A Perfect Paris Christmas

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘You don’t have to decide anything, Keeley,’ Lizzie said, voice a little robotic. ‘Nothing at all. It’s too fresh and it’s nearly Christmas and…’

  ‘Lizzie,’ Duncan interrupted. ‘Come on, that isn’t fair.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Lizzie continued, battling her emotions. ‘This kind of pressure might be too much for Keeley right now.’

  ‘I think that decision is Keeley’s to make, Lizzie,’ Duncan said, making direct eye contact with his wife. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Keeley watched her mum again. She looked about ready to crumble like breadcrumbs into stuffing mixture. This moment wasn’t the moment to be making any decisions. Keeley took a breath and reached for the tureen on the table. The only thing to do right now was to do the very British thing and keep calm and carry on.

  ‘Can I have some more cauliflower rice?’

  Five

  L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Opera District, Paris

  ‘The red or the green? Or the… green swirls on the red? Or… the red swirls on the green? Or, I know it is a little out there, but maybe, perhaps for something a little different, we could think of… electric-blue and silver?’

  Ethan Bouchard popped another sugared almond into his mouth from the glass bowl he had drawn nearer and nearer to him throughout this meeting with his assistant, Noel. Then he placed a finger on his top lip and his thumb to his chin in a pose he hoped showed ‘thoughtful’. As Noel had shown him swatch after swatch of fabric, Ethan had sucked in a sugar high to stop his eyes from glazing over. Filling his mouth with hard-boiled goodness was to stop him being sick or immediately reacting with the disdain he usually felt when Noel was trying to get him to make a decision about something Ethan considered mundane. And what constituted ‘mundane’? Literally everything in his life since his best friend and business partner, Ferne, had died. He sucked on this latest sweet and finally cast a glance at the fabric books Noel was proffering at him. Why was he doing this again? What was the point? Life was mean and it was cruel and everyone died in the end.

  ‘What exactly is this for again?’ Ethan asked, moving the sweet from one cheek to the other. He was bored and he was hungover. He could feel the alcohol floating from his system with every glitterised suggestion Noel was making. And his assistant should be capable of making a decision about whatever this was without requesting his presence first thing in the morning when he had other more important things to do. Right now he needed to… drink coffee and… smell other people’s cigarettes and dream about smoking them himself and… eat more sweets. He was a very busy man. He brushed a hand back through his dark hair and adjusted himself in the seat. He should try to look interested.

  ‘This is for the whole, grand, 2020 Christmas theme for all the hotels!’ Noel reminded, rather loudly in Ethan’s opinion. ‘It is very important! It is one of the most important decisions we make every year!’

  Ethan could tell Noel was getting flustered. His perfectly gelled-back black hair was starting to shift out of sculpted in places and his cheeks were reddening like the fat breast of a seasonal robin. And that was Ethan’s issue here…

  ‘It is November,’ Ethan reminded.

  ‘Monsieur Bouchard, with respect, it is late November. We are behind schedule this year already. We need to make a decision as soon as possible. Our guests will be expecting a Perfect Paris Christmas any day now.’

  What would Ferne choose? Before Ethan could stop it, the thought had arrived and the day’s not completely dour manner started to disappear quicker than the contents of the candy bowl. None of this was the same without Ferne. And how could it be? Ferne had made Perfect Paris. It was all her vision. He had helped her, yes, but whether she had actually needed his input to succeed… well, he knew what most people’s answer would be to that. That age-old feeling of not being good enough rode over his shoulders and he leaned back into the chair.

  ‘What do you think, Noel?’ He looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the cityscape outside.

  Paris was alive. Paris was always alive. Here in the Opera Quarter, the former Parisian cloth manufacturing district, Ethan was constantly surrounded by all the things Ferne had loved most. The Place des Victoires with its nineteenth-century shopping arcades, designer names amid the covered shopping centres still resplendent with brass and wood panelling, was like a step back in time. Ferne had adored the boutiques, often spending hours and hours searching for something original, a dress she could make a new classic or a pair of shoes or a hat. To anyone else some of her purchases might seem a little ‘out there’ but the way Ferne saw things, the way his best friend had always worn things, was always unique. Somehow, Ferne could manage to make anything look like the new latest trend. Ethan had always teased her that of course this was the location she wanted their flagship hotel. How easy would it be for her to take a long lunch and stroll under the glass-topped roofs of Galerie Vivienne? He blew out a breath, making eye contact with a pigeon perched on a ledge just outside the window. That was where he liked to think of Ferne now, meandering through heaven’s shopping malls, picking out must-haves to adorn her, light on her feet, floating just above him, still somehow connected…

  ‘I think I could do a lot with blue and silver,’ Noel said, his enthusiasm for dressing the hotels emanating from his every pore as Ethan looked back to him. And then his assistant seemed to rein the passion in a little as he spoke again. ‘Although, traditionally, we have always gone for red and green…’

  Ethan didn’t care. He really didn’t care. He wanted to scream ‘what difference does it make?’ Because what difference did it make? Green? Red? Blue? If he chose badly would a dislike to the décor for Christmas pull down reviews on Trivago? What to say? Would Ferne have liked a change? He couldn’t remember who had come up with the red and green concept from the outset. Had it been Ferne? Or had it been the team of colour experts she’d employed? The only thing Ethan knew was it hadn’t been him.

  ‘Blue and silver speaks of luxury and opulence and… fine dining and impeccable taste and…’ Noel continued. He was wafting his arms around now like he might be a ballet dancer from The Nutcracker.

  ‘If I sign off on blue and silver will this conversation be over?’ Ethan asked, popping another sweet into his mouth. Maybe he needed more alcohol and not coffee…

  ‘Absolutely,’ Noel replied, already beaming at his triumph. ‘Not one more word on the topic. I will handle everything. You will not even have to think another thought about Christmas.’

  And that last sentence was music to Ethan’s ears. ‘Fine,’ he told his assistant. ‘Blue and silver it is. Make it so.’

  Six

  The Hour Glass Pub, Kensington

  Keeley drank three quarters of the pint of cider before even stopping for a breath. It tasted so refreshing. It was exactly what she needed. She might have skipped the gym last night, but today was a new day. She had spent an hour working out there earlier, pushing her body to its limits, unconcerned for her rapid heart rate or the pinch of a stitch, she had carried on running through. Yes, more water might have been healthier than alcohol, but she needed the hit. She was alive. She wasn’t adopted. She had an invitation to Paris…

  ‘Christ! You know it’s barely lunchtime, right?’ Rach remarked, jaw dropping with an expression somewhere between admiration and astonishment.

  ‘Cheers,’ Keeley said, gesturing the glass towards her friend and taking another mouthful. It was Saturday. Keeley had suggested lunch. She needed to talk to someone other than family about the email from Silvie Durand. She needed to say words, out loud, rather than rolling them all around her brain and having them form knots even the best Scout leader wouldn’t be able to undo. She’d suggested here because she was also going to coat her stomach with the pub’s homemade steak and Guinness pie…

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ Rach guessed. She sat forward in her chair, festive snowmen earrings hanging from her ears, leaning an elbow against the snow-sprayed windowpan
e next to their table. ‘Is Roland forcing the issue on Mr Peterson? Because, if you really don’t want to do it, even for a big bonus, then we can say the feathers… or the fur… is detrimental to your health.’ Rach took a swig of her flavoured gin and tonic. ‘I know I said you should stop playing the Little Miss Transplant card but, when it comes to stuffed carcasses, I’d be inclined to let it slide just this once.’

  Little Miss Transplant. Yes, that was her. She was the keeper of someone else’s precious organ. A walking, talking, living mausoleum. And that was one of the reasons she shouldn’t be considering this offer to meet with her donor’s mother. What good could it do for either of them? More than a year had passed. What was there to say? No, she should email back, type that it was so nice to hear from her, that she would be forever grateful for the gift of life but… Keeley took another swig of her drink. Except no matter how she worded a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ it sounded like a ‘sorry, not sorry’. And this woman had lost her daughter. Ferne. Now her donor had a name it seemed to make things even harder.

  ‘Keeley?’ Rach said. It sounded as if her friend was asking for clarification to a previous question and Keeley had zoned out.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s wrong? Because I know there’s something wrong.’

  Now that pint was fizzing back up into her throat and Keeley was regretting the speed in which she’d swallowed it.

  ‘The mother of my kidney donor wants to meet me,’ she started. ‘She’s offered Eurostar tickets and a stay in Paris in exchange for a chance to get to know me… a bit… I guess however much you can get to know someone in… a couple of weeks or so.’ The words were in the air and the look on Rach’s face said it all. Her friend downed her gin and tonic and looked like she wanted to give head to the ice cubes to get every last millilitre of booze from the glass.

  ‘Is that allowed?’ Rach asked suddenly. Her cheeks were now as red as the ones on the snowmen dangling from her earlobes.

  ‘Is what allowed?’

  ‘Mothers of donors being able to jump into your life like that without warning.’ She picked up her glass and swirled the ice cubes around. ‘Do they tell you about that before you go through with the operation?’

  It hadn’t been a case of deep consultation on anything to do with the operation from what little Keeley could remember. She had been more-or-less unconscious, in and out, not knowing what was going on at all and calling out for Bea. She had learned later that Bea had never made it to a hospital bed. Bea had died in the taxi, the paramedics having to gently separate their joined hands so they could cut Keeley free…

  ‘My dad said that, at the time, after it happened, we agreed that if the donor’s family wanted to get in contact we were happy for our details to be passed on.’ Keeley took a breath. ‘I think, my parents were so grateful, so happy that I was alive… that they would have agreed to pretty much anything.’ Not that it wasn’t a good thing. She swallowed as that thought went across her mind. Was it a good thing? She wasn’t sure, if her mum had the time over again, that she would agree to contact.

  ‘And who is she? Is she really the mother of your donor? I mean, there are hundreds of people emailing other people telling them they know they’re entitled to compensation from an accident they never had.’ Rach sniffed. ‘So, how do you know she is who she says she is?’

  There had been many things that had crossed Keeley’s mind since she had read the email from Silvie Durand, but the woman being an imposter wasn’t one of them. What would there be to gain?

  ‘You don’t think I should go,’ Keeley translated.

  ‘I don’t think someone sending you an email inviting you to Paris is a normal, everyday thing, that’s all.’

  ‘I know,’ Keeley breathed. ‘But my whole life isn’t a normal every day thing, is it?’

  ‘What does your mum say?’ Rach asked.

  Keeley curled a hand around her glass, fingers tightening. Rach knew very well how Lizzie would have reacted. Rach was well aware of Lizzie’s overprotective bent.

  ‘She thinks Silvie Durand is going to imprison me in a Perspex, soundproof box in a storage facility and start calling me Beck… or, you know, Ferne,’ Keeley sighed. Why had this situation arisen? Why now? When the Andrews family were just, somehow, beginning to mend.

  ‘Ferne?’ Rach queried, snowmen still jangling.

  Rach obviously had no idea who Ferne was. And the name hadn’t meant anything until the email. But now her donor had a name and a mother, Ferne was becoming one of the most important names in Keeley’s world.

  ‘That’s the name of my donor. Ferne Durand. She’s French. Was French. Hence the invitation to Paris and—’

  ‘French?’ Rach queried, brow furrowing. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Um, what do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what was she doing here in England when you had your accident? Was she sick? Did she have an accident too? Or did they fly in the body part from France? Isn’t there some sort of use-by date with a kidney?’

  ‘I…’ Keeley didn’t know where to start. She only had some of the puzzle pieces. Which was maybe why she needed to speak to Silvie Durand. But was it speak to her? Or meet with her? She took a breath. ‘Rach, I wanted your take on it. Because you’re my best friend and because you’re not my mum and because you don’t always take the safe option.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Rach asked, sniffing as if offended. ‘You’ve somehow just made me sound super-slutty.’

  Keeley sat a little taller in her chair, taking a glance outside at London life on the street below. There were workmen on ladders, attaching festive signage to lampposts, swarths of thick green fake fir swags under their arms. What would Paris feel like at this time of year? What did Paris feel like at any time of the year? She focused back to Rach and steadied her nerve. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘You want to go?’ Rach exclaimed.

  Keeley hadn’t known she actually wanted to go until the words were out of her mouth and she felt them in her soul. How could she not go? How could she not want to meet the mother of her donor? She was only here because of this woman’s daughter’s selfless act. She nodded at Rach.

  ‘You want to go,’ Rach repeated, softer this time, as if saying the words again, more slowly would help them feel more agreeable.

  ‘She sounds normal in her email. It’s not pushy. It’s a request. It doesn’t sound like any kind of demand. She simply wants to meet me and—’

  ‘And she’s paying for tickets on the Eurostar to make it happen.’ Rach still looked suss. But Rach looked suss a lot. Particularly when designer goods were marked down in a Boxing Day sale and she thought they had to be counterfeit. Counterfeits she could get even cheaper from someone she knew…

  ‘I think,’ Keeley started, putting a hand through her hair and pushing it off her shoulders, ‘she’s offered that because she’s in France and I’m here and… it just makes sense.’

  ‘Does it though?’ Rach asked. ‘Why isn’t she offering to come to London?’

  ‘Well,’ Keeley began again, ‘if I was her, I might think that coming into my space – into my family’s space – would be more intrusive. I mean, she hasn’t just suddenly turned up at our front door, she’s emailed. She even said that if it was all too painful, or I didn’t want to, then I never had to hear from her again and she wished me all the best for the future.’

  Rach plucked a drinks menu from the table and dropped her eyes to it. ‘I’m going to have another one. You?’

  ‘Rach,’ Keeley said softly. ‘I don’t want to be afraid of what’s happened to me anymore.’ She inhaled. ‘Sometimes, being here, being inside the same world but feeling completely disconnected with everything that’s gone before is really really hard. And I know you think I should “woman up” and you’re right in a lot of respects, but I think doing this, meeting Silvie, might be a way to really move on, you know, properly.’ She pulled the drinks menu down, trying to get Rach to engage with her ga
ze.

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ Rach admitted, looking a little unsure of herself.

  Keeley took ownership of the menu and put it back on the table. ‘I was hoping, if the dates work, if we can swing it with Roland… that you might come with me.’

  ‘What?’ Now Rach’s gaze was connected.

  Keeley smiled at her friend’s obvious new enthusiasm. Yes, she might have her concerns about the true purpose of the trip, but Paris was Paris and Paris at nearly Christmas time was even better according to the googling Keeley had done already. She had to admit, the escape factor was a draw too. It was all a little claustrophobic at home, life revolving underneath Grandma Joan’s Christmas ball. This time of year always brought up so many memories – good and bad. And Keeley hadn’t really had any time apart from her parents since Bea’s death. At twenty-six, that couldn’t be healthy.

  ‘Come with me. You can meet Silvie Durand too. If nothing else it would reassure my mother that I’m not going to be made the centrepiece of a creepy shrine.’

  ‘Paris,’ Rach whispered. A dreamy sigh ensued that, if visible, Keeley was sure would have been dripping with the gorgeous gooey inside of a pain au chocolat.

  ‘Will you come with me? If we can arrange it?’ Keeley asked her.

  ‘I don’t feel good about the set-up. I mean, Silvie Durand – it just sounds like a name from one of my mum’s Danielle Steele novels.’

  ‘Please, Rach,’ Keeley said. ‘I think I need this.’ She didn’t actually think. She knew.

  Rach blew out a breath and then said, ‘I’ll come. On one condition.’ She fixed her best ‘no messing’ face on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If this is really going to be the start of your new beginning you have to not be Kidney Girl.’