by Jojo Moyes
"I don't understand why you won't just go back," her mother says, shaking her head. "You only live once."
"Says the woman who used to have palpitations when I rode my bike to the post office."
Lilian pulls down the passenger mirror and purses her lips at her reflection. "Sweetheart, there is a big difference between wanting someone to be safe and wanting them not to do anything at all."
Nell signals and takes a left. "Well, I do plenty of things. And I think sometimes it's nice just to remember something for what it was. Three perfect days in Paris. Three perfect, romantic days. Going back would be--"
"Well, that's hardly going to get you laid."
Nell hits the brakes. She turns her face to stare at her mother.
"What?" says Lilian. "Your generation didn't invent sex, you know. You're young! Nothing wobbles! You can still wear teeny tiny underwear! And Mr. Frenchie sounded perfectly lovely. Better than that waste-of-skin Pete Welsh anyhow." She thinks for a minute. "Mind you, one of Cheryl's serial-killer loonies sounded better than Pete Welsh. Look, you're holding up traffic. You need to keep moving."
When they reach the gym, Nell pulls into a parking spot near the door and waits for her mother to pull her gym bag from the footwell.
"I'll call you tonight," says Nell.
"Think about what I said."
Lilian climbs out of the car. She leans in through the open door, her expression suddenly soft and serious.
"Nell--I'm going to tell you something. After your dad died, I know I went into hibernation. I was just . . . I don't know, stuck . . . and then before you know it, being stuck becomes a habit. You came back from Paris all those months ago, and you were so different, so glowing and alive, and I thought, My God. You get one chance at this stuff. One chance! So don't be like me, sweetheart. Don't waste ten years of your life worrying about what might happen. None of us can afford to lose time. . . ."
As Nell's eyes fill unexpectedly with tears, Lilian adds, "Also, your ovaries aren't going to stay useful forever. It's like buying those supermarket peaches that are meant to ripen at home. One minute they're hard, and the next minute they're all wrinkled and only fit for the trash. You might want to factor that into your thinking--"
"I'm going now, Mum," says Nell.
"Think about it, sweetheart!" Lilian calls, closing the passenger door. "I love you!"
On Tuesdays, Nell meets the girls for lunch in the park. It's a bit bracing, given they are just into May, but they like to sit at one of the communal tables and encourage the onset of spring by eating their sandwiches outside.
"Are we still going to the Texas Grill tonight?" says Magda. She has a hangover and has pushed her egg sandwich to one side, and she is eyeing a muscular young dog walker speculatively.
"I don't know," says Nell. "I was thinking maybe we could do something else."
"But it's Tuesday," says Magda.
"So? You know there's a free concert at the bullring?"
"A concert?"
"Some orchestra from Austria. They're doing it for nothing. We could go there first and get a beer afterward? It would be nice to do something different. Widen our horizons a little!"
Magda and Sue exchange a look.
"Uh . . . okay," says Magda, pulling up her collar.
"But it's Two-for-One Ribs at the Texas Grill on Tuesdays," says Sue.
"Ooh. And they do that great barbecue sauce," says Trish.
"Shoot," says Magda, looking behind her to see if the coffee-shop queue has died down yet. "Let's do the concert thing some other time."
That afternoon Nell is standing by the photocopier preparing handouts for the afternoon's presentation when her boss walks past. He slows, dips his head toward hers. "I can't say anything formally yet, Nell. But we should be able to announce something by Friday." He taps his nose. "Every organization needs a balance, and we all agree you'd be the safe pair of hands that we need to offset the more . . . unpredictable elements in our organization, eh?"
"Thank you, sir," says Nell.
"It's a big responsibility," he says, straightening up. "I suspect you'll need some time to weigh up the pros and cons."
The words are like a bolt through her. Nell stares at him. He extends his hand for her to shake it, and after she does, he turns and walks away.
Nell stands, her head suddenly buzzing, holding the handouts limply in her other hand.
Minutes later she is at her desk. She glances behind her, a little furtively, then opens her browser and types in "PARIS BOAT TOURS." She skims through the list until she finds what she is looking for: "LA ROSE DE PARIS BOAT TOURS." She leans forward, clicks, and gazes at the images that appear in front of her.
"Make your trip to the City of Lights a symbol of your love. Enjoy an intimate tour-for-two around the most romantic river on earth. We bring a cordon bleu picnic and champagne and our knowledge of Paris's most beautiful sites--you just bring each other!" runs the text, against a simple black-and-white backdrop. The picture accompanying it shows Fabien with his arm around his smiling father. Nell smiles and gazes wistfully at it for a moment.
"BOOKING NOW FOR SEPTEMBER! RESERVATIONS STRICTLY LIMITED due to POPULAR DEMAND." She jumps as Mr. Nilson's secretary appears behind her.
"They're ready for you, Nell," she says. "That looks nice. Planning a holiday?"
Nell stands before a PowerPoint presentation, closing her speech. In front of her are twenty-two graduates, mostly watching her intently, and only occasionally checking their phones. "So, to summarize," she says, her hands clasped, "risk assessment plays a vital role in helping organizations understand and manage risk, in order to avoid problems and capitalize on opportunities. . . . Thank you for your time. And enjoy your tour of the factory floor!"
Her smile fixed, she stands as if about to leave. But there is something about their expectant faces, their dewy complexions, the way she has delivered this speech once a month for the past four and a half years. She holds up a finger.
"Actually, I'd like to rephrase that. Sure, enjoy the factory if that's your thing. But, you know, you guys are young. You should think really seriously about whether this is the right path for you. There are a lot of alternatives. Like, so many. Do you really want to be clambering onto the corporate ladder at . . . what, twenty-one, twenty-two? Here at eight thirty a.m. on the dot and having to leave your jacket on your chair when you run out for a coffee and eating the same damn sandwiches every day? Ham on rye! Cream cheese! When you don't even really like cream cheese? Shouldn't you be dancing on bars, and wearing unsuitable shoes in new places, and eating food that frightens you?" She scans the room. "Who here has danced on a bar, huh?"
The graduates' heads swivel. Two hands rise tentatively.
"There you go!" Nell applauds them. "So think--do you really want to spend the best years of your life ticking boxes on a bunch of industry-approved plastics? Really?"
She looks out at the stunned faces. Then she turns and sees Mr. Nilson, whose mouth is hanging slightly open, and collects herself.
"If you do, then great! Fill out an application form on your way out! . . . And . . . um . . . don't forget to wear your safety helmets!"
Nell rushes out of the room, her mind racing. Beside her cubicle are two of her colleagues. They stop talking as she approaches.
"So I heard you got that promotion, Nell. Congratulations."
"I did," says Nell, gathering her belongings from her desk. "But I'm not going to take it."
"Why?" says Rob. "Doesn't have 'Health and Safety' in the title?"
"No. She needs to think about it really carefully."
The two men laugh, as if this is the funniest thing they have ever heard. Nell stands and waits for them to stop.
"Actually," she says, "I've decided to run off to Paris and have hot monkey sex with a random waiter I picked up. Like I did the last time I went. Have a nice day, gentlemen!"
She smiles sweetly, gathers the box of her belongings to her chest, and half runs
toward the exit, her phone pressed to her chin.
"Mum?" she says. "Meet me at the travel agent's when you get this. The one opposite my office."
Clement and Fabien carry the hamper from the back of Fabien's bike down to the boat and load it carefully into the front. It is a clear, crisp day, and the light glints off the water, as if in apology for having been absent for the long winter months.
"Did you get the roses?" Fabien asks his father.
"I got them," says Clement, checking the life jackets. "But I don't know whether we should put roses out today."
"Why? Oh, these tartines smell good. Nice job, Papa."
"They are Emile's. And I think it's lesbians today. I thought roses might be too traditional. Maybe they want something more . . . modern."
"Lesbian roses?" Fabien ducks as his father swings a life jacket at his head.
"You can mock, Fabien," Clement says. "It's the details that matter."
"It's a Rose de Paris boat tour, Papa. It has to come with roses. Right. I'm off. I'll see you at four. Hope it goes well!"
As his son climbs aboard his moped, Clement watches him, thinking. "Lesbian roses," he mutters under his breath. "Where would I get lesbian roses?"
Nell and her mother are walking toward the little kiosk where La Rose de Paris is tethered. Nell is studying her phone, and then she looks up and smiles. "There she is! Isn't she gorgeous?"
"Oh," says Lilian. "This is just darling."
As they walk down to the quayside, Clement is coming toward them, his hand outstretched. "Mesdames? Good afternoon. My name is Clement Thibauld. Allow me to welcome you aboard our boat. I hope you have had a pleasant stay in Paris so far?" He helps Lilian aboard and then reaches his hand out to Nell, who is peering toward the kiosk.
"Today we will show you Paris's most beautiful sights. The sun is shining, and you will fall in love with our city and never want to go home. May I offer you a glass of champagne?" Nell winces for her mother, who was drinking with Louis the porter until 4:00 a.m., but Lilian accepts delightedly.
"Why, thank you. I'm loving this already!"
Nell gazes around her. She stays standing even as her mother accepts a glass, scanning the people walking along the top of the quayside for a familiar face.
"Can I help you, mademoiselle?" says Clement, appearing beside her.
"Oh. No," says Nell. "I just . . . Your Web site--there were . . . two of you?"
"Ah. You mean my son. He is not working today. But I can assure you I have a lifetime of experience of sharing Paris's finest sights. You will not be disappointed. Here--"
Nell tries to smile as he hands her a glass. Then he stoops and, with exaggerated courtesy, presents Lilian with a rose. She holds it up, sniffs it, exclaims at how lovely it is.
"You like roses?" says Clement.
"But of course!" says Lilian. "Who doesn't?"
"Oh . . . you never know. But this is good. If you are both comfortable, we'll push off."
Nell and her mother listen as Clement talks them through the sights along the Seine, tells them about the menu he has prepared, remarks on the unusual stillness of the river. Lilian drinks two more glasses of champagne, quickly, and grows quite giggly. Nell appears to be listening, but her attention is repeatedly drawn to the shore, as if even then his face might appear among the crowds. Lilian leans over.
"You could go to that cafe. He'll probably be there."
"Maybe," says Nell, looking down at her hands.
"Maybe? You can't duck out now."
Nell takes a sip of her drink. "He never got in touch, Mum. He probably has another girlfriend by now. Or he'll be back with his ex."
"Then you just say hello and that it's nice to see him again, and then you find another hot waiter to get jiggy with." Lilian laughs at Nell's shocked face. "Oh, come on. It's Paris, sweetheart. Nothing counts if you're more than a hundred miles from home. Ooh! This champagne has gone straight to my head."
Half an hour later, Nell's mother is snoring gently against Nell's shoulder. Nell gazes wistfully out at the river as Clement's boat moves through the water below Notre-Dame.
"And in 1931 a woman shot herself at the altar of the cathedral with her lover's pistol--" He turns. "Your friend is okay?"
"Oh, Mum's just burned herself out through overexcitement. She's still adjusting to life in the fast lane."
"Your mother?"
"Yes. I promised to bring her on this boat. It's kind of a long story."
Clement tilts his head. "Mam'selle, I am all ears."
Nell hesitates, wondering how much to tell him. It all seems faintly ridiculous now--the long weekend, her enduring crush, the way she has had to stop herself from e-mailing the Web site forty times a day, just to see if she can speak to him again. The whole three days have acquired a kind of dreamlike quality in her memory, as if she might have imagined them.
"Well," she says when Clement is evidently still waiting, "I came here six months ago. On this actual boat. And I kind of fell in love with . . . Oh, it sounds stupid to say it out loud. But it was one of those weekends that . . . that just changes you."
Clement is staring at her. She wonders if she looks as stupid as she feels.
"What did you say your name is, mademoiselle?"
"Nell."
"Of course. Nell, will . . . will you excuse me for a moment, please?"
As she sits down, Clement makes his way to the front of the boat and pulls his phone from his pocket. Nell feels rather silly for having said anything to him. She turns to her mother, who is still snoring, openmouthed, on the bench cushion, and gives her shoulder a gentle shake. Nothing.
"Mum? Mum? You need to wake up now. We're coming to the end."
"The end?" says Clement, appearing beside her. "Who says we're near the end? We go one more time!"
"But your Web site says--"
"It says you are in Paris! And this is too nice a day to walk the streets. Have I shown you the Pont Neuf? I think you must see it close up. . . ."
In the little cafe in rue des Bastides, Fabien is ending his shift, untying his apron and hanging it up on his peg when his phone dings. He stares at it, then shakes his head.
"You're really going to turn your phone off for a whole weekend?" says Emile, who is changing his T-shirt.
"It's the only way I'm going to finish this thing. The editor wants the new draft by Monday."
Emile shrugs his way into the clean shirt, beaming at the woman who has paused outside the restaurant window, temporarily shocked into immobility by the sight of his bare torso. She grins back at him, shakes her head, and walks on.
"And after you hand it in on Monday, we head for Le Sud, yes?"
"Yes! I am so ready to stop staring at that computer screen."
From Fabien's pocket his phone dings again.
"You're not going to check your messages?"
"It's just my dad. More obsessing over details. Homosexual flower choices or some such."
Emile slaps him on the shoulder. "Okay, man. Good luck. See you on the other side!" They clasp each other in a brotherly hug, and Emile stands back to look at him.
"Hey. You idiot. I'm proud of you! My best friend is going to publish a book!"
Fabien watches him go, and his phone dings again. He sighs and decides to ignore it, but then it dings three, four, five times. He picks it up, irritated, and stares at the little screen. Then he runs outside to his moped and climbs on.
Clement is talking so furiously that with his thick French accent Nell is barely able to understand what he says. She is confused and, frankly, a little concerned. They have done the circuit twice now, and he shows no sign of wanting to dock. Beside her, Lilian continues to doze gently.
"And now we come to the Pont des Arts. You will see that many of the padlocks have been removed. This is as a result of--"
"Mr. Thibauld?" Nell leans over, her voice lifting to be heard against the engine. "This is really kind of you, but you told us this story the first time around
."
"But did I tell you the names of the city officials involved? This is a very important part of the story." He looks strange, almost manic. For the first time Nell feels properly uncomfortable.
"Look, I really need to get my mother back to the hotel. She needs a coffee."
Clement clambers back toward them. "I have coffee! Did you want some more gateau? Let me serve you some. You know Paris has the best patissiers in the whole--"
She wonders briefly if there are any life rafts she could employ when the air is suddenly split by a whistle. Nell looks up, and there, unbelievably, standing on the bridge, is Fabien.
"Oh, thank God," the old man says weakly, and sits down.
"Nell?" Fabien shouts. He waves one arm in a huge arc.
"Fabien?" She lifts a hand to her brow.
As Clement steers La Rose de Paris toward the path, Fabien runs along the bridge, his long legs eating the ground. He swings around the railing, his feet light, and as the boat comes to a near halt, he jumps aboard and stands there before her.
Clement looks over at his son, his enormous, uncomplicated smile. "I will make madame some coffee," he says quietly.
Nell stares at Fabien. Here is the man who has strolled through her dreams, sat opposite her, held her, laughed with her. And yet he is someone else entirely. They stutter a hello, grinning stupidly.
"It's really you!"
"It's really me."
"It--I couldn't believe it when my father told me. Look, I . . . I brought something to show you." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bound manuscript, its pages a little tattered at the edges. Nell takes it and reads the title.
"Un weekend a Paris. A Weekend in Paris."
"There's going to be an English-language edition. As well as a French one. I have a publisher and an agent and everything. And they want a second book, too."
She flips through the pages, hearing the pride in his voice, marveling at the dense prose.
"It's about . . . a girl who finds herself alone in Paris. But not for long."
"And these are--" Nell stops at an open page.
"Pros and cons."
Nell nods to herself. "Nice."
Finally she closes the manuscript. "So . . . how are you? Have you . . . seen Sandrine?"
Fabien nods. Nell tries not to look disappointed. Of course he has. Who would leave a man like Fabien?
