Chapter Five
Shannon
If Shannon was going to find out her life was totally ruined, it might as well be sooner rather than later.
There were pharmacies on every street in Paris. Each one advertising some super cream that would remove cellulite from your thighs and the last twenty years of your life from your face. Right now, Shannon would settle for removing the last two months. How had she let this happen? By letting down her guard, that’s how. And she had sworn that she would never do that again.
It was impossible to get any work done at home with this on her mind, so she’d hailed a taxi outside her apartment to take her to Gare du Nord in plenty of time to find a pharmacy, buy a test and get it over with before she met Kate. Like she’d tried to tell Laura about her order being returned, there was no point worrying about something until it actually happened. Now was as good a time as any to find out if it had.
Five minutes into the journey, she changed her mind. The toilets at Gare du Nord were on a par with a dystopian sci-fi film. There was no way she was going to do the test there. She stopped the cab, jumped out and ducked into the first pharmacy she came to.
Her stomach was flip-flopping as she browsed the boxes on the busy shelves, straightening them as she went, reorganising the ones that had been put back in the wrong spot by a lazy customer. Careless. Though, who was she to judge right now?
How had it happened? Taking the contraceptive pill had been a religious ritual since she was twenty: ten p.m. every single night. Why had it suddenly malfunctioned? It must have been that time she’d had dubious seafood and been in bed for three days afterwards. Why hadn’t she just got the implant done? Or got herself sterilised? Or become a nun?
She stopped tidying and focused on the job at hand. Hopefully, she’d locate the right section in a minute and just take one from the shelf. Otherwise she was in danger of having to re-enact the scene from Bridget Jones’s Diary in the ski resort pharmacy, as her French did not run to ‘pregnancy test’. Should she google it?
Thank God. There was a section for contraception and tests. Strange to merchandise them together. Maybe they should also display them alongside a bottle of wine and a packet of hangover pills?
There was so much choice! Did she want digital? To know how many days pregnant she was? What colour hair the baby was likely to have? Okay, so she’d made up the last one, but seriously? What had happened to a simple yes or no?
Kate’s train was due real soon; Shannon had no time for procrastination. She grabbed a mid-priced one and took it to the counter. Should she buy a pack of condoms at the same time to show the totally uninterested shop assistant that she was a responsible person? The words horse and bolted came to mind. Keep your head down. Pay for the test. Get out.
Once the test was safely stuffed into her handbag, there was a second dilemma. Where was she going to do it? She couldn’t go to a café and use their toilet – they might wonder why she was taking so long. If she didn’t do it now, who knows when she would get time today. And she wanted to know for sure. She needed to know. There was a department store opposite. They must have a ladies’ room.
Somehow, Shannon negotiated her way through the cosmetic counters and the impossibly tiny and beautiful French women who manned them. Shannon was slim and pretty fit, but she hadn’t had a waist like theirs since she was seven. No wonder it was so difficult for her to buy clothes over here. And that was potentially only going to get worse. Heavy perfumes fought each other for supremacy; she could barely breathe. Where were the damn toilets?
When she found them, there was such a long queue that she almost lost her nerve. For a start, she was now going to be late meeting Kate from the train – she hated being late – and there was also a rather unpleasant aroma in the vicinity. But the alternative – waiting another day – was unthinkable. Just do it.
She tapped her foot. She could use the time in the queue wisely by getting the instructions out of the box and reading them through. But they didn’t look to be a very tolerant crowd and if she did that she may as well write ‘whorebag’ across her forehead. Or whatever the French equivalent was. Le whoresac?
When she was first in the queue, a woman with a small child emerged from a cubicle, taking an interminably long time to get out of the way. Come on. Come on. Then the child realised she had left her toy behind and they went back for it. Very slowly. Shannon hoped her frustrated scream had stayed inside her head.
Finally. She was in a cubicle. She located the test box in her bag and pulled out its contents. Of course the bloody instructions were in French. Shannon had decent business French, but specific vocabulary still tripped her up. She knew première meant first and matin was morning. Was she supposed to do this in the morning? According to her watch it wasn’t quite midday, so that should be fine. Shouldn’t it? Now she just needed to work out what to do. There were black and white drawings to help. Take the tip off. Wee mid-stream. Wait five minutes. Didn’t look too difficult. It needed a final sketch of a woman with a big smile – either ecstatic to be pregnant or overwhelmingly relieved not to be.
Shannon had been taught from a young age to hover in public lavatories so as not to make contact with the potential diseases on the seat, but that was far too difficult to manage at the same time as urinating on a plastic stick. A bout of VD was the least of her worries right now. She sent a silent apology to her mother and sat down on the toilet.
The wee wouldn’t come. What with the throwing up and the three kilos of ginger biscuits, her bladder was drier than the damn Sahara. She took a deep breath and breathed out slowly. Just relax. Think about a stream of water. A bubbling brook. The soda siphon at a frat party. There you go.
Now she needed to put the stick in mid-stream. How mid was mid? Did it have to be exactly halfway through? How would she know? Shit, it was starting to slow down. She needed to get it in there. Was it in the right place? Was she weeing in the right place? Dammit. She’d peed all over her hand. Nice.
Now she had to wait. Patience did not come easily to Shannon. Especially when her whole life was in the balance. Outside the cubicle, the queue of annoyed shoppers was mumbling and shuffling their feet. Let them use one of the other cubicles; she needed to get this done. After laying the test on the back of the cistern on a folded square of toilet tissue – she had some standards – she turned her back on it. How could her whole life be decided by a thin strip of plastic and a chemical reaction? Please be negative. Please.
The test took five minutes. She set the timer on her phone. Do not look at it until the timer beeps. But she couldn’t just stand here. Doing nothing. With her non-urine-spattered hand, she scrolled through the photos on her phone. Her and Robert at dinner. Her and Robert watching the Superbowl on TV when she had cooked hotdogs and made him wear an American football shirt and huge foam hands. She smiled, in spite of the fact she was standing in a public toilet drenched in her own pee. If his colleagues had seen him that night, they would never have believed it. Such a doofus.
But if she was pregnant, and it looked very likely that she was, what was he going to say? This was never supposed to be a serious relationship. It was just fun. Starting a relationship with your boss was a completely ridiculous thing to do, but it didn’t matter if you weren’t planning on staying with the company – or even in the country – for that long. She had been very clear with him from the beginning. Keep it light and uncomplicated. He had agreed. It was just a casual thing.
Four minutes to go.
The row last night. The reason he hadn’t stayed over at her place. It was the same discussion they’d been having on and off for the last two weeks. Robert had first mentioned her meeting his daughters about two months ago, but the pressure had started to mount the closer it got to his eldest daughter’s birthday party. He wanted Shannon to come with him. To meet his daughters and the other members of his family. He was so deluded that he had even suggested she might get on well with his ex-wife. The French and their mature at
titude towards relationships. That would never happen in the States. Back home, your ex was usually an ex for a good reason. A very good reason.
The birthday party wasn’t even the real issue. It was Shannon’s feelings for Robert. They were getting out of control. She hadn’t even liked him when she’d first met him – stern, unfriendly, demanding, and he came down so hard on those poor sales guys. Fixing them with his steely glare and waiting for them to start babbling their excuses before pronouncing his decision. But then, it was this steel that she had also found interesting. It was a challenge.
Three minutes.
And beneath the steel was a real sensitive side. Of course she had been totally attracted by his looks: dark floppy hair, broad shoulders, an intense frown which could flip in a heartbeat to a raised eyebrow above a wide smile. But as she’d got to know him, it was his gentleness that had reeled her in deeper than she’d wanted to go. Deeper than she’d planned to go with anyone. Ever.
And he was thoughtful. He’d searched Paris to find a store which imported Lucky Charms so that he could surprise her with his idea of an American-style breakfast on her birthday. He would listen to her stories from home with an intensity that made her blush. And in bed… Well, that’s what had landed her here.
Two minutes.
But Robert had had babies. He had two grown-up daughters who he clearly adored. The eldest of which was turning twenty soon – twenty being the coming-of-age birthday in France – hence, her party. But he was very clear that he liked his daughters a lot more now that they were grown. He even blamed the break-up of his marriage on the fact his youngest daughter hadn’t slept properly until she was seven. What if one of the things he found most attractive about Shannon was her absolute certainty that she didn’t want a family? And she didn’t. She really, really didn’t. This was not something she was going to change her mind about. Some women were born maternal. Some women became maternal. Some women had pregnancy thrust upon them and… Whatever the maternal gene was, it had been missed out of Shannon’s DNA. And that was just fine and dandy.
One minute.
Shannon turned and confronted the damn stick, staring it down. Willing it to remain unchanged. Willing that second blue line to not appear. Why was the line on the maternity test blue? Not pink. Or red for danger? Or black for What the hell do I do now? Blue for a boy. After his two daughters, would Robert be more interested in having another child if it was a boy? A son?
Would she?
Maybe her period was just late. Maybe she had some weird virus. Maybe she just needed to stop being such a huge wuss, woman up and find out what she was dealing with. She took a deep breath and turned the stick over.
Two lines.
Merde.
Chapter Six
Laura
Gare du Nord at midday was a maelstrom of bodies and noise and… rather unpleasant smells. The rumble of trains, crowds of commuters and bedraggled beggars waving frayed cardboard signs didn’t really fit with Laura’s romantic expectations. It was less Three Colours: Blue and more three colours grey and grubby. Maybe James was right.
She said a brief goodbye to Kate and made her way off the international platform. At the gate was a group of people similar to those you find at airport arrivals: a mixture of bored taxi drivers holding placards, and families waiting to throw their arms around relatives. Laura had neither of those waiting for her, so she headed towards the signs for the Métro.
Her team coordinator, Shannon, had sent instructions that were precise and accurate as usual, and Laura managed to navigate the Métro and the short walk to the hotel with ease. When she’d first started coming to these team meetings in Europe, she’d loved the sophistication of being a business traveller, but the novelty had definitely started to wane. Hotel rooms were becoming hateful places. Anonymous, lonely boxes where you had nothing to keep you company except your own thoughts and CNN. Both of which were on a repetitive loop.
As soon as she got to her room, Laura checked the Emergency Evacuation instructions on the back of the door, opened the window to let in some air and connected to the hotel Wi-Fi. Her email account still showed nothing from her buyer at Machon. Thank God.
Should she call James? Normally, she’d call him as soon as she arrived, often having to leave a message because he was busy. He liked to know that she’d arrived safely. So, he must care about her, right? But after last night, calling would feel as if she were the one apologising and she wasn’t sorry for trying to get him to talk about their future together.
It was okay for him, he could wait to have babies until he was as old as Mick Jagger. Women didn’t have that luxury. Perhaps it wasn’t a good time for either of their careers, but it wasn’t like Laura was asking for a baby right now, she just wanted to plan for it. Once they decided to get married it’d take at least a year to plan a wedding, then it would be nice to enjoy being married for a little while before they started to try for a baby – and even then, it was not a given that they’d even fall pregnant straight away.
And that was the other problem. Laura was more than a little worried that they wouldn’t fall pregnant straight away. And that would mean it would take even longer. Or even that they might need some help. But she couldn’t tell James that without telling him the whole story. And that wasn’t going to happen.
She shut down the screen of her laptop. No point sitting here, staring at her email inbox waiting for the Returns Authorisation bomb to hit. Might as well check out the room. Bathroom first. White. Chrome. Plain. Anonymous. There were two sets of towels, two flannels, two beakers. But there was only one of her.
Next, she paced out the bedroom. It took roughly three seconds to get from one side to another and back again. She needed to find something to do. Anything. What was in the minibar? Did she want Toblerone? Orangina? Maybe not just yet.
In the absence of a better plan, she might as well text James to tell him that she’d arrived. Be informative but cool. As soon as the text was sent – Arrived safely at hotel. I’m in room 365 – her mobile rang. That was quick.
‘Hello.’
‘Laura! It’s Paolo. Are you here yet?’
Laura’s heart started to race; she hadn’t had time to prepare her nonchalant voice. Paolo’s Italian accent always made her stumble over her words like she didn’t even know her own language. But if she paused too long, that was like saying something without saying anything. Just speak. ‘Yes, literally just arrived. You?’
His voice poured down the line. ‘Same. I’m going to try and find somewhere to get good coffee before we meet up with the others. Do you want to join me?’
No way was she ready to see him yet; especially on her own. What if he picked up the same conversation from the last time they’d met? She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Actually, I was just about to jump into the shower. I’ll catch up with you when we meet at’ – she glanced at the itinerary where she’d left it on the desk – ‘one-thirty in the lobby.’
‘Bene, okay. No problem. I’ll see you soon. Ciao.’
‘Bye.’
Did he sound disappointed? Or was she just imagining that? James always complained that she had an overactive imagination. Especially when she commented on his tone of voice. He would look at her as if she was crazy. Although sometimes he was overly sharp. She’d remind him he was speaking to his girlfriend. ‘I’m not one of your minions.’ Not that he’d ever speak to his PA like that. He was charm personified when he spoke to anyone from work. Especially the women.
She opened the minibar again. Maybe just one triangle of the Toblerone. Paolo probably wasn’t disappointed. Other people would have arrived early and he would just call them instead. It wasn’t even as if their last conversation had been that big of a deal. It was just embarrassing because he was a work colleague. It had been unprofessional. And a bit pathetic.
One more triangle of Toblerone wasn’t even a quarter of the bar.
It had been late in the evening on the final day of their la
st sales conference. Everyone had been tense; the main man from the US had flown over to Munich and they’d all been under huge pressure to impress. Once he’d left to catch his flight, the entire team had headed out for drinks at the Kunstpark. Robert had opened a tab at a bar and told them to do their worst.
The bar was very dark and busy. European pop music thumped out of the speakers. There weren’t many available tables, so Laura and Paolo ended up alone in a corner, having bought double drinks at the bar to avoid having to queue twice. She’d had another row with James the night before – he had refused to go out on a double date with Tina and Phil because he was too busy at work for the next few weeks – and she’d had to push down her frustration and anger all day to focus on work. So when Paolo said that she didn’t seem herself, it all spilled out. James’ refusal to plan anything more than a couple of months into the future in case he needed to work; her worry about his reluctance to talk about marriage and children; that she didn’t want to be one of those women desperate for commitment, but that he was turning her into one. The words ‘biological clock’ had featured quite heavily.
Paolo had sat patiently, nodding and waiting for her to finish. When she did, he looked her straight in the eye. ‘He must be insane.’
Her heart had flipped. It sounded like a line from a Richard Curtis film, but he’d been completely serious. She’d tried to bat it away, thanking him for being kind, but he wasn’t fobbed off so easily.
‘I mean it.’ He’d looked at her with those dangerously dark brown eyes. ‘You are lovely, Laura. He should beg you to marry him. Before someone else makes a move.’
The ‘before someone else makes a move’ had been accompanied with a raised eyebrow which had given Laura the urge to cross her legs. She’d been well into her second double vodka tonic by this time and hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, so her radar could have been a little off. But then he’d followed it up by reaching over and taking her hand.
One Way Ticket to Paris: An emotional, feel-good romantic comedy Page 4
