent-looking places and the delicious wafts of white wine sauces and butter and garlic almost turn me savage enough to be an extra on The Walking Dead.

  ‘We’re here,’ he announces, finally. It’s a pretty brasserie, with dark wooden bistro furniture on the pavement and floral hanging baskets swinging from the burgundy canopy. ‘It will be worth the wait, I promise. The Latin Quarter is a bit of a tourist trap – you can pay a lot of good money for bad food.’

  A smartly dressed waiter hands us two leather-bound menus and pours us each a glass of water.

  ‘If you like chicken, the coq au vin here is the best in Paris.’

  ‘Well, that’s me sold. Although I’d have been sold by “
a lot of good money for bad food”. I’m famished,’ I tease.

  A little while later, our food arrives in earthenware pots. Fresh bread is placed in the centre of the table. The chicken is a tender infusion of burgundy, lardons and onion.

  Olivier is sitting back in his chair with one arm resting flat across the table. The sunlight creeps beneath the canopy, striking his eyes and illuminating them. If he catches me looking, I’ll have to look away. They’re hard to look at directly when they’re like that.

  When I’ve had my fill, I follow his line of sight. He’s people-watching, and the lively crowd is quite a sight at that. The eclectic mix of style and individuality could keep you entertained for hours.

  ‘I feel so relaxed in your company,’ he says eventually, and I smile. Sitting in silent company is normally something that would have me scrambling for words so as not to appear boring, even if it was just Kieran I was with. It’s different with Olivier; there’s an unspoken, mutual understanding that we both need time to think, that we’re so used to time in our own heads we can’t go cold turkey.

  Back in our small hotel room, I’m suddenly aware of our proximity. Holding hands in the bustling city is one thing but standing on opposite sides of a king-size bed is another. Olivier undoes the top button of his shirt and walks towards me, taking my hands in his, intertwining his fingers with mine. ‘I meant what I said – I will sleep on the floor or we can sleep at opposite ends. I don’t expect any more than you’re willing to give, Cath.’

  I sigh with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I just want to see Paris and spend time with you before you go.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a warm night, let’s sit on the balcony,’ he says. We have drinks that we’ve brought up from the bar and we sit on the balcony in the balmy evening air. It’s dark now, and the Eiffel Tower is lit up. It’s the epitome of Paris to me – the Parisian symbol from every movie ever set here – but Olivier was right. Paris is so much more than the Eiffel Tower; it’s just the icing on the cake.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine