by Jules Wake
A Christmas tree decorated with tiny golden lights dominated the centre of the room amid stylish sofas and contemporary armchairs upholstered in textured fabric of golds and greys. Each of the occasional tables dotted about was adorned with a simple arrangement of poinsettia and white lilies, matching the more elaborate displays interwoven with more fairy lights, flanking either side of the wooden bar on the left hand side of the room and the registration desk opposite. Siena sighed; the Christmas display was gorgeous but the lobby was not so dissimilar from any other five star hotel.
A grey suited member of the concierge team with practised efficiency scooped up their bags as soon as they’d been registered and led them across to the lift.
Once outside their neighbouring doors they agreed to a quick freshen up. ‘And then I’m going to take you on a tour.’
‘Do I get lunch?’ asked Jason in a dry voice. ‘I’ve got a feeling from the way you said it, that I’m going to need my stamina.’
‘We’ll start on the Champs-Élysées. Go through the Christmas Market. It’s not the best one but it’s fun and we can grab something at one of the food and drink stalls. Then we can walk and eat. We’re only here for two days; we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.’
‘No rugby and beer then.’
‘Not today.’ She grinned at him, his words sparking an idea.
‘Then I’m going to take you on a whistle stop tour through the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries, past the Louvre. Up Avenue de l’Opéra to Galeries Lafayette, my favourite shop in the whole world, and then take the metro to Abbesses, the funiculaire up to Sacré-Coeur and dinner in Montmartre. It’s a bit touristy up there but,’ she wasn’t going to tell him what she had planned, ‘it’s worth it. How does that sound?’
She’d done her best to think of a route that would show Jason a glimpse of the best of Paris that he would enjoy and perhaps let himself relax for a change.
‘Dead sexy. I could almost forget you are dull English waitress, Siena Browne-Martin.’ He quirked a cheeky eyebrow at her. ‘You could be some hot French chick the way you say all those place names.’
She playfully batted him on the arm. ‘Or we could spend the day on the Rue Saint-Honoré.’
‘I don’t know what that is but I’ve got a horrible feeling I wouldn’t like it.’
No, designer shops were definitely not his thing. ‘Give me ten minutes to freshen up’
Under a brilliantly clear winter’s day sky, the Champs-Élysées thronged with people and languages from all over the world. They kept getting separated until Jason grabbed her scarf, pulled her to him and threaded his arm through hers.
‘Otherwise I’ll lose you and I need my translator. I’m hungry.’
‘I can tell, the grumpy face is back.’
With a quick tug on her arm he bared his teeth before laughing. ‘Then feed me.’
The stalls were brimming with sweets and wooden gifts. Nothing Siena would buy but it was fun to watch the children, wide-eyed and excited, picking up little wooden boxes shaped like birdhouses
She guided him over to a stall where steam pumped from a little chimney on the sloping roof. Huge round pans sizzled and a cheerful blonde woman pushed around potatoes
‘You have to try some tartiflette.’
‘Smells good. I’m sold. Although, what’s in it?’
‘Potatoes, cheese, bacon, onions, cream. It’s delicious.’
Jason gave a greedy moan. ‘Sign me up now.’
In quick French she ordered two and winced at the tourist price but it was a good-sized portion and hopefully would keep Jason happy.
‘You want some vin chaud too?’
‘Don’t think we’ve got enough hands,’ said Jason as he took the polystyrene rectangle, his fork already digging into the steaming potatoes and pulling out strings of melted cheese. ‘Later, maybe.’
Her stomach rumbled and she dug into hers. The hot creamy potato almost burnt her mouth.
‘Mmmm.’
‘S’good,’ muttered Jason through a mouthful of food, waving his plastic fork in appreciation. ‘Delish.’ He winked at her. ‘Proper man food. I was worried it was going to be wall-to-wall snails and frogs’ legs.’
‘Not in winter. They go into hibernation.’
Jason looked incredulous for a moment. ‘Seriously?’
She looked down at the pavement, her lips twitching.
With a suspicious narrowing of his eyes, he nudged her. ‘You made that up, didn’t you?’
With a smirk, she bit her lip trying not to laugh. ‘It’s most likely true.’
Strolling down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, they soon came to the Place de la Concorde.
‘This is all very grand,’ said Jason pointing to the imposing buildings around the edge of the square.
‘Come on.’ She took his arm and guided him across a couple of busy roads to the fountain in the centre of the square.
‘Wow, that’s one hell of a fountain, or rather I bet it is in summer.’ Jason leant on the parapet looking at the water full of chunks of ice before studying the black, green and gold statues in the centre, the golden fish clutched in the hands of a goddess rising up out of the water.
The sun highlighted the chestnut tones of Jason’s thick dark hair and she stared for a moment. When he was relaxed like this, close-shaven and slightly windswept, he exuded health and masculinity. Manly. So different from Yves who in comparison seemed effete. She rubbed her fingers together. They had a mind of their own, itching to touch that strong jawline. He’d kissed her. Held her. And the stupid memory of that solid strength and those slow, gentle, languorous kisses wouldn’t go away. Why did they have to pop up at inappropriate moments? Did he think about it? They’d never mentioned that evening since.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said looking away quickly as her pulse started misbehaving. ‘Water comes up in jets out of the fish mouths. It’s quite spectacular. Lovely on a hot day. The spray’s quite refreshing.’
She turned and parked her bottom on the low parapet wall. Focus on the tour of Paris. ‘Know much about French history?’
‘A bit. The revolution. The guillotine. Marie Antoinette. Let them eat cake.’
‘For a brief time, this was the Place de la Revolution, where the revolutionary government erected the guillotine. It would be full of people waiting to see the public executions. A spectator sport. Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Robespierre – they were all executed here.’ She shivered. The spectre of the horror seemed so at odds with the exotic lushness of the fountain. ‘Can you imagine waiting to be brought out, hearing the crowds baying outside? It must have been awful. History, it was brutal non? But we learn.’
‘I’m not sure we do,’ said Jason scanning the square in front of them. ‘People repeat the same mistakes all the time.’
‘That’s very pessimistic. I like to think they at least think about doing things differently.’
‘That’s because you’re the eternal optimist.’
‘Are you really that much of a pessimist?’
He didn’t answer.
With a sunny smile, she got up and led him on through the Tuileries gardens, their feet scrunching on the gravel paths.
‘In summer it’s lovely here. Although very bright. You need to wear sunglasses because of the reflection from the white.’ She pointed to the stones underfoot.
It was too cold to linger for long, with a choppy wind coming off the Seine and she huddled deeper into her coat. Once again, without saying anything, Jason pulled her closer and together they walked arm in arm, picking up their pace to keep warm as they headed along Avenue de l’Opéra.
‘I sense a shop coming on,’ said Jason. ‘You’ve perked up.’
‘I have not,’ she denied a bit too smoothly. Was he a mind reader or something?
‘You have. You’re walking quicker and you’ve got your girl-on-a-mission look on your face.’
‘OK. I admit it’s a shop, but it is special I promise.’
&nbs
p; He groaned. ‘What, better than Harrods?’
‘I think so,’ she said raising her eyebrows with a supercilious tilt and pretending to look down at her nose at him.
‘Typical Frog,’ he teased back, squeezing her arm.
‘Monster Christmas,’ said Siena translating the huge sign on top of the Galeries Lafayette building, for Jason’s benefit.
‘I think I might have got that,’ muttered Jason dryly in her ear.
Pressing through the crowds, they came to the first Christmas window.
‘Oh, isn’t that so cute?’ She peered over lots of well-wrapped up children in bobble hats and mittens, pointing and giggling as three pink monster princesses in tiaras and tutus twirled in the window obviously getting ready to go to a party. Everyone in the crowd laughed and smiled at the animated figures.
The longer they stood there the more hidden little details she spotted. ‘Look,’ she pointed at one of the monsters pinching one of the other’s lipsticks. ‘Aren’t they fab?’
‘Brilliant. Princezillas.’ Jason laughed with her.
At the next window, Day-Glo one-eyed rabbit monsters in varying sizes popped out of assorted top hats, making children and adults, alike, laugh and wriggle with excitement. Jostled by the crowd, Jason slung an arm across her shoulders pulling her up alongside his solid body.
‘It’s like being in the middle of a very good-natured scrum,’ he muttered into her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.
‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ she couldn’t stop smiling. The monster theme seemed so irreverent and un-Christmassy in one way and yet so joyous and fun, it was appropriate in entirely another. Inviting adults to share the childlike joy of the ridiculous, in the same unself-conscious way that children enjoyed Christmas.
She felt bleak for a second. When was the last time she’d really enjoyed Christmas?
It took them nearly an hour to examine every window thoroughly but Jason seemed perfectly happy to wriggle through the crowds with her.
‘The one-eyed bunnies were definitely my favourite,’ said Siena.
‘Not the pink ballerina monsters?’
‘No, the bunnies. Come on.’ She took his hand. ‘You’ve got to see this.’ She tugged, smiling up at him as he rolled his eyes. ‘Time to see the tree now.’
‘I take it from your hushed, reverent tone, that this is a big deal.’
‘It’s a Parisian institution.’ She put her finger on her lips. ‘This is the best tree in Paris. Every year the big shops vie with each other as to who has the best Christmas tree but Galeries has a huge advantage. You’ll see when we get inside.’
Jason spotted the tears Siena was surreptitiously trying to blink away. He had to admit the inverted Christmas tree suspended from the Art Nouveau dome, several stories up was quite a spectacle. She sniffed again, her lip quivering.
Jason gave her a hug. ‘You big softy.’ With his thumb he swiped away a wayward tear. ‘Although,’ his eyes met hers, twinkling and teasing, ‘I admit it is pretty amazing.’
He pulled her to him, so they stood side by side gazing up at the tree made entirely of lights. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it.’ His head tilted back as he took in the full spectacle and the glory of the balconies on each layer overlooking the central shopping hall.
‘It always reminds me of an elaborate inside out wedding cake, with all the tiers. Sometimes I visit each floor to look down. I love all the wrought iron tracery on the balconies.’
Definitely a Siena place. This was rich kid paradise. The labels. Well-heeled shoppers. It was her to a ‘T’.
‘Galeries Lafayette is my favourite store in Paris. In the whole world. I come every Christmas to see the tree and the windows.’
Why didn’t that surprise him? But he owed her. She had done a great job this morning, the least he could do was humour her and the decorations were rather cute.
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink and you can sit and feast your eyes on this rather wonderful upside tree.’
The champagne was ridiculously expensive but you were probably paying for the view and he couldn’t imagine Siena drinking anything else while here. They managed to snag seats looking out over the store, although it was difficult to look anywhere but the violet, orange, blue and white bejewelled lights of the tree. Talk about blinged up on speed. Not his taste but Siena seemed mesmerised by it.
‘Cheers and thank you.’ Jason chinked his glass with hers.
‘Salut,’ she tapped hers back. ‘This is wonderful. I could spend all afternoon in here. Dior have got a new perfume and the new Michael Kors collection for spring has arrived. Oh, down there. In the men’s department. Did you see? Grégory Fitoussi.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s an actor. Very good-looking. I’ve seen him in English programmes.’
To his surprise, Siena was happy to leave after they’d finished their drinks. He’d half anticipated that she’d want to spend the whole afternoon in there.
It was quite relaxing to be in the hands of a native, especially on the Métro. The London Underground he got, but the Métro seemed even older and dirtier.
She told him they were getting off at Abbesses and he was glad to put his feet up for a few stops. When they came out of the station, dusk had fallen.
‘Where are you taking me now?’
‘On the funicular up to Montmartre.’ He might have heard of the area but he only had a vague notion of where they were. Somewhere north. ‘The artists’ quarter?’
‘That’s right. Place du Tertre. There’s another market up here. It’s busy but nice. More French people come here. It’s still touristy but different. There are lots and lots of cafés. I thought we’d eat here.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘Do you ever think of anything but food?’
Jason’s face fell, but he ought to be grown up and tell her. It wasn’t as if it was anything to be ashamed of. ‘I had an ulcer a while back. I need to make sure I eat regularly.’ He scrunched up his face. ‘And sensibly. I miss a damn good curry takeaway.’
‘Hence the tablets I’ve seen you take.’
‘It’s much better. Only indigestion tablets now. They’re few and far between.’ Thankfully, he was off the heavy duty stuff.
Artists’ work lined the square, on the pavements, on easels and pinned up on walls. Everything from contemporary, clever symbolic scenes of Paris, well executed watercolours of famous landmarks through to cutesy hideous depictions of stereotypical geranium festooned balconies populated by enormous-eyed children wearing black berets on display. He couldn’t believe anyone bought the latter, although he had a vague memory of something very similar on his grandmother’s wall in the seventies.
There was a definite buzz here. Earnest artists, young and old, hoping to emulate the famous painters who’d inhabited these streets a quarter of a century before. Although, as he recalled, a lot of them hadn’t been that successful until after their deaths. Montmartre seemed more like a separate village, with its cobbled narrow streets and the abundance of cafés which looked as if they hadn’t changed since the thirties. Lovers and couples wandering together, leisurely and unhurried. Siena had slowed her pace too, now that she’d got the razzle dazzle bit of the day out of the way. At one point he’d thought he might have to stop her leaning over the balcony in that mind-blowing store to touch the magical Christmas tree.
She reminded him of his nieces on Christmas Day. Manic and excited, rushing through everything in the morning, thrilled with the bright lights and presents before calming down to enjoy the traditions and the family element of the day with the long, drawn out lunch and time spent talking to the relatives. She also reminded him of the glow of Christmas, something he’d missed in the last couple of years. Last year had been miserable, battling with his stomach problems and trying to sort Stacey out before he’d realised she was beyond his help. Before that somehow they’d never managed to compromise on whose family they should visit, so they’d usually sp
ent Christmas Day on their own with a feeble turkey crown for two and bung in the oven pre-prepared veg before going to their separate ways to respective family on Boxing Day.
Christmas wasn’t far away and, based on past experience, he couldn’t raise much enthusiasm.
‘Earth to Jason. Look, what do you think of these for Lisa?’ Siena was dancing in front of him holding up a set of Russian dolls. They’d been wandering around the Place du Tertre for an hour, with Siena darting from stall to stall like a golden firefly.
Her excitement was contagious but she didn’t badger him. She left him to wander and size things up on his own. She smiled and skipped, here and there, keeping her counsel as if she didn’t want to impose her relentlessly upbeat cheer on him. It was weirdly restful and rather endearing.
‘I want to get her a little something, although I’m going to give her a big something as well but that’s second-hand, so it’s a bit of cheapskate present.’
‘Nice.’ If you liked that sort of thing.
‘Stop being a grump. They’re lovely.’
She was right, he was being a misery. ‘Actually, I think my nieces would love them.’
‘Now you have nieces?’ Siena looked quite put out.
‘I had nieces before.’ His shoulders shook with silent laughter. Was not mentioning his nieces some sort of crime?
‘You didn’t say anything about them when you talked about getting your sisters’ presents. So you need more than presents for your mum and sisters. What about brothers-in-law? Do you have those? I hadn’t allowed for them.’
He had no idea what she was on about.
‘Pish.’ She thumped his arm. ‘Christmas presents. I said I’d help you. Mums and sisters I can do. I have those.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage but, to fill you in, I have two sisters. One of whom has a long term boyfriend. They’re both legal eagles. Barrister and solicitor. They live together in Birmingham. She works for Aston Villa, the football club. My other sister is five years older and she’s married with two daughters. Karla, who’s nine and Amelia, who’s seven.’
‘So Russian dolls all round for Lisa and your nieces.’
It turned out Siena was quite particular about present buying, refusing to commit to any particular colour until he could make reliable guesses at his nieces’ favourite colours or the colours of their bedrooms.
