I see Shaun standing alone, drinking. As he looks around the bar, he spots me and comes rushing over.
‘God, are you okay? I thought you’d gone home.’
‘Nah, just felt like sitting on the floor.’
‘Oh dear, let’s get you home.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ I fling my arms around him. ‘Take me to yours.’ He grimaces as the smell of vomit hits his nose.
‘Nope, definitely your home,’ he says, ‘and I know I’m God’s gift to women, but you’re going to have to keep your hands off me.’
I manage to tell the taxi driver where I live. As we pull up outside my home, Shaun asks him to wait while he helps me into the house.
‘No, don’t leave me,’ I say.
‘I’m not staying, but I’ll just make sure you’re okay,’ he says. However, he pays the driver and sends the taxi away.
It takes me a few minutes to get in the house as I keep missing the key in the lock, stabbing around the doorframe like a woodpecker. Shaun takes the key and lets us in. Thankfully I didn’t bother setting the house alarm or the siren would have woken the entire street by the time I’d located the right code. I kick my shoes off in the doorway and head in the direction of my sofa. Shaun steadies me, stacks the cushions up and helps me sit down.
‘S’all Will’s fault,’ I say. ‘Bastard.’
Shaun catches sight of the mutilated sofa and looks at me with wide eyes.
‘Err, why is there a murdered sofa in there?’
I don’t remember whether I answered him.
I wake up to bright winter sunshine streaming through the front window.
I clutch my head. ‘Oh my good God above, what is that smell?’
I realise it’s me.
I drag myself up the stairs, turn on the shower and climb in fully dressed. I sit under the stream of the shower for a long, long time.
Then I crawl into bed.
Curtains drawn, I sleep the day away.
It's four p.m. before I come downstairs. The living room smells fusty. I open the windows and turn the heating up high. I’m in a nightshirt and a dressing gown and I’ve put on some thick sports socks to keep my feet warm. I pad into the kitchen, put a pizza in the oven and head back into the living room. There’s a note on the fireplace. I wander over and pick it up.
‘Hope you feel better when you wake up. Shaun.’
Who the hell is Shaun?
I panic and phone Mirelle.
‘Hmm, have you phoned to apologise?’
The phone in one hand, I place the other over my eyes.
‘What did I do?’
‘You called me a slut.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t remember the last part of the evening. I just remember dancing.’
‘Oh well, I was acting like one anyway, though very enjoyable it was too.’
‘You’re a slut? I came home with someone, he left me a note and I don’t even remember,’ I groan.
‘Oh, don’t worry. Shaun just made sure you got home in one piece. He rang Kev when he left.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh my God, Amber. Seriously… you don’t remember? You spent half the night talking to him. I went home with his mate.’
I shake my head. Oblivious to the fact Mirelle can’t see me.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Short, troll like?’
‘Nope.’
‘Dear God, how much did you drink?’
‘I’ve no idea, just that I started about eleven a.m. yesterday and I’m never drinking again.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’
But she’s wrong. I’ve really scared myself being so out of control.
‘Well, anyway, I’ve gotta roll. Things to do and all that. Ambs, I’ll see you at work tomorrow and we can start on your challenge.’
‘I’m not sure about that now, to be honest.’
‘Oh, you’re just hungover. Get plenty of coffee and lots to eat and I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘All right,’ I reply and hang up.
I’m sitting at the dining table eating pizza when the doorbell rings.
I lumber over to open it. In front of me is a short guy, maybe two inches or so smaller than I am, with dark receding hair and brown eyes.
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh dear, I wondered if popping round was a good idea. Oh well, I can see you’re alive.’
It twigs. ‘Shaun, right?’
‘Err, yes.’
‘Come in. Sorry, a lot of last night’s hazy. I think I owe you a thank you.’
He points through the doorway. ‘Are you sure? I can go now I know you’re okay.’
‘Well, seeing as a lot of that seems to be down to you, I think the least I can do is get you a drink.’
He looks worried.
‘That’ll be tea or coffee. I’m through with alcohol… for a while.’
He smiles. ‘I think that’s a good idea. Tea’ll be nice.’
‘I’m just eating some pizza through here.’ He follows me around to the dining room and squashes himself past Will’s sofa to follow me. ‘Erm, please excuse the sofa.’
‘Yes, I saw it last night. I hope you didn’t lunge for him first.’
‘No.’ I smile. ‘He was long gone by that stage. Anyway, let me get you that drink.’
‘Tell me where the stuff is and I’ll make it myself. You finish your meal.’
‘Oh, okay then,’ I say and point to the kettle, pots and fridge. ‘Coffee. Milk, no sugar for me.’
‘At least when I get you this drink you’re unlikely to disappear.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Honestly, you’re going to have to forgive me for anything I did yesterday, I was totally smashed.’ I look at the sofa. ‘It’s been a difficult few days.’
‘Let me go get your drink.’
I nod. While he’s gone, I stare out of the window at nothing in particular.
‘Sure you don’t want to talk about it?’ he asks as he places my drink in front of me.
I do, and I pour my heart out to this perfect stranger. I begin to feel better for getting it off my chest, but it makes me realise more than anything that I have no support system, which I guess is my own fault. Shaun sits making appropriate noises.
‘So Mirelle went off with your mate last night?’
‘Yes and unceremoniously dumped him this morning.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘He’s crushed. I’m afraid no-one’s ever done that to Kev before. They’re all over him normally. He has a harem.’
I laugh. ‘He met his match then?’
‘He’s asked me to ask you for her number. That’s another reason I’ve popped around.’
I try hard not to let him see my face fall as I realise that he’s here for Mirelle’s number. Silly me, thinking he was bothered about my welfare.
‘Well, why don’t you give me his number and I’ll pass it to her.’
Shaun looks unsure.
‘God, give me your number and if she’s interested I’ll ring you and you can tell your friend. Christ, it’s like being back in school,’ I huff.
He dictates his number and I type it into my phone.
I get up and head towards the door. ‘Well, thanks for popping round.’
‘Oh, err, sure. Well, I’m glad you’re okay.’ He shuffles over to the door. ‘Well, you have my number if you need me for anything.’
‘Yes, great, thank you. Well, good night.’
He steps outside and I let the door close behind him, leave all the dishes out and go back to my room. My life totally sucks. I can’t even befriend a troll.
I hear a beep coming from my handbag, the sound my mobile makes as a last gasp when the battery is about to die. I pick it up and plug it into the charger next to the bed. Will always went mad about this as my phone makes a double beeping noise when it fully charged and he said it disturbed him. I pick up Will’s pillows and throw them out of the front window; they land on the lawn below.
I look at his bedside table where a novel lies, bookmark in place partway through. I tear out the last three pages of the book and put it back. I tear them into pieces and flush them down the toilet. I open the wardrobe door and see all his trousers hanging there. I get the stitch unpicker from the sewing box and work my way through the underneath seam of each pair of trousers, unpicking a small amount of stitching that he hopefully won’t notice, but his colleagues will. I squirt all his shirts with my perfume. I’ve always worn Madame by Jean Paul Gaultier. Sam has always admired it. I’ll let him wear me like a hair shirt.
I’ve heard two messages come through on my phone while it’s been charging. The first is from Will, stating that he’ll be coming over tomorrow evening to collect some of his things. He doesn’t give a time. I send him a text to let him know he can call between six and seven p.m. as that’s convenient for me.
The other text is from Adrian and reads, ‘Is this from you, or your friend?’
I frown and scroll through the conversation history. Oh no, I drunk texted him.
I put the phone back on the side to carry on charging and switch on the T.V., passing time watching old episodes of The Hills. I used to love the fights between Lauren and Speidi. As I take in the glamorous outfits and locations, I take a fancy to the idea of having my own apartment. I look around my room. I loved the style, but never the idea of playing happy families. I decide to talk to Will tomorrow about the practicality of things, like what we’re going to do about the house. The sooner I’m finished having to see him the better.
I watch Lauren dining out at yet another restaurant with a hot date. They never seem to finish their meal, no wonder she’s so thin.
I pick up the phone and start texting.
‘Yes, this time, it was really me. Do you want to meet?’
A reply quickly comes through.
‘Do you?’
‘Maybe. I just have one question first, though.’
‘No, I’m saving myself.’
‘Hahaha, so funny, that’s not it. Are you married?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m only interested if you are.’
‘Yet again, I find you are a strange woman. Lucky for you that I am then?’
‘Excellent.’
‘So you want to meet? Now you know I’m married?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Curious. Where and when?’
‘I’ll have a think and text you tomorrow. It needs to be out of the way and intimate.’
‘I shall look forward to hearing from you. I’m intrigued.’
I turn off my phone, wonder at my behaviour for a second, sigh and switch the light off.
Chapter 13
Karen
It’s my first evening in Paris. As I open my apartment door, I’m greeted by the sight of a Christmas tree-like Eiffel Tower. My apartment has huge glass windows and as I walk from the dining area to the lounge, the Tower follows me from vista to vista. I walk into my bedroom, draw back the blind and there it is again. My room with a view. I lie on the bed for a moment and drink it all in. A huge smile sweeps across my face. I’m here.
Kettle found, I make myself a hot drink and while it cools a little I unpack, placing my clothes in the small closet area in the corner of my bedroom. I’ve always wanted a closet, like the huge ones you see on American programmes, like Carrie Bradshaw’s from Sex & the City. Carrie went to Paris, I remember. I resolve to be more like her, stylish and coquettish. I tie my hair up in a topknot and pick up my journal, then sit beside the corner window enfolding the lounge and write about the view and my hopes for the trip.
My stomach rumbles as I finish. I grab my bag ready to head out to find food. I figure I’ll play it safe for tonight, shop at a supermarket and start my sojourn in Paris tomorrow.
The reception staff greet me with a ‘Bonne nuit,’ and I nod and make my way out of the entrance. The cold smacks my cheekbones. Golly, it wasn’t this chilly on arrival. I pull my coat tight, thinking I won’t channel Carrie Bradshaw’s Parisian couture of Sonia Rykiel, but model myself on a well wrapped Egyptian mummy instead, and coil my scarf around my neck several times.
The wind whips my hair as I walk down Boulevard Saint Germain. I witness the bustle of Parisian life as people walk out of greengrocers and deli-like shops, carrying bags and boxes. I head into a supermarket, thankful for the warmth, pick up a basket and take in the products at my leisure. In my basket I place a pain au chocolat for breakfast tomorrow; a simple cheese and tomato pizza and a prepared salad bowl for supper. Enjoying myself, I add biscuits that bear a resemblance to jam tarts, and tea and coffee. I spend ages looking for milk until I see leche freshe, figure this is what I need and add it to the basket.
The chocolate aisle takes a while to peruse. I choose an almond praline block of milk chocolate and head for the checkout. On my way, I pass the wines. I see Monbazillac, a dessert wine I used to drink with my parents, back in the days when people went on a booze cruise—a day trip to France to bring back alcohol. There’s a half bottle. Perfect. I add it to my basket and swear I can already taste it. I am clumsy around the cashier, trying and failing to select the right money. In the end, I give her thirty euros and get a handful of change. It's early I tell myself, I don’t need to act like a resident of Paris but be the tourist I am. However I find it easy to berate myself, and I stew about my fumbling all the way back.
Returning to the apartment, I walk inside. There’s a sense of being home. The interior hallway has subdued lighting and a mirrored wall. There is a small cupboard where coats and bags can be placed out of sight. The door to the kitchen and lounge slides along the wall like a sock on polished laminate, and then I see it through the window, the Tour Eiffel flashes, glitters and twinkles. It's lights dance in front of my hypnotised eyes. I put my carrier bags down, sit on the red padded sofa and watch it while unwinding my scarf. After a few minutes it stops, and as if I’m the marionette on a music box, rewound, I return to the kitchen area to unpack my bags.
There is one small side with a worktop, microwave and kettle. The cupboards contain all manner of kitchen equipment. I switch on the oven and place my pizza inside. Then I take one plate, one cup, one wine glass and one set of cutlery out of the cupboards and drawers and using the washing up liquid provided, I wash them all. This is a ritual in any hotel I visit, just as my mother taught me, in case the previous tenants didn’t wash them properly. I empty some of the salad onto the plate and put the rest in the refrigerator, then pour myself a glass of the wine. Its honeyed tones bathe my tongue, taking me back to my pre-Adrian days, when Steve had moved out and I, in no rush to be on my own, sat with my parents and drank their wine. I put the rest of the produce away while the pizza warms, finding myself constantly distracted by the pull of the Tower. There is no way I can close the curtains on such a majestic sight.
In front of the worktop is a small circular dining table, which acts as the divider between the dining area and the lounge. I pull up the chair facing the window and place my glass down, then the cutlery. Finally, the pizza is ready and I eat it all, looking out at the tower, disappointed that although it remains lit, it is no longer sparkling. It’s as I’m washing up a little later that I detect its wink from the corner of my eye and realise it’s an on-the-hour occasion.
I sit on the couch with my drink and pull out the Paris map. I make a dot where I reckon the apartment is and then try to work out how far it is to each place I want to visit. My to-do list so far has Napoleon’s tomb and the Mona Lisa, amongst other sights. Tomorrow morning there is a meet up in the reception area, followed by a fifteen-minute walk to our first excursion, the Tower. I admire it again. Tomorrow we meet up close and personal. Arjan’s face comes to my mind unbidden and I sigh.
Snuggled under the duvet, I quite literally turn my back on the Tower. I can’t wait for the morning to come. To get back out there to the freshness and delight of new things.
My arm is dead from where it's been trapped und
er my body. I shake it out, my eyes adjusting to the light as I remember where I am. There’s an hour and a half before I need to meet everyone downstairs. I get out of bed on the wrong side so I’m nearest the window and pull the curtains back. It’s a miserable, downcast day, but who could be the same looking at this view of Paris? I can see the gold dome of L’hotel des Invalides in the distance. That’s where I’m headed tomorrow. For now, I get back under the duvet and stare out of the window. However, it’s less than a second before I begin to worry. What if he’s on the trip? I’ve come so far to get here alone. I don’t need complications right now. I bang my head against the headboard, wondering whether to forgo the trip so I can avoid any possible confrontation and stare up at the ceiling. Then I huff, angry with myself. I have this wonderful view of Paris and I’m letting a man ruin and control me again. I head for the shower. If he’s there, he’ll wish he wasn’t.
This day needs strong coffee. I brew some and use the microwave to warm up the pain au chocolat. Then I sit down in ‘my’ dining chair and enjoy the buttery goodness and runny chocolate. I can eat pastries cold but oh my goodness, they are so much better warm. I toast myself by clinking my mug against the vase in the middle of the table. After breakfast, I don black trousers, a white blouse, a long jacket, and then put my winter coat and scarf on over that. I have a pair of cream fluffy ear muffs that Adrian nicknamed Princess Leia. He didn’t like them. When I took them off last winter because he kept tormenting me I developed an earache that lasted a week, so today I wear them with defiance. Checking I’ve placed the key-card for the apartment in the back pocket of my handbag, I head downstairs.
I’m five minutes early for the meeting, but there are already several people there, including Celine, the Tour Guide. ‘Hey, you settle in okay?’
I smile at her. ‘I absolutely adore it. Had to force myself to come out and brave the weather today. That view is mesmerising.’
‘Wait until you see it up close.’
Journey to the Centre of Myself Page 8
