We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  I blush. I keep saying ‘no strings’ and ‘just friends’, and then I go and say something that could be misconstrued as slightly suggestive.

  ‘I have some thoughts about where I’d like my life to go, they aren’t fully formed yet, but I’m thinking I’d like to travel. For once I have this crazy idea about following my heart instead of doing what I should do.’

  ‘And what do you feel you should do?’

  ‘I should stick around for my family; even if I went away on a holiday without them I would be missed, and I’d miss them too. I’d like to retire, hand the shop to the girls, but I should stay and work, because . . . ’

  ‘Why? Can’t they manage without you?’

  ‘Yes, but they need me around.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but what do you need?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I honestly don’t know.’ And I realise that I’m not going into work for the girls, I’m going for me. ‘Perhaps I need to stay at work because I’m scared of leaving,’ I say, surprised at my own revelation.

  ‘So you’ll carry on working? Indefinitely . . . because you’re too scared to stop?’

  ‘No. I know what I need to do is shake it all up – but I’m just saying I’m cautious about doing that just yet. Everything has changed so much recently I’m not sure I want to throw it up in the air and try to catch it. I might drop it.’

  ‘And you might not. You might catch it, you might just do something completely different and it could all work out for you.’

  ‘It’s a lovely thought, if a petrifying one, but I’ve lived a very ordinary life, Peter. Worked six, sometimes seven days a week, a fortnight’s holiday booked the same time each year. If you looked at my wall calendar from 1980 and one from 2000 they would be marked with exactly the same things on the same day. That’s how it was and how I wanted my life to be – as a wife, a mum, a grandmother, I needed to know what was happening every day. But now I must confess a part of me would like to see how it feels when anything could happen.’

  ‘That’s more like it, the girl I used to know. You sound like me – or like I used to sound. I never wanted routine, always the adventure, but rather ironically I think I might be ready for a bit more security in my old age.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you ever giving up the chance to chase something glittery, however old you are,’ I say. ‘My daughters want me to grow old gracefully. They couldn’t handle me having a late-life crisis, running around the world, online dating . . . joining a girl band.’

  ‘Sounds like fun to me.’

  ‘Yes, well, those are things you’ve done – apart from the girl-band bit . . . ’

  ‘Actually, there was one time in Russia in the late eighties . . . ’ he jokes.

  I smile too. ‘Well, what I’m saying is you’re used to jumping on planes and trains at a moment’s notice, you can just fly away whenever the need takes you, but I can’t. And as much as I’d love to do something new and exciting, for me that would also be new and scary. Do you know I’ve never been on a plane on my own?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – why would I? I’ve always been with the family – I’ve never really done anything on my own. This past year is the first time I’ve ever even lived on my own.’

  ‘Rosie, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do,’ he sighs, with a smile.

  As our wine is now finished, and it’s early evening, he suggests we perhaps find a bar and have another drink. A few months ago the idea of having no one to get back for would have upset me, but no one’s waiting for me and I think good. So why not make the evening last?

  ‘We’ve never got drunk together before,’ I say as we sip from our second bottle in a trendy wine bar full of bright young things.

  ‘I remember once sharing a couple of bottles of beer. We thought we were wild.’

  ‘That was wild in those days,’ I laugh.

  ‘There’s still a lot we haven’t done together.’

  ‘I’m sure there is,’ I say, feeling slightly tipsy.

  ‘So you agree there are lots of reasons for us to have another date?’

  My heart lifts. I’m enjoying this, and I’d love to see him again, but am I being foolish? I should say ‘Let’s leave things as they are – there’s too much rubble to sort through and I’m not sure I’d survive,’ but I just smile. I can’t help but smile when he’s around.

  ‘I know we did lots of things together when we were younger,’ he continues, ‘but this is now, this is Rosie and Peter in the present day, and we should celebrate that. We are now getting drunk together for the first time, and there are other things we can do for the first time that we couldn’t when we were kids. We could cook together, read together, learn a language . . . paint?’

  ‘We used to draw and paint together a lot,’ I offer.

  ‘Yes, but we never finished a picture, it often ended with you taking my shirt off.’

  ‘You took your own shirt off as I recall . . . and mine,’ I laugh.

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘I hadn’t.’ I bite my bottom lip like a naughty child and he reaches for my cheek, taking me in like I’m a work of art. It’s good to feel appreciated again.

  ‘You haven’t changed. Not one little bit.’

  ‘Neither have you,’ I say, unable to take my eyes from his. It’s amazing how quickly we’ve slipped back into the connection we shared a lifetime ago.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘So, reasons for another date,’ he continues. ‘There’s also the fact that I never got to draw you naked . . . ’

  ‘Mr Moreton, I do feel that may be a little forward for a second date.’

  ‘Oh dear, I worry I may have offended you, Mrs Carter, perhaps the naked drawing will have to wait.’

  ‘Sadly, it’s too late for me to model naked,’ I sigh.

  ‘It’s never too late. To model naked or dance in the rain . . . or run away together to Paris?’

  We both giggle conspiratorially. ‘Ah, Paris,’ I smile. ‘I’ve often thought of the two of us in Paris, a summer evening dining under the stars on a café terrace . . . ’

  ‘The sunset over the Seine . . . sharing candlelight and a bottle of Alsace Pinot Blanc tasting of honeyed pears.’

  ‘Even the reliving of our teenage dreams has become more mature. Fancy wines, expensive cafés . . . back then we’d have been happy sitting on a wall with a couple of baguettes.’

  I think back to those early dreams we had of Paris. We used to talk all the time about the kind of life we’d live together, the children we’d have, the pictures I’d paint. ‘Tell me about Paris,’ I used to say.

  ‘Our studio will have easels and a darkroom for my photos,’ he’d start. ‘At first we may even have to sleep in there – we’ll be poor, struggling artists but I’ll bring you freshly baked croissants and hot coffee in a huge cup every morning.’

  He’d tell me all about the gardens and the galleries and the little cafés that spilled out onto the pavements and the patisserie shops, their windows stacked with exquisite cakes and pastel macarons, which later became my favourite confection. Peter had been to Paris and he knew the French words for things – and I was so impressed.

  I look at him now in his white linen shirt, steely grey hair and those laughing eyes that have seen the world and taken its photo, and I’m impressed all over again.

  He reaches his arm around my shoulder and his face is close to mine as he whispers into my ear, ‘Have you any idea how much I’ve missed you?’

  I turn and look at him and we are silent for a long time, until one of us breaks the mood.

  ‘I’m not surprised we’re here, together,’ he says. ‘It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t meet again, that I wouldn’t know how things turned out for you. Our lives are entwined, aren’t they? Do you feel it too?’

  I nod, telling myself I should stop drinking wine, it makes me talk too much and I feel disloyal to Mike even thinking this . . . but the thought of Peter and me
in Paris has got me through some tough times. Even in the happiest marriage you wake up some mornings and think, ‘Is this it?’

  We are sitting close together, his arm still around me, and I know if I look up at him he will kiss me. So I mustn’t, because it’s getting late, I’m tipsy in a wine bar in the city with a man I once loved, who broke my heart into a million pieces. I eventually look up at him but I pick up my drink so as not to give any sign that I will be receptive if he tries to kiss me. Suddenly he takes his arm from around my shoulder and he’s holding both his hands in the air, making a square with both forefingers and thumbs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, force of habit – it comes with the job. I’m just framing that bar over there. I like the way the glass bottles are lit from behind and the way it looks so glitzy and pretty – but look at the girl.’

  I glance over to the spectacular bar made from coloured glass enhanced by the lighting and the bottles and beautiful old-fashioned champagne saucers stacked high. Just beside it is a beautiful young girl, with long dark hair, her head resting on her hands, she looks incredibly sad.

  ‘What do you see?’ I say.

  ‘The flower in the rubble . . . like you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ I say, my heart jumping.

  ‘I’m looking at her now.’

  ‘You always saw something in me that no one else ever did,’ I say.

  ‘No, the only person who didn’t see it was you.’

  He is looking at me like he used to, and I’m seventeen years old with long blonde hair and everything to live for.

  ‘I still have the photographs I took of you, laughing, skipping through the rain, posing like a model,’ he laughs.

  ‘I remember those photos . . . we took one together, sitting on your Morris Minor,’ I laugh back and we both return to a Saturday afternoon, me on the bonnet of his car, my best powder-blue cardigan over my shoulders.

  ‘Two of my favourite things,’ he’d said, ‘Rosie and Morris.’ He took ages to set up his tripod with his new-fangled timer and with only seconds to go surprised me by throwing himself onto the bonnet of the car. I had to hold on to him so we both wouldn’t fall off and as the light bulb flashed we were holding on for dear life and laughing. We laughed such a lot back then.

  Peter could see beauty in everything and even as the clouds began to swell until they burst, he stood with his hands out, just feeling the rain.

  ‘Come on, Peter, let’s go back to the car, we’ll catch our death,’ I called from under my thin cardigan – a makeshift umbrella. A storm was coming and I was terrified of storms. But Peter just laughed. ‘It’s only a summer storm, you can’t catch a cold from getting wet, just feel the rain on your face.’

  I was sheltering against a house, which seemed to amuse him as he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him.

  He held me close and began to kiss me, our faces becoming wetter and wetter as the rain continued to beat down, puddles forming around us. Then I caught a glimpse of lightning and cringed.

  ‘You’re scared of everything,’ he laughed, taking my hand again and pulling me down the road. We ran along the pavements lining the terraces, dodging the puddles, me screaming loudly – but not in fear now, it was pure joy as we splashed along the roads banging into each other and laughing as we did. Eventually he led me to a gaggle of houses half torn down, vague shapes of what they once were. We slowed as we approached to look through the mists of the storm.

  ‘They’re like ghosts.’ I shuddered, gazing at the broken shapes, eerie against the deep, gunmetal clouds.

  Peter put his arm around me. ‘Hard to imagine this wasteland was once a community,’ he said. ‘Families lived here, babies born in the bedrooms, people had sex and fought and loved and died here . . . such history. I wonder if it’s retained any of those lives within the walls . . . their souls trapped in the brickwork?’

  I looked at him, he was so poetic. ‘You have a really beautiful mind. You say things I don’t even think.’ I leaned my head on his chest and smiled.

  He kissed the top of my head. ‘Come on, let’s try and capture some of this rain and light . . . make some history of our own.’ He took out his camera and we walked towards the spectre in the storm. And I watched him thinking, There goes Peter, always chasing the light. He put his hand in the small of my back to guide me across the rockier terrain and as we walked into the emptiness we found the shapes of rooms.

  ‘The rain’s stopped,’ I said, holding out both hands without feeling pricks of water.

  ‘No, it’s a ceiling,’ he said, pointing upwards to half a ceiling with a broken light fitting still dangling. We stood for a while looking up.

  ‘Someone must have bought that light fitting,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, the wife loved it but the husband hated it and they rowed over it. Sometimes he hated it so much he couldn’t speak to her.’

  ‘Yes, but at night they’d get into bed together, just up there . . . ’ I said, pointing. ‘And they’d snuggle up together with a cup of cocoa and a hot water bottle and he’d forget the awful light fitting downstairs because he loved her so much.’

  ‘I’d forgive you the light fitting,’ he said, kissing my neck. ‘I bet they had an amazing love life in that bedroom up there.’

  He pulled me towards him and, sheltered under the broken ceiling, we kissed, our kisses becoming more passionate, his hands moving all over me and I knew this was crazy but I couldn’t stop myself.

  ‘No . . . we mustn’t . . . we have to wait,’ I gasped.

  ‘We can’t wait, go on, Rosie, please, it’ll be okay, I promise.’ He gently pushed me against the damp bricks, kissing me softly, tenderly, and I was his.

  He lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around him, desperate to take him as his hips pushed against me, holding me up against the wall with his body, neither of us able to stop. How wonderful it was to be in this secret place alone together, his breath on mine, cool, damp bricks on my naked back, the joy of his kisses, his body with mine together as one.

  ‘I love you, Rosie,’ I heard him say as the storm gathered itself and a fiery wind rushed through the gaping broken arches as the rain lashed down. I lost myself in this wild and wonderful place, of rolling thunder, and flashes of lightning that lit up the whole world.

  And as the storm eventually subsided, a long trickle of rain escaped from a crevice above, dripping on my head, running onto my face. I opened my mouth and let the water in and the storm slowly moved on.

  ‘I’ve never been scared of thunder since . . . that day,’ I say, looking at Peter.

  ‘That was a fierce and beautiful storm,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve photographed electrical storms all over the world since then – just spectacular, the way they light up the sky is surreal – but none of them as beautiful as that moment . . . the flash, the sheer exhilaration.’

  I feel a tingle go through me at the memory of the first time. I’m touched that after all he’s seen and all he’s done this still runs deep for him too. I can’t help it; I squeeze his arm and look into his eyes.

  ‘I remember it so clearly,’ I say, and he nods, never taking his eyes from mine. ‘You’ve seen so much,’ I say, bringing us both back into the present. If we stay in the past any longer we may do something we’ll regret. ‘I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen, the places you’ve been to.’

  ‘I’ve got some storm shots here.’ His eyes are on fire as he turns on his phone and talks me through some of the photos. ‘I used a slow shutter speed to capture these,’ he says, scrolling through the Congo, South America, Australia, zigzags of lightning stretching across navy blue and purple skies. They are stunning: the composition, the way he’s captured the spark of lightning, harnessed nature in one millisecond of a shot. He’s so talented, and I can feel his enthusiasm, his sheer passion for what he does. I haven’t drawn or painted for years but I remember a time when I felt like this about art – I wanted to build a future on m
y talent and nothing else mattered. Back then I couldn’t imagine a life where I didn’t paint or draw, a life in which I never appreciated a photograph, a piece of art, and seeing how his whole life is caught up in this makes me realise how much I’ve missed it. I’ve been thirsty for this for a long time.

  ‘And, Rosie,’ he says, putting his phone back in his pocket, ‘don’t believe anyone when they tell you that lightning doesn’t strike twice – because I know it does.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I’m staying in a hotel,’ he says one evening after dinner. For the past few weeks we’ve been meeting regularly for lunch in the city centre, once or twice a week, but tonight we’re having dinner for the first time and it feels more serious. I think I’m developing feelings for Peter. I don’t know if it’s love, perhaps I’m just reliving my youth and being thrilled all over again to dip my toes in the past. Either way, I’m beginning to think that if we ever wanted to take this further, we should address the elephant in the room and talk about what happened after the fair.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s a Malmaison – we could go back there after dinner for a drink in the bar?’

  This is unexpected; I don’t quite know how to take his suggestion. Does he mean just a drink or does he want more? And what do I want?

  ‘You don’t have to rush back, do you?’ he says.

  And it hits me again, after a lifetime of rushing I don’t have anywhere to rush to. No one’s waiting for me, no one needs me, everyone’s safely ensconced in their homes, in their lives, even Lily is with Anna and the girls, so what harm would it do to have a last drink with an old friend?

  He’s standing up and looking at me, waiting for an answer. ‘Come back to my hotel, we’ll have a drink, and I’ll ask hotel reception to call you a taxi. I’d feel happier doing that rather than dumping you in the first black cab that comes along – you can never be too sure these days,’ he says.

  ‘Okay, yes, that would be nice,’ I say, telling myself it’s the perfect end to a perfect evening, but already the other side of my mind is jumping ahead, wondering if I might be tempted to stay.