by Jojo Moyes
As they reach the top of the stairs, she steels herself.
"Fabien?" she says, "you don't have any books about serial killers, do you?"
He opens the door and ushers her in. She stops on the threshold and stares.
Fabien's flat is one big room, with one large window looking out over the rooftops. A desk is covered with piles of paper, and over it hangs an antique mirror. The floor is wood. It might have been painted a long time ago, but is now pale and colorless. There is a large bed at one end, a small sofa against a wall, and the third wall is covered with pictures cut from magazines.
"Oh," he says, when he sees her looking. "I did that when I was a student. I am too lazy to take them down."
Everything--the desk, the chairs, the pictures--is strange and interesting. She walks around, gazing at a stuffed crow on a shelf, the workshop light that hangs from the ceiling, the collection of pebbles by the bathroom door. The television is a tiny box that looks twenty years old. There are six glasses and a stack of mismatched plates on the mantelpiece.
He runs his hand over his head. "It's still a mess. I was not expecting--"
"It's beautiful. It's . . . it's magical."
"Magical?"
"I just . . . like it. How you put things together. Everything looks like it's a story."
He blinks at her, as if he is seeing his home through different eyes.
"Excuse me for a moment," he says. "I just need . . ." He motions to the bathroom.
It is probably a good thing. She feels reckless, like someone she doesn't know. She peels off her jacket, straightening her dress, and walks slowly around the room until she is gazing out the window. The rooftops of Paris, dark and moonlit, are like a promise.
She looks down at the pile of pages with scribbling covering the typescript. Some are dirty, marked with the treads of people's shoes. She picks one up and starts to scan it for words she knows.
When he finally comes out of the bathroom, she is holding her fourth page and sorting through the pile for the missing fifth. "Translate it for me," she says.
"No. It's no good. I don't want to read this--"
"Just these pages. Please. So I can say, 'When I was in Paris, a real writer read to me from his own work.' It's part of my Paris adventure."
He looks at her as if he cannot say no to her. She puts on her best pleading face.
"I have not shown it to anyone."
She pats the sofa next to her. "Maybe it's time."
Fabien walks over to the window and opens it. "Come on, then. Your Paris adventure needs a Paris rooftop."
"You want me to sit on a rooftop!" Nell peers out, but he is already climbing through. "Okay! "
Nell and Fabien sit on the ledge. A half-drunk bottle of wine sits beside them. He is reading to her, his voice halting as he translates into English. Her head rests on his shoulder.
"'Because she knew already that this would be the thing that would end them. And that in the deepest part of her, she had known it from the beginning, like someone stubbornly ignoring a weed growing until it blocked out the light.'"
"You can't stop," says Nell when he does.
"The other pages are missing. Anyway--like I said, it's no good."
"But you can't stop. You have to remember what you wrote, all the changes you lost, and send it off to a publisher. It's really good. You have to be a writer. Well, you are a writer. Just not a published one yet."
He shakes his head.
"You are. It's . . . it's lovely. I think it's . . . the way you write about the woman. About how she feels, the way she sees things. I saw myself in her. She's . . ."
He looks at her, surprised. Almost without knowing what she is doing, she leans forward, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him. She is in Paris, in the apartment of a man she does not know, and she has never done anything that felt less risky in her life. His arms close around her, and she feels herself being pulled into him.
"You are . . . magnifique, Nell."
"And everything you say sounds better because it's in French. I might just have to speak in a fake French accent for the rest of my life."
He pours them each a glass of wine, and they sit, gaze at each other, and grin. They talk about work and their parents, their knees touching, leaning against each other. He tells her that this evening has released him from Sandrine. She talks about Pete and giggles when she thinks about him reaching the room and turning back to find she is not there. They imagine the American woman turning up at the room now, when Pete is there, and giggle some more.
"You know . . . I thought after Sandrine left that I was doomed. Last night, when we were dancing, I realized I was just confused. I had mistaken feeling for feeling unhappy."
Nell winds her fingers through his. "Well, when Pete didn't turn up this weekend, I wanted to die. I thought everyone would laugh at me till next Christmas. Nell, the girl who got stood up in the City of Lights."
"And now?" says Fabien softly.
"I feel . . ." says Nell, tracing his palm with her finger, "I feel like I fell in love with an entire city."
At some point he helps her back through the window. She walks to the loo and stares at herself in the mirror. She is gray with tiredness. Her hair is all over the place, her eye makeup has rubbed off. And yet she glows; she looks full of mischief and joy.
When she comes back, he is reading her notebook. Her bag is on the floor.
She stops. "What are you doing?"
"What is this?" He shows her the list.
REASONS I AM RIGHT TO STAY IN TONIGHT
"I am an ax murderer? I might want to have sex with you?"
He is laughing, but he is a little shocked, too.
"Oh, God. I didn't mean for you to see that."
She has blushed to her ears.
"It fell out of your bag. I was just putting it back in. 'I will have to pretend to be impulsive.'" He looks up at her, surprised.
She is filled with shame. "Okay. I'm not the person you think I am. Or at least I wasn't. I'm not impulsive. I nearly didn't come tonight, because even the thought of taxi drivers scared me. I let you think I was a different kind of person. I'm . . . I'm sorry."
He studies the list, and then he looks up again. He is half laughing. "Who says you are a different kind of person?"
She waits.
"Was it somebody else dancing on that bar? Chasing me around Paris in a taxi with strange men? Leaving her boyfriend in a hotel room without even telling him she was going?"
"Ex-boyfriend," says Nell.
He reaches out a hand, and she takes it. She lets him pull her to him. She sits astride his lap and studies his lovely, kind face.
"I think you are exactly this woman, Nell-from-England. You are whoever you choose to be."
It is getting light outside. They kiss again, for perhaps forever, she is not sure for how long. She realizes she is still quite drunk after all. She sits with her lips almost on his and traces the shape of his face with her fingertips.
"This has been the best night of my life," she says softly. "I feel . . . I feel like I just woke up."
"Me also."
They kiss again.
"But I think we should stop now," he says. "I am trying to be a gentleman and remember what you said. And I don't want you thinking I am an ax murderer or a sex maniac. Or . . ."
Nell entwines her fingers with his. "Too late," she says, and pulls him from the sofa.
Chapter Thirteen
Even before his eyes are fully open, Fabien knows that something is different. Something has shifted, a weight no longer pressing down on him from the moment he comes awake. He blinks, his mouth dry, and pushes himself up onto his elbow. Nothing in the room is different, but he definitely has a hangover. He tries to clear the fog in his head, and then he hears the sound of a shower.
The previous night filters back to him.
He lies back on the pillow for a minute, letting the events arrange themselves in his head. He remembers a girl danci
ng on a bar, a long walk through Paris, dawn spent in her arms. He remembers laughing, a book of lists, her sweet smile, her leg over his.
He pushes himself upright, pulls on his jeans and the nearest sweater. He walks to the cafetiere and refills it, then runs down the stairs to the bakery to grab a bag of croissants. As he returns, he opens the front door just as Nell emerges from the bathroom, wearing the green dress from last night, her hair wet around her shoulders. They stand still for a moment.
"Good morning," he says.
"Bonjour," she responds.
She seems to be watching him to see how he reacts. When he smiles, her smile is just as wide.
"I have to go back to the hotel and catch my train. It's . . . quite late."
He checks his watch.
"It is. And I have to go to work. But you have time for coffee? I have croissants. You cannot leave Paris without coffee and croissants."
"I have time if you have."
They are a little awkward with each other now, the ease of last night fading. They climb back onto the bed, sitting on top of the covers, both dressed, close enough to be friendly but not enough to suggest anything else. She sips the coffee and closes her eyes.
"Oh, that's good," she says.
"I think everything tastes good this morning," he says, and they exchange a look. He eats swiftly, more hungry than he has felt for ages, until he sees he has eaten more than his share and slows down, offering her a croissant, which she waves away. Outside, church bells are chiming and a small dog yaps.
"I have been thinking," he says, still chewing. "I have an idea for a new story. It is about a girl who makes lists for everything."
"Oh, I wouldn't write that," she says, giving him a sideways look. "Who would believe it?"
"It's a good story. She's an amazing character. But she is a little too careful. She has to weigh up everything. The . . ."
"Pros and cons. For and against."
"Pros and cons. I like this phrase."
"And what happens to her?"
"I don't know yet. Something knocks her out of her habits."
"Bouf!" she exclaims.
He grins, licks crumbs from his fingers. "Yes. Bouf!"
"You'll have to make her very beautiful."
"I don't need to make her beautiful. She is beautiful."
"And incredibly sexy."
"You only have to see her dance on a bar to know it."
He reaches across and feeds her a piece of croissant, and after a moment they kiss. And then they kiss some more. And suddenly the croissants, the work, and the train are forgotten.
Sometime later Fabien pulls up in front of the hotel behind the rue de Rivoli. The roads are surprisingly quiet. A few tourists stroll by, looking up to take pictures of the buildings. He is late for work, but the restaurant will have only a few customers on a Monday morning, regulars who come to sit with a dog and a newspaper, or tourists killing time until they are due to go home. But it will fill up later, and by four o'clock it will be packed.
Behind him he feels Nell release her arms from around his waist. She climbs off the seat and stands beside the bike. She pulls off the helmet and hands it to him, then ruffles her hair, which has been flattened by the helmet, so that she is standing there in her coat and her crumpled green dress.
She looks tired and untidy, and he wants to put his arms around her.
"You sure you don't want me to take you to the station? You will be okay getting there? You remember what I told you about the Metro station?"
"You're already late for work. I'll find it."
They gaze at each other. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her handbag dangling in front of her. Fabien finds he no longer knows what he wants to say. He takes off his helmet and rubs at his hair.
"Well," she says.
He waits.
"I'd better get my suitcase. If it's still there." She twists her hands around the handbag strap.
"You will be okay? With this Pete? You don't want me to go in with you?"
"Oh, I can deal with him." She screws up her nose as if Pete is of no importance. Fabien wants to kiss it.
And he cannot help himself. "So . . . Nell-from-England. Will we . . . speak again?"
"I don't know, Fabien-from-Paris. We don't really know anything about each other. We might have nothing in common. And we live in different countries."
"This is true."
"Plus, we had two perfect nights in Paris. It might be a shame to spoil it."
"This is also true."
"Besides, you are a busy man. You have a job and a whole book to write. And you do have to write it, you know. Quite quickly. I'm anxious to hear what happens to this girl."
Something has happened to her face, some subtle change. She looks relaxed, happy, confident. He wonders how this could have happened in forty-eight hours. He wishes he knew what to say to her. He kicks at the pavement, wondering how a man who prides himself on being good with words can find himself without a single one. She glances behind her at the hotel.
"Oh." She reaches into her bag and pulls out her notebook, handing it to him. "Here. For your research. I don't think I need it anymore."
He looks at it, then tucks it carefully inside his jacket. She leans forward and kisses him again, one hand on his cheek.
"Good-bye, Fabien," she says as she steps back.
"Good-bye, then, Nell."
They face each other on the empty pavement, and then, finally, when they can stand there no longer, he pulls on his helmet. With a roar of his engine and a wave of his hand, he rides off toward rue de Rivoli.
Chapter Fourteen
Nell is still smiling as she walks into the hotel. The receptionist is still behind her shiny desk. Nell wonders if the woman has a home or just sleeps there, on her feet, behind the desk, like giraffes do. She realizes she should be embarrassed, turning up in last night's dress, but finds she cannot do anything except smile.
"Good morning, mademoiselle."
"Good morning."
"I trust you had a good evening?"
"Oh, I did," she says. "Thank you. Paris is . . . so much more fun than I could ever have imagined."
The woman nods to herself and gives Nell a small grin. "I am very happy to hear that."
Nell takes a deep breath and looks over toward the stairs. This is the bit she is dreading. For all her brave words to Fabien, she is not looking forward to Pete's accusations or to his fury. She has wondered, privately, whether he will have done something horrible to her suitcase. He didn't seem like the kind of man to do such a thing, but you never knew. She stands there, bracing herself to go up to Room 42.
"Can I help you with anything, mademoiselle?"
She turns her head and smiles. "Oh. No. I'm . . . I just have to go up and speak to my friend. He may . . . be a little cross that I did not include him in last night's plans."
"Then I am very sorry to tell you he is not here."
"No?"
"A rule of the hotel. I realized after you left that we cannot have someone using the room who is not the person who booked it. And the room was in your name. So Louis had to ask him to leave."
"Louis?"
She nods toward the porter, a man who is the size of two back-to-back sofas standing upright. He is pushing a small trolley loaded with suitcases. As he hears his name, he gives a small salute.
"So my friend did not stay in my room?"
"No. We directed him to the youth hostel near Bastille. I'm afraid he was not very happy."
"Oh!" Nell's hand has clapped over her mouth. She is trying not to laugh.
"I apologize, mademoiselle, if this causes you any inconvenience. But he was not on the original booking, and he did not arrive with you, so once you were gone . . . It was a matter of security." Nell notices that the receptionist's mouth is also twitching. "A rule of the hotel."
"A rule of the hotel. Quite. It's very important to stick to hotel rules," says Nell. "Well. Um. Thank you very much."
"Your key." The receptionist hands it to her.
"Thank you."
"I hope you enjoyed your stay with us."
"Oh, I did." Nell stands in front of her and has to fight the urge to hug the woman. "Thank you so much. I will remember it . . . always."
"That is very good to hear, mademoiselle," says the receptionist, and finally she turns back to her papers.
Nell is walking up the stairs slowly. She has just turned on her phone, and the text messages are pinging through, one by one, the later ones with lots of capital letters and exclamation marks. Most she barely reads before she deletes them. There is no point in spoiling her good mood.
But the last one arrived at ten o'clock that morning, from Magda.
Are you okay? We are all desperate for news. Pete sent Trish a really weird text last night, and we can't work out what's going on.
Nell pauses outside Room 42, her key in her hand, listening to the bells pealing across Paris and the sound of French people talking in the reception area below. She breathes in the smell of polish and coffee and the scent of her own slightly stale clothes. She stands for a moment and remembers, and a smile breaks over her face. She types a text:
I had the best weekend away EVER.
Six Months Later
Lilian is wearing her new fuchsia-colored sports leggings, her second-favorite pair. She walks down the path like a slightly plump flamingo, a great smile on her face. She has a whole selection of sportswear now, ever since she began attending the gym on the corner by the new house. Nell picks her up on her way to work and takes her three times a week--once for aqua aerobics, once for Stretch'n'Calm, and once for boxing.
She reaches Nell's car and holds up a hand bearing a plastic canister. "Sorry--I forgot my drink holder. You know we're doing kickboxing today?"
"Okay!" says Nell, who is still reconciling herself to this new version of her mother.
"Who knew I'd be so good at hitting things?" Lilian says, pulling the seat belt across her chest. "Luka says that if I get any better, he's going to start me on Thai boxing. That sucker really hurts." She turns to face her daughter. "Now. Did you book your Paris trip?"
"No. Hey, did I tell you I got an interview for that promotion?" Nell pulls the car onto the main road. "Keep your fingers crossed." She starts to list the benefits of the new job, but Lilian isn't listening.
