Marie, from the hotel hospitality team, popped her head in the door. ‘Hi, Shannon. Everything okay?’
Shannon sat up and pulled on a smile. ‘Perfect as always. The room is big enough. Plenty of sockets for laptop cables. Thanks for laying out the tables and letting me in to get organised today.’
Marie waved her hand. ‘De rien. I’ll make sure you have coffee and a selection of tea in the morning. Anything else?’
‘Some pastries would be great. Maybe some cookies?’ Preferably dry, ginger ones.
‘Of course.’ Marie nodded her head and left.
Shannon unzipped a bag and slid out her laptop. Might as well get some work done here if she wasn’t going to head back to the office yet. She already had their Wi-Fi code, so she could clear her email inbox at least. With her finger on the touchpad, she hovered the mouse over the ‘News’ folder she’d used for Adam’s emails. Should she just read them? Get it over with, like pulling off a band-aid? No. She had enough to think about right now.
Like Kate; there was definitely something up with her. This surprise visit for a start, but also the way she looked. Harassed, uncomfortable, ill-at-ease.
She clicked on the ‘Kate’ folder in her email. There were lots of long, chatty messages from when Shannon had first moved to Paris, but for the last three months there had been nothing. The last email she’d sent had been a short statement about her dad. It was a generic message, probably BCC’d to a ton of people. Apologies if you haven’t heard from me in the last couple of months but…
No one is ever ready to lose a parent; you never think it’s going to happen. Shannon knew how close Kate was with her parents and what a massive blow her father’s death would have been to her. She’d called her several times after hearing the news, but they’d only managed to speak briefly; Kate was organising the funeral and juggling the kids and trying to find some time in the middle of it to grieve. To mourn her father. Her beloved dad.
Of course, Shannon had offered to fly over and help, however she could: funeral arrangements, cooking meals – even childcare. But Kate had declined. Thanks, but there’s nothing you can do. Honestly. Obviously, she just wanted to be home with her family. It was understandable. That’s one of the reasons Shannon had made the trip back to the US to see her own family. Who knew how long she’d have them? Losing a loved one was hard. And painful.
Family. Did it get more important as you got older? It had been a real surprise to Shannon when Kate had given up work completely to stay at home and raise a family. She had been so good at her job: so organised, so professional. It must have been a big change to swap the spreadsheets and invoices for diapers and pacifiers. Financially, it made a lot of sense; Luke’s job paid a lot more than Kate’s, and his career was doing well, but she hadn’t even considered going part-time. Or even a career change. Surely that would have been the perfect time to do something with her musical talent – giving music lessons, or even following her dream to become a professional pianist? Clearly, she’d wanted to be a full-time mom more. But, if the startled rabbit face she’d had earlier was anything to go by, she wasn’t enjoying it so much.
Maybe that’s what happened when you had children. Once you were in, there was no getting out. You got trapped and could never, ever leave. Your choices were limited, your options reduced. You lost the one thing that was important over everything else. The thing that was the best part of being, and staying, single: freedom.
For the last eighteen years, Shannon had made the most of her freedom. She’d lived in three different states and two other countries. Thriving on change and new beginnings. Of course, there had been friends, and boyfriends, along the way, but no one to keep her in one place for too long.
Until Robert.
And the baby inside her.
And the nagging worry about why Adam kept trying to contact her.
She shut her laptop lid. Her brain was in knots. She needed to talk to someone and get all this noise out of her head.
Kate would help. Hopefully their old ability to thrash out a problem would work just as well on mineral water.
Chapter Fifteen
Laura
‘“Housed in a stunning eighteenth-century mansion, the Musée Rodin is a Paris must-see. Famously the sculptor leased the property from the French government in return for the gift of all of his work upon his death.”’
Paolo put a hand on the top of Laura’s guidebook and gently pushed it down outside her line of vision. When she gasped, he smiled.
When he’d suggested a museum, she hadn’t expected to be greeted by such verdant grounds. The gardens themselves were beautiful, and Rodin’s famous sculptures were displayed to perfection. Not expecting to recognise any of the sculptures – having barely recognised Rodin’s name – she was pleased to turn right around a hedge and meet The Thinker.
‘He looks like I feel today.’ Paolo nodded at the muscular, naked man, bent over with his fist pressed to his forehead. His self-esteem was clearly very good. The Thinker was also a looker.
‘Really? A lot on your mind?’ Was her tone flirtatious? She’d gotten over her shock at seeing Tina’s scan picture, but it had left her feeling a little odd. Reckless, even. She was never able to speak normally around Paolo as it was. Her tongue actually felt bigger than usual in her mouth. Which wasn’t even biologically possible.
‘Yes,’ he looked at her intently. ‘Many things.’
The main house contained a lot of the collection, but it was crowded with tourists so, after shuffling around a few of the rooms, the two of them wandered out into the gardens behind and found a bench at the other end of a large rectangular pool, looking back at the house. The late afternoon sun was warm and Laura felt sleepy; she’d had an early start this morning and, between her argument with James and worry about the sales presentation, she’d probably only had about five hours’ sleep last night. How nice would it be to just lay her head on Paolo’s shoulder and…
She sat up straight.
Paolo stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. ‘I think this might be my last sales meeting.’
She knew exactly how he felt. Hopefully, they were both overreacting. Having to find a new job might just send her over the edge right now. Being the only childless and unmarried one of her friends she could just about cope with. The unemployed one, not so much. ‘Don’t be silly, it can’t be that bad. And they can’t fire all of us.’
Paolo shook his head. ‘Oh, it is that bad. But that’s not what I mean.’ He pulled in his legs and turned to face her. ‘This was supposed to be a temporary job. I was going to make some money and then use it to travel. Asia. Africa. All over. My original plans were… changed. Somehow, I have stayed. But I still have the dream. I want to see more of the world. And I think that it is time.’
Laura didn’t know what to say. She felt a crushing disappointment which was ridiculous in the circumstances. And her tongue felt even bigger. A silence stretched between them. It wasn’t actually uncomfortable, but it was full. She should say something. Anything. But her lips stubbornly refused to open.
Eventually, Paolo leaned back and stretched his arms across the top of the bench. Maybe it was the emotion of the moment, but Laura wanted to giggle. She hadn’t had a boy pull the ‘arms across the back of the chair’ move since Jacob Jenkins had taken her to see a film in Year Eleven, and all his mates had followed them to the cinema and sat two rows behind. At least Paolo was unlikely to attempt to slip his arm forwards and down her top in the fervent hope of making contact with a female nipple. Teenage boys were not the most subtle breed.
‘So, Laura, how are things with you and your boyfriend?’
That knocked the suppressed giggles into touch. Older boys obviously weren’t hot on subtlety, either. ‘Fine. Fine. Everything is going well.’
Paolo never used James’ name. Did he not remember it? Laura leaned forwards with her arms crossed. She wasn’t in the mood to discuss her almost-living-together boyfriend right now. Particula
rly not with Paolo. He wouldn’t understand.
Paolo studied her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Has he proposed yet?’
Laura shifted in her seat. ‘No, not yet. But, you know, things are moving in the right direction.’ She crossed the fingers of her right hand which was hidden in her left armpit and looked across the lake towards the house.
Paolo leaned forwards and turned his head so that he could look her in the face. ‘You’re lying, I can tell.’
This was becoming irritating. There was an attraction between them, she wasn’t denying that. And, if she had not been with James, maybe she would have been interested in him. But that didn’t give him the right to act like he was the font of all knowledge. He didn’t know James and he didn’t really know her.
Laura turned back to face him, narrowed her eyes and sat up straighter, in a manner which she hoped was firm. ‘You don’t know what the situation is. I was upset when I spoke to you last time, I probably gave the wrong idea. Anyway, I’m focused on my career at the moment.’
This was a lie. It was the same lie her mother used when her friends asked if Laura and James were getting married. She’s a career woman. Laura wished she did have a career that she cared about. It drove her crazy, listening to the judgement levelled at the ‘career woman’ who ‘decides’ to wait until her late thirties to have a baby. Why was no one blaming the commitment-phobic men who run five miles in the other direction at the thought of sharing space in their wardrobe, let alone a life of nappies and Friday nights indoors? For women who wanted children, it wasn’t their choice of career which stood in their way, it was their ability to find a willy attached to a suitable man.
Paolo was nodding his head. ‘Okay. Let’s assume you are telling the truth and are passionate about the printing needs of the population. Why does that stop you getting married? Babies, yes, I understand that takes some thinking and juggling around your careers. But marriage? Why does your boyfriend not ask you to marry him?’
Laura folded her arms. ‘There’s no point in discussing this with you. You don’t even know James.’
Paolo threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, but I think I do.’ He put his hands out in front of him as if he was weighing out two different options. He raised his left palm. ‘He loves you, but he needs more time.’ Then he lowered it and raised the right. ‘He loves you, but life is busy right now. You are the one for him, but there are things he needs to do before he settles down.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I close?’
It was a fifty-fifty split between wanting to slap him and bursting into tears. Laura didn’t trust her voice, so turned away from him. Feeling traitorous tears at the corners of her eyes, she tried to focus on one of the windows of the house until the urge to cry, or be violent, went away.
Paolo put his hand back onto his knee and his knuckle grazed the outside of her thigh.
Laura couldn’t explain the feelings that went through her body at that moment. Her chest was so angry it felt as if it might burst into flame. And yet, at the exact same moment, her leg appeared to be melting and the rest of her body wanted to follow. Fight or flight?
Her heart thumping, she took a deep breath. She didn’t dare to look at him. ‘You don’t know him. Some people just need more time. They don’t rush into things.’ And they don’t put their hands anywhere near the leg of a girl who already has a boyfriend.
Paolo held his hands up. ‘You’re right, I don’t. But this is not a new story, Laura, and it never ends well. How long have you been together?’
Like a stroppy schoolgirl, she muttered, ‘Twelve years.’
Paolo shook his head slowly. ‘If he doesn’t know by now, he never will.’
Laura’s head whipped around so fast, she almost heard the air move. ‘I’m not sure what you call this in Italy, but in England we call it sticking your nose into other people’s business and we don’t consider it a good thing to do.’
Paolo held his hands up in submission. ‘You’re right, it is none of my business.’ He used that look again, the one that felt as if it drove into her. He seemed about to say something else and then changed his mind. Getting up from the bench, he held out a hand and pulled her up. ‘I am sorry, Laura. Please forget I said anything, blame this Italian nose for being too big.’ He tapped his nose and winked at her.
But she couldn’t forget. Because deep down, part of her knew he was right.
Chapter Sixteen
Kate
The café Kate was looking for was still there; at least, she thought it was the same one. It had the same bottle-green awning, the same wicker chairs, the same worn mahogany tables. She was almost knocked sideways by a sudden memory of sitting there with her dad. There was a picture at home, from the days before digital cameras, when people had actually printed photographs and kept them in albums. Her dad with a glass in his hand and an arm around Kate. She was beaming while he looked serious. Her dad hadn’t often smiled in photographs. She and her mum had always teased him about it. He’d get cross with them, ‘But I am smiling on the inside.’
A waiter in a black waistcoat nodded at her and motioned towards a small table outside with two chairs.
Why had she said she would go out to dinner with Graham? When was she going to learn how to say no? That’s why her diary was so ridiculously full: kids’ clubs and playdates and various special events. Whenever someone invited her to something and she didn’t want to go to, she would flail around, trying to think of a reason for not being able to make it. Luke would look at her incredulously, ‘Just say that you don’t want to.’ Obviously, this was impossible. Instead, she’d say: ‘Sure, I’d love to come out to a Cub Scout fundraiser on Saturday night. I have to take the kids to karate in the morning, then a birthday party in the afternoon and I have got to go food shopping and do three loads of washing, but I’m sure I’ll be able to get there by eight.’
Kate slipped into a seat and looked at the menu, although she already knew what she was going to order: the same thing she’d eaten when she’d come here with her parents. Croque monsieur and a glass of red wine.
Her dad hadn’t wanted to come to Paris; he’d had that unexplainable dislike of the French that some people of his generation seemed to have. But Kate had been out there for the third year of a Modern Languages and Music degree, and so he’d come. Her mum had been so pleased: ‘I’d never have got him here.’ It was probably true: Kate had seen the same sort of power already with her daughter and Luke – Alice was the only one who could get Luke on the dance floor at parties. Fathers and daughters – it was a known phenomenon.
‘Bonjour Madame. Que désirez-vous boire?’
Madame. In her student days, she’d been mademoiselle. Another change. ‘Oui. Un verre de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît.’
He nodded. ‘Et pour manger?’
She knew this without looking. ‘Un croque monsieur, s’il vous plaît.’
He nodded again and took the menu. ‘Parfait.’
They’d had a lovely day when they’d come here. Her parents had come to Paris to visit her and she’d taken them to the Musée d’Orsay – her favourite art gallery in Paris – a converted railway station, with impossibly high ceilings and the old station clock at one end. They’d spent some time in the impressionist galleries – her mum loved a bit of Monet – before coming to this café for lunch. Her dad had raved about the croque monsieur; he’d always been a sandwich kind of a man. Given the choice, he’d have put pretty much any foodstuff between two slices of bread to make a sandwich. Obviously, he wasn’t often given the choice. With a wife and a daughter, the poor man rarely had a choice about anything. When Kate had still lived at home, her dad would come downstairs ready to go out and be met by the two women in his life shaking their heads at him. He’d sigh, turn around and go back upstairs to change.
The waiter arrived with a glass of wine and a small bowl of crisps. She smiled at him. ‘Merci.’
As she sipped at her wine, Kate tried to imagine her dad sit
ting here, next to her. But she had the same problem she’d been having since he’d died. She couldn’t remember him; not even what he looked like. When she tried to grasp at memories, they would slip away like a child in a crowd. She would have glimpses of him in her mind: telling a joke in a kitchen at someone’s house; sitting in a Little Chef, just the two of them, on the way home from university; holding Thomas a couple of hours after he was born. Even those snapshots had only been uncovered recently. She would take each one out slowly and carefully, feeling them painfully into existence, having to hold her breath before she could even touch the corners of them, letting her breath out again slowly, carefully, as long as she could bear it, before covering them up again.
The waiter was back with her sandwich. Even the smell of it reminded her of her dad. After his first taste of a croque monsieur here, it had become one of his specialties. You could be always be sure to find a block of Gruyère cheese and a jar of Dijon mustard in her parents’ fridge.
People said that grief got easier with time but that was misleading. It was true that hours could pass without Kate thinking about him; sometimes even a whole day or more. But grief was just hiding, biding its time. When she least expected it, it jumped on her, punched her in the stomach, closed her throat, snatched her breath. Coming from nowhere, she was never prepared. How do you explain to the lady on the checkout that you suddenly can't speak, or to your young child that you don't know why the jigsaw puzzle is making Mummy cry?
She took a bite of the sandwich.
She had called Tim to tell him about her dad. She’d still had his number stored. Maybe it had been speaking to him on the phone that had done it. Maybe it had been the fact he was so kind and seemed so upset about her dad. Maybe it had been because she was feeling weak, and tired, and like she just didn’t want to be grown up about this any more. But when he’d suggested they meet for a drink, she’d accepted.
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