by Mandy Baggot
And then he watched Didier turn his head towards the glass and before Julien could think about anything else, his friend was waving a hand excitedly. He waved back and took a step off the pavement into the road.
A cab beeped its horn as Julien weaved around it, making for the warm, welcoming glow of the brasserie. He was about to move forward into the entranceway when the revolving doors of the adjacent hotel spun in his sightline and someone barrelled out of it.
It was a woman, with bright blonde hair, cropped short and spiky. She was wearing a fitted denim blue coat that touched her knees, jeans and red Converse, a mobile phone was pressed against her ear.
‘...why are you calling me? There’s nothing I want to hear you say,’ the woman said.
She was English and he really shouldn’t be looking or listening to the conversation. But something was insisting he did listen and there was such a mix-up of emotions on her face he felt compelled to keep looking.
‘Leo, listen to me,’ the woman went on. ‘All these words and apologies are pointless. It’s over. You made that clear and now I’m making it crystal clear. I don’t want you! And I don’t need you! And now... well... now I have France!’
Julien watched her gaze go up the street towards one of the most famous landmarks in the city, the Arc de Triomphe, bathed in gold, lines of traffic just visible, colouring the night with red and white lights.
‘And I have my best friend and… I don’t have my mother and I have the possibility of possibilities... and... and... Camembert!’
Julien stifled a laugh, still watching.
‘So I’m going to say goodbye now or perhaps, as I’m in France, I’ll say à bientôt, no... because that means “see you again soon” and I really don’t want to. So, I’ll say au revoir... no, hang on, that’s still not quite final enough.’
Julien watched her pull in a long slow breath, inhaling snowflakes and wind and not seeming to care.
‘Right, I’m going to say fin. Just that. Fin. Because that’s what this is, Leo, this is the end.’
His camera was up to his face before he’d even realised it. He snapped off a shot as the woman ended the call and he carried on clicking as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the snow storm like the weight of the world had been removed from her. Her bright hair against the backdrop of the midnight blue sky, the streams of white bulbs spiralling around the trees, the expression of relief and release on her face was nothing short of magical. He held his breath and took another shot.
‘Hey!’
He pulled the camera away from his face just in time to realise the woman was coming closer and the peaceful expression had been replaced by a furious one as she stomped through the snow towards him.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’
‘I... nothing...’ Julien spluttered.
‘Were you taking photos of me?’
Up close and despite the fact that she was shouting at him, the woman was very attractive. It was her eyes more than anything. Large, green, looking at him questioningly now.
‘No,’ he replied on instinct, then followed it up. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? You either were or you weren’t,’ the woman snapped.
She reached out and grabbed hold of his camera, tugging it towards her and turning it around to view the screen. His neck strained as the strap tightened and he placed his hands over hers, tried to regain some control.
‘Arrêtez,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the woman answered. ‘I know what that means and it’s what you should have done. You can’t just take photographs of people.’ She pulled the camera, the strap pinching his neck some more.
‘Why not?’ he replied, contorting his body to relieve some of the pressure around his neck.
‘Because it’s an invasion of privacy!’
‘You are Madonna?’ he answered, one hand still on top of hers as they battled for the camera.
‘What?’
‘I ask if you are a celebrity so I know how much money I can make for selling these photographs I may or may not have taken.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Let go of my camera, s’il vous plait.’
He wrestled the device from her grip and as he regained control she slipped, her Converse not gaining any traction on the snow-covered pavement, her body heading for the floor.
Instinctively he reached out, caught one of her arms and closed his body around her, buffeting her descent until she managed to get two feet flat on the ground. She was still twisted, halfway between standing and falling, him holding her weight, her eyes staring up at him.
For a fleeting moment he just looked, watched her blink long eyelashes, the short, platinum hair collecting snowflakes like tiny diamonds. She weighed practically nothing in his arms but he could feel the energy pouring from her, the pent-up emotion she had delivered to whoever had been on the telephone and, here in the street, to him, upset about his photography.
‘You are OK?’ he whispered as she straightened up, releasing herself from his arms.
‘Why? What’s it to you?’
‘You are hurt?’ he asked, worry nipping.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You are sure? I would hate to think...’
‘Ava? Are you all right?’
Her name was Ava. He took a second to look at her, as if deciding whether the name suited her, then directed his gaze towards the woman who had spoken, coming out of the hotel doors. This woman was of similar age with a lot more hair and more appropriate footwear for the snow.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Ava glared at him. ‘Apart from being pounced on by paparazzi.’
‘What?!’ the other woman exclaimed, hands going to her mouth.
‘Please,’ Julien said. ‘I apologise.’ He turned the camera, showing her the screen. ‘I will remove the photographs.’ He began to press the delete button. Had he taken six? More? He stopped when he had counted to five and powered it off again. ‘There,’ he said, looking to Ava. ‘There is nothing more.’
‘Are you from a magazine?’ the other woman asked.
‘I have not introduced myself.’ Julien shot his hand forward towards Ava. ‘My name is Julien Fitoussi and no, I do not work for a newspaper or magazine.’
‘I’m Debs,’ the woman announced, stepping forward and shaking the hand Ava had ignored. ‘And this is Ava. Ava’s actually been involved with photography.’
‘You have?’ Julien asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Ava said, looking at Debs.
‘No?’ Julien asked.
Her body language was now defensive. She had folded her arms across her chest and taken a step back from him. Why was she so compelling? Why couldn’t he take his eyes from her?
‘Ava was a model,’ Debs carried on.
‘Debs!’ Ava hissed.
Julien nodded. ‘I can see why this would be the case.’
Ava raised one eyebrow. ‘With my hair like this?’
He answered straightaway. ‘I was not looking at your hair.’ He quickly realised how that had sounded and cleared his throat. ‘I only meant... when I was taking your photograph, I was trying to capture your energy not your appearance.’
‘What sort of photographer does that?’ she asked.
‘One who does not take photos to sell anything but the photo itself.’
He carried on looking at Ava, watching his words sink into her consciousness. Every single thought running through her head was appearing on her face – confusion, frustration, annoyance, something softer.
‘Julien!’
Suddenly there was Didier, a few yards away, jacketless, his thin light-blue shirt getting soaked by the snow. ‘That is my friend, Didier.’
‘We were just going to find somewhere to eat,’ Debs informed. ‘Could you recommend anywhere near here?’
‘You would be very welcome to join with us if you would like.’ He didn’t know these women at all. Inviting strangers to join him fo
r dinner wasn’t something he had ever done before. It was Didier’s style not his. What was he thinking? ‘An apology for taking photos like the paparazzi,’ he added.
‘That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Ava? It’s our first night here tonight,’ Debs began.
‘No,’ Ava said quickly. ‘We can’t. Because I actually made a reservation at a restaurant near the Eiffel Tower.’
‘You did?’ Debs exclaimed.
Ava nodded. ‘Yes, and we ought to get on the Metro over there or we’ll be late.’
‘Ah well, a restaurant near the Tour Eiffel, cannot be missed,’ Julien said. He held his hand out again, this time to Debs. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ Debs said, shaking his hand for the second time.
‘À bientôt, Ava,’ he said, holding his hand out to her. He waited for her to take it, her fingers cold in the warmth of his palm. ‘Hopefully not au revoir or fin.’
He watched a knowing expression form on her features before he relinquished his grip and headed towards Didier.
12
Brasserie Du Bec
‘Well,’ Debs began, her eyes on the two men going into the brasserie, ‘he was totes gorgeous, wasn’t he?’
Ava looked through the light snowfall, watching Julien and Didier being shown to a table by a waitress. Boughs of Christmas foliage hung from the beams in the ceiling, it looked warm and less Arctic than the street they were standing on.
She turned back to Debs, shaking her head. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ She breathed out, watching her carbon dioxide mix with the snowflakes. ‘He was a photographer. Just like all the self-obsessed, fame-hungry photographers I’ve stood in front of for years wanting me to look this way and that way and touch my arse with my nose.’
Debs tilted her head a little. ‘Can you do that?’
‘No!’ Ava exclaimed. Although her arse was a lot bigger now than it was when she last did an assignment. That was why her mother was suggesting a detox retreat, with nothing but watery juice and a tape measure to monitor progress.
Debs linked her arm through Ava’s. ‘So,’ she began, beginning to walk. ‘What’s the name of this restaurant you’ve booked for us?’
Ava stopped moving. ‘I haven’t really booked anywhere,’ she said. ‘I just said that so we didn’t have to spend the evening with some randoms. I mean, I know he said he was a photographer but he could as easily be a...’
‘Nice person?’ Debs offered.
‘We don’t know them, Debs and he was taking photos of me in the street!’
‘And, as well as tailing a woman I think might be having an affair with my step-dad, I’m meant to be researching singles in the city,’ Debs reminded.
Ava unlinked her arm from her friend. ‘I much preferred the Christmas markets task... and I’m coming round to disguises.’
‘Why? Because you’re scared you might enjoy yourself? I know I have a family crisis going on but I still have work to do and getting social is very much part of the remit.’
Ava looked into the brasserie and watched the two men being directed to a table a little further away from the window but still in view. Was Debs right? And if she was, why? Why was she closing herself off to possibilities? Hadn’t she just told Leo she was embracing her change in status? She had told him her life was going to be all France and Camembert.
‘It was Leo on the phone, wasn’t it? Did he upset you?’ Debs asked.
Ava shook her head. ‘No. I told him straight. I don’t want to hear from him again.’
‘Good,’ Debs answered. ‘Then let’s go and have dinner and research two twenty-something Frenchmen while we’re eating.’ Debs’ gaze went to the brasserie. ‘The friend looks a bit like Thierry Henry, don’t you think?’ She nudged Ava’s arm with hers. ‘Remember him?’
‘Tottenham’s arch rivals Arsenal,’ Ava replied a little stiffly.
Debs relinked their arms. ‘Come on. I suggest completing that number one on your wish list.’ She grinned. ‘Let’s get a little bit drunk.’
Ava let Debs take the lead and she followed her friend into the deliciously warm brasserie. There was a heady fragrance of cinnamon and caramel in the air and, as they stamped their wet feet on the matting at the door, Ava caught sight of gorgeously sugar-coated, brown-topped crème brûlées being delivered to tables. She suddenly realised she was famished. She manoeuvred herself around tables of diners following Debs’ path to the table Julien Fitoussi and his friend were sitting at. There was a candle in a crystal bowl glowing at its centre and sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the beams.
The photographer had his coat off now and he was wearing a dark blue jumper, the collar of a white shirt just visible underneath. Dark denim jeans were below that. He had a short crop of dark hair and Ava had to admit Debs was right, he was attractive, if you liked tall, dark and aquiline-nosed. And you weren’t completely off men altogether.
‘Pardon,’ Debs began. ‘Would it still be acceptable to join you for dinner? It’s so bitterly cold, we really couldn’t face trekking over to the Eiffel Tower.’
Both men got to their feet and Julien’s friend immediately started organising some chairs.
‘I am Didier,’ he greeted, dragging one chair towards the table with one hand and beckoning a waitress with another. ‘Didier Bonnet.’
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ Debs said, relieving herself of her coat and sitting down. ‘I’m Debs and this is—’
‘I’m Ava,’ Ava announced. ‘I don’t need a fanfare.’ She looked to Julien. ‘It’s not like I’m Madonna.’
She watched a smile cross his face and he pulled his chair out for her. ‘Please, sit here.’
Ava shrugged off her wet coat and before she could do anything with it, Julien took it from her and passed it off to the waitress who was arriving with another seat. She sat down, the warmth of the room beginning to revitalise her extremities. She watched Julien take the chair from the waitress, position it between her and Debs and then he sat down. Immediately she felt self-conscious, tugging her top down over her jeans.
‘We have ordered red wine,’ Didier announced. ‘You like French red wine?’
‘Oh yes,’ Debs answered. ‘And there’s nothing quite like drinking it in Paris.’
Ava rolled her eyes. Debs really was going for it on the singles front. She shifted in her seat, fingers going to the serviette in her wine glass and taking it out.
‘You like red wine, Ava?’ Julien asked her.
‘I like it a whole lot better than I like photographers,’ she responded. She winced at her own remark. That hadn’t been funny, it had been stroppy. She looked to him and quickly made another response. ‘I’m sorry, I do like it... Merlot, Beaujolais...’
‘We have ordered a little Bordeaux,’ Didier told her.
‘Bordeaux is nice too,’ she said quickly.
Debs jumped in. ‘You’ll have to excuse us. I know there isn’t much of a time difference and we’re only a tunnel away, but travelling is so tiring, isn’t it? We’re still getting accustomed to our new surroundings.’
‘This is your first time in Paris?’ Julien asked, looking to Ava, then Debs.
‘No,’ Debs said. ‘Or should I say non.’ She laughed, flashing earrings shaking. ‘I’ve been several times with my job. I’m a writer... freelance for lifestyle publications.’
‘A writer!’ Didier exclaimed. ‘So creative!’
‘One tries,’ Debs said with a giggle.
Ava looked at her friend, naturally vivacious, comfortable and completely in her element. Already Debs was settled in this new situation – a new city with new acquaintances.
‘You would like some water?’
It was Julien again. He hovered a glass jug over the tumbler sat in front of her place setting.
‘Thank you,’ she answered gratefully.
He filled up her glass and spoke again. ‘So, you have come to Paris for Christmas?’
‘No,’ Ava answered. ‘Just for... well... I�
��m not sure how long we’re staying at the moment. Debs’—’ Visions of Gary strolling along the rue arm in arm with someone called Francine came to mind. She swallowed. ‘Debs’ writing job has brought her here and I’m…’ Her mouth moved again, just about to say the word ‘hiding’. She would have pitched it as a joke but it was a little too close to the truth and not something she should be admitting freely to strangers on her first night.
‘Trying to relax?’ Julien suggested. ‘Away from the paparazzi perhaps?’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, something like that.’
He returned the smile and put down the water jug. ‘It is a good time to come,’ Julien continued. ‘Not as busy as the summer but still as beautiful.’
‘If you do not mind frostbite,’ Didier chipped in. ‘I wear two pairs of gloves and still I have hands like igloo bricks.’
Debs laughed at this comment, her hair shaking, her flashing earrings moving.
‘You must excuse my friend, Didier,’ Julien started. ‘He does like to exaggerate... about a million times a day.’
Ava smiled. ‘Debs, who knew your long-lost twin was in Paris.’
‘I do not exaggerate,’ Debs said.
Didier folded his arms across his chest. ‘And neither do I... two hundred per cent non!’
Julien raised his palms to the ceiling in a gesture of hopelessness and made everyone laugh.
‘My friend, Julien here,’ Didier began, ‘see how he behaves like he is a doctor.’
Julien shook his head. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Around his neck,’ Didier said, pointing. ‘His camera. Just like a stethoscope, no?’
Ava watched Julien begin to remove the device still hanging from his neck, embarrassment coating his expression.
‘I apologise,’ he said, settling the strap over the back of the chair and straightening his jumper.
‘Non,’ Didier said. ‘It is nice to see. For a while I think I may not ever see this again.’
Julien’s mouth dried up instantly and he felt igloo bricks start building a wall in his stomach. He looked to Didier, almost pleadingly. This wasn’t the place, in front of these women, to make any comment about his reintroduction to photography.
