Christmas at Tiffany's

by Karen Swan

  Cassie sat with the French windows open, her feet propped up against the railing of the Juliet balcony and a fresh coffee steaming in her hands. She had to enjoy the river views whilst she could – she had, just this morning, paid a whopping deposit she could scarcely afford on a grotty bedsit in the treizième, and was going to be moving in in just over a fortnight. She felt like a proper grown-up, with a job and a home of her own, and a divorce on the way.

  She wanted to tell someone, but it was Easter weekend and Anouk was away with Pierre, staying at a small chateau (hopefully sorting things out between them), and Claude was on the Normandy coast, trying to tie a noted fish supplier in Le Havre to an exclusive contract.

  The bateaux-mouches were filling up daily now, after months of sailing past with just a few intrepid tourists braving the river chill. But after such a bitter winter, spring had hit the city like a flood. The trees were stubbled with leaves, and tulips and narcissi swayed from every flower bed. The sun had impressive focus now too, leaving behind its cold pale wintery colourwash and tinting everything with a thick yellowish hue instead.

  It beamed down on Cassie like a spotlight; she could feel the fresh air regenerate and revive her. She knew that soon enough she was going to see only the four walls of the restaurant kitchen and hear nothing other than the frantic shouts of the line cooks, and she would look back on this leisurely period – working in the glossy LVMH offices with little more to stress her than sorting out a party, and sleeping late at weekends – as a purple patch in her life, the last dreamscape before reality hit.

  A sudden knock at the door startled her, and she whipped her head around questioningly. Who could that be? She got up to go and open the door.

  ‘Henry! What are you doing here?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Charming!’ he replied, grinning, from the steps. ‘Is that any way to greet an old friend?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she smiled, holding the door wider to let him in. ‘Come in. Are you alone?’ she asked, peering out into the hallway.

  He kissed her lightly on each cheek. ‘Yes. It’s just me.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, that coffee smells good,’ he remarked subtly.

  Cassie laughed. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘If you insist,’ he replied, following her into the kitchen.

  ‘Anouk’s got more space than Kelly, I see.’

  ‘Yes, thank God! At least here I can get a coffee without having to walk a block and a half to buy it.’

  She looked back at him as he wandered over to the windows and looked out. ‘So . . . you leave next week?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup.’ He turned back and smiled at her. He was thinner than when she’d seen him last, and there were dark purple shadows beneath his eyes.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said.

  ‘Have I?’ he asked, looking down at his blue shirt and jeans.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to . . . I don’t know, feed yourself up before you go, to compensate for what you’ll lose out there?’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ he replied, giving a slight shrug. ‘There’s been a lot going on.’

  ‘Yes, Suzy said.’

  He looked at her, his blue eyes paler than she recalled.

  ‘And you’ve had your hair cut, I see,’ she continued, beginning to cluck like a mother hen beneath his gaze. ‘At least you’ve done that in readiness.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He was still staring at her.

  She sighed. ‘Henry, you’re staring at me.’

  ‘Am I? God, sorry! It’s just that . . . you know . . .’ He waved his hands at her. ‘You look so different . . . again.’

  Cassie’s hands flew up to her hair. It had grown out a bit since January but was still several inches shorter than when he’d last seen it, and, of course, many degrees darker. ‘Oh, of course, you haven’t seen it,’ she said shyly. ‘I forgot. I’m so used to it now . . .’ She shrugged, letting her hands fall back to her sides. ‘So what do you think, then?’

  Henry nodded as his eyes travelled over her. ‘Well, yeah . . . I mean, you can carry it off, definitely.’ He carried on nodding, and she knew he was trying to find the right words. ‘It’s just really different, that’s all. I don’t think of you as . . . dark.’

  ‘It’s been weird, that’s for sure,’ she said, turning back to the kettle as she heard the switch click off. ‘I had to change my make-up – none of my usual colours suited me. Suzy’s desperate to get me back to blonde.’

  ‘She’s gutted you’re not going over,’ he said softly, and she felt a collective weight of disappointment bear down on her. Her decision had had far wider ramifications than she had foreseen – Suzy was upset because she had been waiting ‘her turn’; Kelly and Bas were upset because they took her adoption of Paris as a rejection of New York . . . She didn’t want to think about what Luke’s reaction would have been.

  ‘Added to which, of course, you’re contravening the terms of our lists,’ he said with a lighter tone. ‘I take it those are the seeds I sent over,’ he said, jerking his chin towards the small pale grey ceramic plant pot on the counter into which Cassie had decanted the seedlings the previous week.

  Cassie nodded, running a light hand through the tender shoots. Pink buds, still tightly wrapped, were popping up daily, and she expected them to be in full flower within the next few weeks. ‘I’m diligent about watering them. What are they, anyway?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean I’ve got to wait till they flower and then identify them?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Cassie rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘So you sent me camomile in New York—’

  ‘How did you know it was camomile?’

  ‘Your sister tripped and fell face first in it, and promptly asked me to make her an infusion.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Gotta love her.’

  ‘So camomile in New York, and anonymous little pink flowers in Paris . . . hmmmm. I reckon I’ll just take them to the flower market and ask someone there to ID them for me.’

  ‘Go for it,’ he replied.

  ‘Urgh,’ she groaned as he called her bluff. ‘I don’t see what the big deal is. Why can’t you just save me the bother and tell me yourself?’

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ he said, taking a sip of the coffee and moving out of the kitchen. ‘But rest assured, there is always method to my madness.’

  Cassie followed him out of the kitchen and sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him as he stood next to the French windows looking out on the river. He leant an arm against the window jamb and her eyes absent-mindedly followed the triangular shape of his back.

  ‘Like introducing me to Claude?’ she asked. ‘Were you intending to bring method or madness into my life with him?’

  Henry turned and looked at her. ‘A bit of both. I thought you could probably help each other.’

  She mused on his comment. All things considered, they probably had helped each other – he’d unearthed her life passion; she’d given him back his passion for life.

  ‘How are you getting on with the rest of it? The list, I mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay, I guess. Point Zero, Ladurée habit and Claude – all done. And I’ve arranged a party in the catacombs, would you believe?’ she giggled.

  He shook his head in wonderment. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  A beat passed between them and Cassie felt herself shift beneath his scrutiny.

  ‘So why are you here? Has Suzy sent you on a mission to convince me to get to London no matter what?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I came to see Anouk. It’s my last opportunity to get the rings before the expedition.’

  ‘Oh. But Anouk’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Away with her boyfriend for the Easter weekend.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘She didn’t mention anything a
bout seeing you.’

  ‘No I . . . well, it was a spontaneous thing.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘I guess I should have called first, huh?’

  Cassie shrugged. ‘I guess so. It’s a long way to have come for a wasted trip.’

  He looked out of the window, as though thinking about something, then looked back at her. ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be wasted,’ he said. ‘What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘Uh . . .’ she hesitated, racking her brains for something to wow him with. It wasn’t very impressive for her to announce she was staying in Paris because she was so content here, and then show him she had nothing to do. ‘Well . . . actually I’d planned to visit the Rodin Museum today. Strike off the last thing on the list I actually have any control over.’

  ‘Great,’ Henry beamed, draining his cup. ‘I love it there. We can go together then.’

  ‘This is very tactful of you, Henry,’ Cassie quipped, staring up at the huge marble sculpture.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He was standing with his hands behind his back, his face upturned to the sun.

  ‘Well, it’s beautiful and everything. I totally get why you wanted me to see it, but a statue that celebrates adultery? I mean – come on! Could we not see The Thinker instead?’

  ‘Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong. Everyone thinks this statue is about adultery. But it’s not.’

  ‘It isn’t? Because I’m pretty close to where the guy has his hands, Henry. There’s nothing platonic about it. Look!’ She tried to pull him to where she was standing.

  ‘You have to know the story.’

  She crossed her arms, bemused. ‘Then tell it to me.’

  He paused as if debating the request. ‘Okay. It’s based on the story of a young wife entrusted into the care of her husband’s brother. They fell in love, and the sculpture depicts the moment they realized their true feelings for each other and went to act on them.’

  ‘So far, so adulterous then,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘No. Because, you see, the woman’s husband surprised them at the moment they went to kiss and killed them both. They never became lovers.’ He gave a small cough. ‘Most people don’t realize this, but The Kiss is actually the ultimate representation of unconsummated love.’

  Uncons—? A far-away memory of their teenage kiss over ten years earlier flashed through her mind and she looked up at him, startled. But Henry was staring fixedly ahead at the thwarted lovers.

  He took a few steps away, as though to appraise the statue from other angles.

  ‘You know, he kind of looks like you,’ Cassie said after a while, squinting at the statue’s profile and then his.

  ‘You think?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Nah. I reckon I’ve got better hair. The chest’s quite accurate, though,’ he said, pushing his out to force the point.

  ‘I’m not seeing it,’ she laughed, smacking him playfully in the stomach. He instinctively caught her arm before letting it go as if she’d burned him. He stared back up at the statue.

  Cassie stared back at it too, holding her wrist where he’d grabbed her. His hands had been big and rough, but also surprisingly hot, and she distantly remembered a conversation she’d overheard between Hattie Sallyford, his mother, and her own – ‘Honestly, one moment he was holding a bag of Maltesers. By the time I’d moved into fourth gear it was like he was having his very own fondue party on the back seat . . .’

  She chuckled lightly at the memory.

  ‘What are you so amused by?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just remembering something your mother said to mine about your hot hands.’

  He considered for a second. ‘I feel like there’s a punchline in there somewhere.’

  ‘If there is, leave it where it is,’ she laughed, just as her foot caught in the strap of her handbag and she fell sideways into him. He caught her easily, and for a second the world contracted to the diameter of his bright blue eyes. There was nothing else except the slow spreading of his irises as he held her in his arms, his eyes boring into hers.

  And then the world suddenly exploded around them again, dazzling her with colour and noise and light as he pushed her away from him – actually pushed her, as if she was a drunk who’d fallen asleep on his shoulder on the Tube.

  Henry’s reaction had been like a slap in the face.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said quietly, her cheeks flaming.

  ‘No, Cassie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  She put up a wan hand, warding off his apologies. ‘It’s getting late anyway. I really ought to head off . . .’ she said, walking quickly towards the exit.

  ‘Hey, Cass, look . . .’ he called after her, but there was a thick stream of German schoolchildren coming in and it was difficult for him to wade against the flow. He caught up with her outside, at the bike rack.

  ‘I’ll let Anouk know that you came by to see her,’ she said lightly, keeping her eyes down as she unchained the bike.

  ‘Look, Cass . . . about what just happened. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘There’s no need for you to apologize, Henry,’ she said quickly.

  ‘But there is! Look, Cass, I’m an idiot. You just startled me, that’s all . . .’

  ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ he said with a tone that made her look up at him.

  ‘Look. Let’s just forget all about it. I’m a stress cadet at the moment. Please? I was a complete jerk.’

  She sighed and looked away again. She didn’t want to go. She hadn’t realized, until he’d turned up, quite how lonely she’d been feeling. It was one thing sorting out the direction your life should take; quite another taking it alone.

  ‘Look,’ he cajoled, ‘why don’t you show me something that you’ve discovered over here? If this city is good enough to keep you in it, then the least you can do is let an old friend in on the secret.’ He nudged her with his elbow. ‘Let’s go off-list. Come on. What do you say?’

  She stayed resolutely silent for a minute.

  ‘Off-list, huh?’ She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Encouraged, he moved closer and put his arm around her, resting it on her shoulders so heavily that she sank a little beneath the weight. ‘See? I really don’t have some strange phobia about touching beautiful women,’ he grinned.

  She chuckled and jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Fine – weirdo! I know somewhere.’

  She hopped on her bike and glided away. ‘Keep up!’ she called over her shoulder.

  Henry was after her in a second and she led him expertly through the warren of narrow streets that ran east from the museum, behind the Musée d’Orsay, and alongside the Sorbonne, eventually coming to a stop fifteen minutes later outside an innocuous-looking grocer’s.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Henry panted. She’d led him a merry chase.

  There was no Vélib docking station nearby. ‘You just hold the bikes. I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said, darting inside.

  She reappeared a moment later holding two ice-cream cones.

  ‘Ice cream? Really?’ He took the cone she held out to him. ‘No wonder you and my sister are friends,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Shut up and try it,’ she said.

  Henry took a bite out of the top, his eyes blinking rapidly as the tartness of the orange mixed with the chocolate that was so rich and creamy, it was more like a ganache. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed as soon as he was able.

  ‘You see?’ she smiled, taking her own bite. ‘That’s worth staying for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Suzy would kill me for saying it,’ he said, looking at it as if it held magical powers. ‘But yes. What is it?’

  ‘Berthillon ice cream,’ she said, beginning to wheel her bike away. ‘It’s made on Ile Saint-Louis, a family-run business. Widely regarded as the best ice cream in Paris.’

  ‘The best in France, I’d say. I’ve never tasted anything like it.’

  They walked alon
g slowly, their bikes resting on their hips as they ate their ice creams. They hooked a left, and Henry could see the river ahead of them.

  ‘I know where we can sit,’ he said, pulling forwards slightly.

  They stopped at the lights and waited to cross.

  The pedestrian lights flashed green and they crossed over, wheeling straight on to a footbridge. Unlike all the other grand and flamboyant bridges in Paris, this one, the Pont des Arts, wasn’t embellished with gargoyles or gilded statues or hewn from limestone. It was a humble footbridge with wooden planking and black wire sides, and all the way along brass padlocks had been fastened to the links by lovers as tokens of commitment.

  ‘Been here before?’ Henry asked, as they lay the bikes on their sides next to a bench. It had a great view upriver to the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘Of course. It’s the only bridge where you can sit down in the middle and not get hit by a bus.’

  They sat on the bench together, eating the ice creams in happy silence, watching a barge sail beneath them. It had a shiny red Fiat Punto parked on the back.

  Henry eyed the huge bike padlocks. ‘Hey, you still wearing your Christmas present?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She fingered the necklace delicately. It had become her soothing habit here, much like brushing her palm over the camomile lawn in New York. ‘I love it. I never take it off. But it really was way too much, Henry. I mean – a Tiffany’s necklace, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘It’s not like it was gold or diamonds or anything,’ he shrugged. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure.’ She leaned forward slightly, holding it out towards him.

  ‘No, I mean – can I . . . hold it?’

  Cassie hesitated. ‘Sure.’

  She unclasped it and handed it to him. It had such a comforting weight, it felt strange taking it off. It was warm from her body heat.

  ‘I don’t understand what the message on the back means, though. What’s Maiden’s Blush?’

  Henry raised his eyebrows at the question as he read the words on the back. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  He tipped it in his hand slightly so that the charm slid off the chain. ‘Hold that for a sec, will you?’