by C. J. Duggan
As I opened it, the balcony door hit the edge of the bed, allowing barely enough room to go out; it was something Liam and I had laughed about when we opened it the first time. Every new, quirky discovery had been met with carefree laughter because, after all, it was Paris: there could have been a rodent watching TV on our bed and it would have been okay. WE WERE IN PARIS! But now, as I shifted awkwardly through the small opening and onto the little rain-dampened balcony, I didn’t feel any form of whimsy or lighthearted joy at all, even though my heart never failed to clench at the sight of the beautiful apartment buildings lining the street. Opposite me, a slightly damp black cat lazily washed himself on the balcony, the window left ajar for him for whenever he was ready to return.
Despite the traffic noise and the sound of a distant police siren, my mind was alarmingly quiet. My legs, which had felt like jelly, no longer shook, and although a breeze swept across me I didn’t feel cold. If anything, my cheeks felt flushed and my heart raced; was I getting sick? Was this a normal reaction to heartbreak? I couldn’t tell as I had no experience with being dumped, apart from David Kennedy ditching me in Grade Four for Jacinta Clark. Liam had been my first serious boyfriend and heartbreak was new to me, so I didn’t know if what I was feeling was normal. I felt like a robot. Was I completely devoid of emotion?
My question was answered the moment I glanced down to the street, my eyes narrowing as I saw the black Audi that was still parked out the front of the hotel. The sudden rage I felt bubbling to the surface proved I wasn’t a robot. I was all right, just as furious as I’d been on the pavement, meeting those steely blue eyes boring into me through the slit of the car window. Without apology they’d stared me down, and it had worked.
‘Cocky bastard,’ I mumbled, my voice causing the cat opposite to pause mid-clean and look at me with his yellow eyes.
‘Shut up. I wasn’t talking to you,’ I said, smiling as he went back to his bath time. My humour was short lived. Hearing voices echo off the buildings, I gripped the edge of the railing, leaning over to get a better look at the commotion below.
A man in a dark navy suit strode out of the hotel entrance. He seemed determined, purposeful and intent on ignoring the struggling doorman who ran after him with an umbrella in a bid to keep him dry. The man ignored him, clicking the button and walking toward his … black Audi. He was talking on his phone, loud and robust, as he argued with someone on the other end. He seemed passionate, and manic, his free hand gesturing animatedly, before turning to aggressively wave and dismiss the doorman, who backed away with what looked like a thousand apologies.
The suit, whose face I couldn’t see from this angle, opened his car door, ended his conversation abruptly and threw his phone inside.
What an arrogant bastard. I had seen it in his eyes, now I’d heard it in his voice and watched it in his stride. I almost wished that he would look up now, willed him to do so, so I could give him the finger this time, send him a ‘screw you, buddy’ scowl. The thought of doing such a thing almost made me feel giddy, but of course thinking and doing are two different things, and just as I stared down at him with a knowing look on my face, the last thing I actually expected to happen, happened.
He looked up.
I didn’t give him the finger. Instead, I yelped and stepped back so fast I tripped on the lip of the door and went hurtling through the narrow opening, crashing rather mercifully onto the bed, before slipping onto the floor and collecting the side table on the way, pulling the curtain down with me, the rod narrowly missing my head.
I groaned, feeling the sting of carpet burn and a healthy dose of humiliation as I sat on the floor, the sheer fabric of the curtain draped over me like Mother Teresa.
‘Sacré fuckin’ bleu,’ I said, half laugh, half sob.
Yeah, I showed him all right, I thought gingerly, and picked myself up, using the mattress as support. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to really look at his face, all I remembered was meeting those same steely blue eyes and panicking. I heard the loud engine of his car speeding down the narrow road, probably taking out women and children along the way without a care in the world. Men like that belonged on an island; an island that should be set on fire.
I got to my feet, pulling back my curtain veil, and rubbing my arm, wincing at the bruises that were sure to come. I sighed, glancing out the window. The cat was gone. It had probably been spooked by the unco tourist flailing about and disturbing the peace, just as mine was suddenly disturbed by a knock at the door.
‘Luggage, mademoiselle?’
Oh shit! Shit shit shit shit.
I stepped once to the left and twice to the right, a dance that continued as I tried to get my head together.
‘Ah, just a second,’ I yelled a bit too frantically. I picked up the side lamp from the floor, trying to straighten the skew-whiff lampshade and wrestling with the curtain cape over my shoulders. I’m sure I looked like some demented form of the Statue of Liberty. Shoving the curtain and pushing the rod behind the bed, I quickly drew the drapes. Nothing to see here!
Flustered, I gave in to the one fantasy I’d had walking back to the hotel: I grabbed every piece of Liam’s belongings and shoved them into his bag. Quickstepping to the bathroom I dumped his toiletries into his bag too. It kind of felt good, packing him away piece by piece. By the time I opened the door to the doorman I was breathing heavily, my hair was half dry and fuzzy and my clothes were patchy and creased. If the doorman wondered what a hobo was doing in residence on the fourth floor, he didn’t say anything. He smiled and gestured to take my bag, seemingly confused when he looked over my shoulder at where my stuff lay strewn all over the room.
‘Ah, just one?’ He lifted his finger.
We weren’t leaving until tomorrow, heading back to London on the 11.05 train. I hadn’t thought beyond just wanting Liam away from me – I couldn’t even face him right now. I thought that his bag at the front door was a good enough hint as any; I only hoped he didn’t see the need to come and talk to me.
I nodded. ‘Just one.’
The door closed behind the doorman, leaving me standing in my room, my heart beating so fast it felt like it was robbing me of breath. I felt hot and manky, claustrophobic, so I peeled my clothes off quickly, hoping that would alleviate the feeling. I sat on the edge of the bed in my bra and undies, hands on my knees, shoulders sagged in defeat. What had I done? A knee-jerk reaction was typical of me, and in this moment a new kind of panic surfaced. Didn’t I owe it to us to talk? To try to work it out? After all, the biggest change in my life had been moving to London with Liam. Was I simply going to let everything go?
My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled chime coming from the crumpled pile on the floor. I bent over, searching through the damp mess, feeling the lump in my cardi pocket that was illuminating the thin fabric.
Mum.
Quickly swiping the screen to avoid the loved-up picture of me and Liam, I tapped on Mum’s text.
Just saw the pic on Instagram, you FINALLY got to see the Eiffel Tower, more pics please!! Xx.
I stared at Mum’s message, confused. I didn’t post any –
I froze, a sudden horror looming over me. ‘Oh no, he didn’t.’
I swiped and tapped the screen urgently, a part of me fearing that it could be true, and just as I tried to tell myself it wasn’t, there it was. Loud and proud on Liam’s Instagram profile, a picture of the Eiffel Tower – a few, actually, from different angles, different filters.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’
He was so distraught at breaking my heart, he’d gone on to take photos, whack a filter on them, even fucking hashtag them: #Eiffeltower #parislove #wonderwhatthepoorpeoplearedoing
And he didn’t stop there: seemed like Liam had a busy afternoon being quite the tourist, while I sat here in my undies, cold, battered and bruised. I glowered at the screen, tears clouding my vision, barely believing how incredibly selfish he could be.
I threw my phone down and buried my
head in my hands. It was over, I knew it was, and more than anything I wished I could bring the numbness back.
I wished I was a fucking robot!
Chapter Three
I woke the next morning on top of the covers, still in only my underwear. There had been no more knocks on my door. No messages, no phone calls, no pleas from Liam for forgiveness or to be taken back. When I dressed, packed and headed downstairs to check out, Cecile at reception told me awkwardly, and with a sad smile, that Monsieur Jackson had booked into another room late last night.
‘Thank you,’ I said, putting the room key on the counter. ‘Has he checked out yet?’ I hated to ask but I had to know; I had our tickets for the painful trip back to London, something I could barely think about.
‘No, mademoiselle.’
‘Okay, well, um …’ Leave the ticket at reception and just go. ‘When he comes down, can you please tell him I am in the restaurant?’
Cecile nodded. ‘Of course, I am very sorry to see you go. I hope you have enjoyed your stay here in Paris.’ Her eyes were kind, and I could tell it pained her to do her usual checkout spiel, knowing full well that Paris was not going to be the city of love for me – far from it. I had hoped to take to the city like a true natural and that maybe Liam and I could return here every year for the anniversary of our engagement. But now I thought if I never saw that tower again, it would be too soon.
‘I did,’ I lied. ‘Thank you for everything. You have been very kind.’
Cecile’s beaming smile was back once more, her eyes alight as she stood tall with pride.
‘De rien, merci beaucoup.’
I smiled. ‘Am I okay to leave my bags here?’
‘Oui, I’ll have Gaston take them for you.’
‘Merci,’ I said, quietly. I felt like I was annihilating such beautiful words with my accent.
In the restaurant I was greeted by the familiar sight of Simone, a bored waitress from Tottenham who wore her hair in an impossibly high topknot bun. From the intel I had gathered over the weekend, she had been working at Hotel Trocadéro near on three months, didn’t speak French but made it work, seeing as a lot of tourists stayed here. Cathy, the other breakfast girl, was a local.
‘Fake it till you make it,’ Simone said with a wink. ‘Where’s your man?’
‘Oh, um, he’s in the shower,’ I said, masking my lying mouth by sipping my coffee.
‘So you heading back then, to London?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, and you?’
‘Oh, don’t even, I’m trying to stick it out just to prove to my ex that I can live without him.’
That got my attention. ‘And how is that working for you?’
‘He’s here every bloody weekend.’ She laughed, rolling her eyes.
‘Oh.’ My shoulders sagged. I had hoped she was about to tell me a heroic tale of girl power and self-discovery, not weekend booty calls, mid-week mind games and text arguments. I zoned out after a while, a glazed look in my eyes, until they refocused on a figure standing at reception, talking to Cecile.
Liam smiled at Cecile, thanking her for what could only be assumed was the message she had passed on for me, then he tentatively turned to the restaurant and approached me. Simone had mercifully moved onto the next table to address a dirty spoon crisis, as Liam arrived before me. His dark eyes glanced at the empty chair, silently asking permission to sit.
When I didn’t respond he took it as a yes and pulled out the chair. I looked straight into his eyes with a deadpan expression; I wanted him to feel my pain, my disappointment, my heartbreak.
‘I’ve ordered a taxi for ten fifteen,’ he said.
I lifted my chin, giving nothing away.
‘Do you have everything?’ he asked, like he always did. Always the control freak.
‘Of course,’ I snapped.
‘Well, I think the trip home will give us the chance to … talk.’
I shrugged. ‘Why wait?’
Liam sighed. ‘Claire, please don’t be—’
‘What? Difficult? Sorry, but you don’t get to call the shots, not on this.’
Liam shifted in his seat, smiling painfully at the couple at the next table, before he turned back to me, leaning forward. ‘The taxi will be here soon.’
‘Okay, well, until then we have some time to kill.’ I wasn’t backing down on this, no way, no how. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair, staring him down, much like the suited Frenchman had done to me yesterday. Who’d have thought I would actually be grateful to him for showing me how it’s really done? Liam swallowed, shifting once more in his seat.
Ha! What do you know? It really does work!
Truth be known, I didn’t really want to talk, not here or on the train. I had nothing in my head, no begging requests for him to take me back, no heartfelt speech to give; nothing. But seeing as the ball was in my court, a situation that was so rare in our relationship, I wanted to at least say something, and the only thing that had sprung to mind was the very same question I had asked myself on the long, rainy walk back to the hotel.
I looked at Liam, my hard stare finally faltering. ‘Why?’
It was the simplest of words but held the most meaning, and I knew it was the very question that Liam had been dreading, if the look on his face was anything to go by.
He closed his eyes as if summoning the strength to reply. It made me feel worse that he had to psych himself up to answer me. Surely he would already know why – he was the one breaking up with me. Did he have a gambling problem? A secret wife and kids back in Australia? Did he love listening to Nickelback? How bad could it be?
‘I, um – Christ, why is this so bloody hard?’
His big brown eyes looked so pitiful, for a second I actually felt sorry for him; I was ready to say, ‘Never mind,’ and give him a hug. Until his shifting stopped and he looked into my eyes and I saw it: for some inexplicable reason I knew the answer, I just knew, and all of a sudden I didn’t feel sorry any more. I slowly let my arms unfold as the realisation washed over me like a tidal wave. I took a deep, steadying breath.
‘Who? Who is she?’ I scrunched the serviette in my fist with white-knuckled intensity. ‘The girl who’s watering our fucking plants?’ I said way too loudly – even Gaston from the hotel door turned.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened.’
‘No, but you want it to.’
He fell silent, unable to even look me in the eyes.
I had been hard-pressed to think of one question, but now it seemed I had a million of them tumbling in my head. How long? Why her? Why Veronica from upstairs?
But as the painful silence drew out between us, there was only one question that I really wanted him to answer.
‘Do you love her?’
Only then did his eyes look up to my face and in a moment where I felt I didn’t know him at all, I found I could read Liam better than anyone, and I could see the answer in his eyes. It was a crushing blow.
‘It’s hard to explain. It’s different with her. She just … gets me.’
I could feel my stomach churning. I seriously didn’t want to know the details. I had heard enough.
‘Claire.’ He took my hand. ‘You will always be very special to me.’ His face was creased in sincerity, and it took everything in my willpower not to punch him. I might have done exactly that if Gaston hadn’t intervened.
‘Pardon, your taxi is here.’
Snapping out of my violent thoughts, I pulled my hand away and grabbed my bag. Like a zombie, I weaved around the breakfast tables, following Liam out. It was almost like I was underwater, struggling for breath, disoriented. The smiles and goodbyes from Simone and Cecile all seemed as if they were playing out in slow motion, the sound muted as my foggy mind ran over every horrid moment from the second Liam had dropped a bombshell on me yesterday. Flashing images of our seventy-two hours in Paris pinpointed every time he had rolled his eyes, or argued that I was wrong, or told me not to be stupid; it w
as a montage of putdowns, something I hadn’t even thought about before. His contempt for me hit me like the fresh air hitting my face as we left the hotel.
As the taxi driver loaded our bags into the car, I felt Liam beside me, touching me on the shoulder. ‘Claire?’
I blinked, turning to see his concerned eyes, before my gaze dropped to my hand, holding the crinkled train ticket.
‘Claire, come on, the taxi’s waiting.’
I looked at him, examining his face silently before I smiled slowly and I shook my head. I shoved the ticket into his chest.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Liam’s mouth gaped as he clutched the train ticket. ‘W-what?’
‘I’m staying in Paris,’ I said, lifting my chin. Spinning on my heel, nodding to Gaston, who was already retrieving my bags from the taxi with a big grin, I said, ‘Goodbye, Liam. I never did like those fucking pot plants.’
Chapter Four
With every diva moment comes the equally terrifying prospect of reality when you fall back down to earth. In this instance I was standing at reception, feeling utterly nauseous at what I had just done. I had never been anywhere without Liam; he always seemed so street smart, adapted well to foreign environments almost like a shape shifter, and he was so well travelled and confident in the world. I had largely been too, because I was with him. Now I was alone.
‘I am so sorry, mademoiselle, but your room has been booked by another. Let me see if there is anything else available.’ Cecile’s long, manicured fingers danced over the keyboard with urgency.
