One Way Ticket to Paris: An emotional, feel-good romantic comedy

by Emma Robinson

  When they reached the bar, Robert turned and smiled nervously. The young woman stood by his side. ‘This is Veronique. She would like to meet you. She is my daughter.’

  * * *

  To say Shannon felt angry was a colossal understatement. A rage of which she hadn’t known she was capable burned in her stomach. But she was a professional. On the surface, she mustn’t show a thing. Not yet.

  Shannon smiled and held out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Veronique.’

  Of course, this was Robert’s daughter. She’d seen pictures of both his daughters but – made up for a night out – Veronique looked older than Shannon remembered. Still, the family resemblance was clear. Long limbed, easy smile, dark brown eyes. Right now, both sets of eyes were looking at her intently. One was curious, the other anxious. He should be bloody anxious. She was going to unleash hell on him later.

  ‘Please, call me Vero. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. My father has spoken about you a great deal.’ Her English was perfect. As was her young skin. She made Shannon feel old. How could Robert be the father of this fully-grown adult? Shannon stopped herself from placing her hand on her stomach again.

  ‘Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you.’ Shannon had meant this to be a flippant comment, but something caught in her throat as she said it aloud. What was that all about?

  The coward formerly known as Robert backed away. ‘I’ll go and look after everyone. You girls get to know each other.’

  Girls? Patronising crapbag. He was going to pay for that later, too. She smiled at Vero again. ‘I had no idea you were coming.’

  Vero flicked her hair from her shoulder. She really was stunning. No wonder Robert was so proud of her. ‘It’s a coincidence. I’m here with some friends.’

  Shannon knew a lie when she smelled one. She looked around her. ‘How nice. Where are they?’

  ‘Over the back somewhere. Are you having a nice evening?’

  The girl had lovely manners, too. Clearly very well brought-up. ‘Yes, thank you. Although, you know, these work things.’

  What a dumb thing to say. What would this young woman know about work social events?

  But Vero nodded politely. ‘Papa used to moan about them all the time. He doesn’t moan so much now that you are there.’

  Shannon smiled. ‘Yes, well. I am very good at organising.’

  Vero looked at her intently. ‘You are very good at managing my father. And making him happy.’

  Shannon felt a rush of pleasure. She squashed it down. ‘Well, he’s pretty easy to please.’

  Vero shook her head. ‘We both know that’s not true. You should have seen him when we were young. My sister and I used to hide from him when he was raging about our untidiness or noise. He definitely prefers us a lot more now we are older and can behave ourselves in restaurants.’ She raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘And he also seems very happy since he met you. He talks about you a lot, you know.’

  Shannon was still angry with Robert. Whatever this girl said wasn’t about to get him out of hot water. ‘I guess we spend a lot of time together.’

  This time Vero nodded. ‘I know. That’s why we wanted to meet you. My sister and I. We’ve been wondering if we might get a stepmother sometime soon.’

  Shannon felt her crème brûlée bidding to make a reappearance. Marriage? She laughed nervously. ‘Oh, I think you’re safe for a while.’

  Vero shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s clearly in love with you. And, well, we’d like to get to know you. We’d like you to feel like part of the family.’

  The ‘F’ word. The one Shannon had worked so hard to distance herself from. And here was this young and beautiful daughter of Robert’s, offering her just that. On his behalf. Had he even known that was what she was going to say? And if he had, why the hell was he using his daughter to run his errands for him? Did he think Shannon would just cave into a pool of gratefulness because he was making a space for her in his life?

  This wasn’t her. She didn’t do the family thing. She was a single. A unit. A Shannon.

  Except now, she really did need to consider someone else. Even if that someone else was a tiny foetus. This time, the crème brûlée really did feel like it might reappear. ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me, I just need to…’

  She almost pushed the maître d’ from behind his podium in her rush to get outside. The cool city air soothed her burning face, and the urge to vomit subsided a little. She laid her cheek against the steel handrail. That felt good.

  Notre Dame moved slowly past as the boat made its way back up the Seine, its gothic façade looming out into the darkness. Shannon could imagine, but not see, the gargoyles on the roof – her angry face probably bore some similarities.

  She had been determined not to speak to Robert about any of this tonight. She wanted to wait until the sales people had gone home and they could talk about it sensibly and like adults. And now he was trying to force her hand, make her become something she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to be. Well, he had no idea what was coming. When she told him about the baby – if she told him about the baby – was he going to change his mind? Vero’s version of his fatherhood didn’t paint a picture of a man who was gaga over small people. And, on top of that, did Shannon really want to be with someone who was clearly so used to getting his own way that he would ignore her clear instructions that she did not want to meet his daughter and just invite her along anyway?

  Inside her bag, her mobile dinged. Then again. Then a third time. It must have located a signal now she’d come up from the inside of the boat. She popped open her clutch bag and checked the screen of her mobile. Three missed calls. From America. Adam.

  There was a voicemail, too. And a text message.

  The text message felt like the safest option right now. But it wasn’t.

  Shannon. You MUST call me. Did you get my emails? Faye is IN PARIS. I need to explain. Just call me!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kate

  The dance floor was getting crowded, so Graham suggested they go back to their table. Kate started to relax. She was actually having a really nice time. It had been so long since she’d done this. Just a woman, out for dinner. No time to be home. No early morning alarm call tomorrow. Nothing and no one to worry about, except herself.

  But then he had to go and ruin it.

  The wine was flowing, the night was warm and they had been laughing about something. Then he leaned in towards her – she thought he was going to whisper something – and tried to kiss her.

  It had been a long time since someone smelling of expensive aftershave had tried to kiss Kate. The kisses she shared with Luke were more the brief, perfunctory I’m-leaving-for-work kind of kisses or almost-as-brief precursors to let’s-try-and-have-sex-before-we-fall-asleep. Kissing a stranger was different. For a moment, she felt that long-ago excitement which rises up from your stomach as you feel the magnetism between you and someone you hardly know yet.

  Then she came back to herself. A married woman with two young children, sitting opposite a married man who also had his own children. What was she thinking? More importantly, what was he thinking? What kind of woman did he assume she was? Slutty? Desperate? Which would feel worse? ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  He smiled again, but this time there was something rather sleazy about it. He wasn’t actually as attractive as she’d first thought. ‘I was hoping to kiss you.’

  He could have pretended he’d fallen forwards in his chair; that his hands were full and he was squashing a gnat that had landed on her lip; that he had seen her choke on an olive stone and was preparing to give mouth-to-mouth. However implausible the excuse, she would have happily swallowed it (the excuse, not the imaginary olive stone) and they could have continued to have a nice evening. But he wasn’t letting it go.

  She picked up a napkin from the table and twisted it. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t go all coy on me. We both know where t
his has been heading all evening.’ He picked up the bottle of wine and started to refill her glass.

  Kate had told him she was married and he knew that she knew that he was married; why would she have thought the evening was heading anywhere? ‘But I’m married.’ If in doubt, state the obvious.

  He looked at her shrewdly, ‘I thought you and your husband were having a break? You said you’d come out here without telling him?’

  That sobered Kate up like a wet fish around the face. A break? She had not left Luke. She was merely… Well, what was she doing exactly? She shook her head; whatever it was was none of Graham’s business. ‘You have a wife, too. And children.’

  He shrugged. ‘What difference does that make? My wife doesn’t need to know about these kinds of things.’

  These kinds of things? Obviously, this was a regular occurrence. Suddenly, Kate felt very old, very vulnerable and very, very stupid. She looked at the man sitting opposite, the one she’d thought was outgoing and exciting. She pictured the man at home looking after their children, not as spontaneous or as outgoing, but warm, funny and trustworthy. The idea that Luke would ever sit opposite a strange woman in a restaurant and try to kiss her was unthinkable. And that was one of the reasons she loved him so much. If she’d been wearing a pair of ruby slippers, she’d have clicked the heels together right there and then. As it was, she had to resort to more commonplace solutions. She picked up her bag and started to look for her purse. ‘I’m going back to my hotel.’

  When women in the movies leave a man sitting at a restaurant table, they manage to do it immediately and with style. They throw a sheaf of notes onto the table, ‘That should cover my share of the bill,’ turn on their heel and, with a flick of their hair, they are gone. In her still slightly drunken state, Kate was trying to stand up whilst rummaging in her bag to find her purse. This meant leafing through sweet wrappers, bits of Lego and old supermarket receipts. It was less Greta Garbo and more Getta Life-o.

  ‘Hey, slow down.’ Graham put his hand on her wrist. ‘This is no big deal. We’re just two lonely people having a bit of fun together.’

  ‘I’m not a lonely person!’ Kate could feel the tears climbing up her throat. Damn her inability to keep her emotions in check. ‘I chose to be here alone! I don’t need you to keep me company or, or, or… whatever it was you had planned.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He held both hands in the air. ‘I got it wrong, I misread the signals. You don’t need to react like this.’ He tried to catch her eye but she was having none of it. ‘And stop rooting around in that bag.’ He had started to sound irritated. ‘I told you I would pay for dinner.’

  ‘I don’t want you to pay for my dinner. I want to pay for my own dinner.’ Her voice cracked. This was why she hadn’t been able to join the debating soc at university: as soon as she felt strongly about something, the waterworks went on. ‘I just want to leave.’

  ‘Then I’ll pay the bill and see you back to your hotel. I’m not a monster, you know. I’m just an ordinary guy.’

  She looked at him. Was he an ordinary guy? Was it normal for married men to behave like this? Surely not.

  * * *

  Once she was in a taxi on the way back to the hotel, Kate had to fight an overwhelming urge to call Luke. Vulnerable and lonely, her need for him was overwhelming. But he was probably in bed by now and so were the children: it would be selfish to wake them all up. Even more selfish than leaving them all for a weekend without warning. What had she been thinking? She was so, so stupid. What had she done?

  A text message would be better. If he was awake, he’d reply, and if he was asleep, it wouldn’t wake him. Once Luke was asleep, you could send a marching band past his bed and he wouldn’t wake up. Kate was normally the one lying awake, remembering everything she’d forgotten to do that day. Or thinking about Tim.

  It had become like an addiction. For some of the mums she knew, it was a crafty cigarette once the kids were asleep. For others, a night out on the town, or a bottle of wine. For Kate, it was Tim.

  Being with him was so exciting yet so familiar. Like finding a favourite pair of sexy shoes that you thought you’d lost and then slipping them on. Tim was like a pair of black patent kitten heels. Luke had become a pair of slippers.

  She’d felt guilty at first. Especially when Luke seemed so pleased that she was starting to go out again. Since her dad had died, she hadn’t had the energy or the desire. But going out with Tim was so easy. And there was nothing romantic between them, so there was nothing to actually feel guilty about. It wasn’t like she was having an affair.

  Maybe she could call her mum now? It had been so nice to talk to that older lady at the church earlier. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe Kate’s mum didn’t need to be protected from Kate’s troubles.

  But Kate hadn’t told her mum that she was coming to Paris alone, and she didn’t want to worry her. Her mum was a real worrier, almost had a PhD in it. Except in a real crisis. Like Dad’s heart attack; then she’d come into her own. But Kate couldn’t call her at this time of night from Paris, alone in a taxi, and expect her not to panic.

  Could she call Tim? He would undoubtedly be up, and probably out, at this time on a Friday night. It had been two weeks since that night at his house, and they hadn’t contacted each other since. Would it be weird to call him now?

  She took her phone from her bag. She had a message.

  Bloody Melissa.

  Last-minute thought about the bake sale. Wouldn’t it be fun if we all dressed up in matching aprons and baker’s hats?

  Deep down inside Kate, something snapped. She was tired, embarrassed, lonely and feeling really, really stupid. Somehow, Melissa’s message stirred that cocktail of emotions into something much darker and angrier. And swearier.

  Dear Melissa.

  She was typing so hard it was amazing she didn’t put her thumb through the screen.

  I am not wearing a pissing baker’s hat because I am not, amazingly, a bloody baker. I have had it up to my shitting eyeballs with your cocking bake sale and, if I’m honest, with you and your shitting, cocking perfect bloody mother act. If you come anywhere near me with a pissing matching apron I will literally shove it up your…

  Shit. She’d pressed send. She hadn’t meant to. She’d just been venting. Bugger. Bugger. Bug…

  The phone rang in her hand. Was it Melissa? Shit. Shit. Shi…

  It was Shannon. ‘Hey, just checking in on you. I’m in the hotel bar when you’re done.’

  Thank God. Shannon would help her to work all this out. ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Laura

  Anyone sane – whether they’ve had a drink or not – takes one look at the two hundred-plus steps up to Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre and opts to take the funicular. The prospect of riding up to the top almost improved Laura’s mood after the conversation she’d had with Gabriella. Almost.

  She had been tempted to return to the hotel with Shannon when the dinner cruise had ended, but Shannon had disappeared shortly after dessert. Then Henrik from Sweden had persuaded them all that they should go to Place du Tertre in Montmartre. André had been disgusted with them – it was a tourist trap, he said, and he could think of a hundred better places to take them other than there. But Henrik had been adamant that he wanted to go and have his portrait painted for his girlfriend. Clearly, someone had been hitting the cognac too hard after dinner.

  Considering how late it was, the funicular was busy. Laura had successfully stayed away from Paolo since the boat but, as they shuffled in to the carriage, he ended up right beside her. Despite the warm and sticky evening, and the amount of bodies in a small space, Paolo looked cool and calm. And he smelled fresh. Laura’s heart beat harder. She needed to make sure there was no contact. Don’t look. Don’t listen. Don’t smell.

  But his smile was difficult to blank out. Particularly when it was directed right at her. ‘Where have you been hiding?’


  Hiding? She wasn’t the one with anything to hide. If anything, she had been too honest with him. ‘Nowhere. I’ve just been talking to Gabriella.’

  She watched him for a reaction to her emphasis on Gabriella’s name, but he just nodded. Then wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t think she’s my biggest fan.’

  Laura had been an absolute fool. Gabriella had told her in detail – slightly too graphic detail, in places – about her relationship with Paolo the previous summer. The intensity, the passion, the burnout. ‘And when it was over,’ she’d said with glittering eyes, ‘nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Laura wasn’t sure what she’d meant. The more Gabriella had got into her story, the stronger her German accent had become.

  ‘Nothing.’ Gabriella repeated. ‘It was as if nothing had even happened between us. He treated me as if I was just another colleague. Someone he barely knew. Not someone he had shared…’

  Laura interrupted to avoid any more over-sharing of the physical details. ‘Yes, yes, I see what you mean now.’

  Gabriella finished her glass of wine and nodded in Paolo’s direction. ‘Look at him. He knows how he looks, how people are attracted to him, and he enjoys it. That’s what he is doing to you.’

  Laura blushed. She was an idiot. But she didn’t want Gabriella to know that. ‘No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m just having some… issues with my boyfriend and he’s been talking to me about it. There’s nothing between us.’