by Mandy Baggot
‘You like things more traditional?’ he asked her.
‘I like things that make me feel comfortable,’ she admitted. She seemed to go a little coy then, dropping her eyes to the table and putting her fingers to the ends of her hair. ‘I just made myself sound like the most boring person in the world.’ She looked up. ‘Storing toilet rolls in case of Armageddon and liking things plain.’
‘Non,’ Ethan replied. ‘Not at all. Comfortable… it is good.’
‘Well,’ she started, ‘I have two close friends who think “comfortable” says “given up”.’
He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps they are too scared to embrace “comfortable”,’ he suggested. ‘Admitting you enjoy the simple things can be hard for some people.’ He hitched his head to their right indicating a couple sitting a few tables away. ‘Technology is good. We keep in touch with everybody we are not close to but at the cost of not connecting with the people we are close to.’ He whispered. ‘How crazy is that?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘You’re completely right.’
‘So, tonight we will embrace all the “comfortable”,’ Ethan said. ‘We have ridden on animals that were too small for us and now I propose we shall eat food that will be too big for our stomachs.’
She smiled back at him. ‘What do you recommend I try?’
‘Wait and see,’ he answered, grinning as a waitress approached.
*
Keeley was chewing on a brik. A Tunisian-style brik that was making her mouth water with every bite she took. This had been Ethan’s suggestion for their meal. Not a traditional French dish of coq au vin or omelettes, but apparently this café’s speciality. It was perfect filo pastry with potatoes, cheese and onion served with a little harissa, the egg with that soft, running yolk so difficult to get exactly right. It was a little piece of simple food heaven.
‘This is so good,’ she told Ethan. She looked up from her plate to find he was looking back at her. But the moment their eyes connected he looked away as if her catching him had embarrassed him a little.
‘Sorry… I confess… I was watching you eat.’ His cheeks were hit with colour then and he put his lips around his glass of beer. He took a sip then continued. ‘I admit that sounded weirder than I intended. Forgive me.’ He smiled. ‘I simply wanted to see how you would react to the dish.’
Keeley put another piece of the brik on her fork, slipping it into her mouth and letting all the exotic flavours hit her senses. It wasn’t an exaggeration to roll her eyes or try to inhale the scents she knew had to be rising up from her plate, but she was now doing it for Ethan’s benefit. To make him laugh. Reluctant to bid farewell to the taste and texture, she finally swallowed the mouthful down. Except Ethan wasn’t laughing. She actually couldn’t quite read the expression on his face but now she felt awkward. Why had she done that? It was probably because Erica’s voice was still echoing in her ears telling her to take all the chances including trying to look seductive while salivating over soft yolks…
‘It’s so delicious,’ Keeley said quickly. ‘Really delicious. And so different to the food at my hotel.’ Why couldn’t she think of something better to say?
‘There is something wrong with the food at your hotel?’ Ethan asked sitting up a little straighter in his seat.
‘No,’ Keeley said fast. ‘No, it’s lovely, it’s just… little pretty things. They’re really tasty but… I don’t know… ignore me.’ Why was she now dying on her arse when it came to normal conversation? They’d had this relaxed vibe to their chatting on the Metro here, everything feeling so chilled, but now she was somehow tongue-tied. Was it the cosy and intimate setting of this low-lit café? Or was it the close proximity of him and just how attractive he was?
‘It is maybe time the menu was changed,’ he suggested.
‘Ignore me,’ she begged. ‘I’m not an expert in cuisine. It’s my mum, who likes to experiment. Usually on me. Always with the five-a-day… or six a day if Waitrose has a special offer on organic celery.’
‘Five a day,’ Ethan said with a sigh, beginning to eat again. ‘Who are the people to decide how much of anything a person should have?’ He seemed to muse as he chewed his food. ‘No cigarettes at all. Only so many units of alcohol. A required amount of exercise.’ He shook his head. ‘All this information to try to force us to make a decision a certain way.’
‘I take it you don’t follow all the advice,’ Keeley said.
‘Do you?’ he turned the question around, those grey eyes meeting hers.
‘Well…’ What did she say? If she wanted to, this was the opportunity to tell him she was supposed to be watching her health closely – that sometimes she did have to hold off from having what she really wanted. That she had had a kidney transplant… ‘Everything is OK in moderation, isn’t it? I mean, I’m sure even if you eat too many vegetables or do too much exercise that would be equally as bad for you, wouldn’t it?’
Ethan laughed then, wholeheartedly. ‘You are right! All these people who compete in marathons who have never run a marathon in their entire lives become surprised when they have a heart attack.’
‘Or… I read about a husband and wife who made a stew out of courgettes their neighbour had given them and the husband died because of some sort of toxin in them.’
‘No!’ Ethan exclaimed, eyes wide. ‘Death by vegetables?’
‘I swear it’s true.’ She smiled. Still not Kidney Girl. Rach would be proud and Erica would be practically buzzing.
‘Then,’ Ethan said, ‘leave room for dessert. The crepes are also very good here.’
Twenty-Seven
The Seine, Paris
Having eaten sweet crepes that were as light as clouds, but a whole lot sweeter and definitely highly calorific, they had got back on the Metro. Now they were walking along the banks of the famous river that flowed through the heart of Paris on the way back to Keeley’s hotel. It had been the most unexpected evening and Keeley wasn’t sure she wanted it to end. For the first time in so long she was reconnecting with the her she thought had been lost long ago.
‘Some people say the river has a smell,’ Ethan remarked. He was walking close to her, hands in his pockets, the air chill.
‘A good smell or a bad smell?’ Keeley answered, eyes looking to the water. There were some boats docked, dark and tied up for the night, others were still floating and carrying diners, bright lights and soft music rising up from the river. A bridge spanned the water, soft arches and piers connecting one bank to the other.
‘You decide,’ Ethan suggested. ‘Take a breath.’
‘Oh… well… the thing is… I… don’t have the very best sense of smell.’ She swallowed. Her taste buds were all still in good order but since her operation she hadn’t been able to smell so well. Some people might think it was a small price to pay, but it was a loss not to be able to experience the simple pleasure of the scent of freshly cut grass or that rich, indulgent fragrance of a Christmas pudding…
‘Come,’ Ethan said. He took hold of her shoulders and turned her towards the river. ‘The best way to get one of your senses to work more fully is to alienate the others.’
‘What?’ Keeley asked.
‘Close your eyes,’ Ethan directed, hands still on her shoulders, breath close to her ear. ‘Close your mouth. Close your ears…’
‘Close my ears?’ She laughed. ‘Can I do that?’
‘Stop listening. Stop breathing through your mouth. Stop looking. Just… inhale.’
Keeley felt him press a little more on her shoulders and she heard him draw in a long, slow breath. Something about the timbre resonated with her and she found herself doing exactly as he asked, closing off all her other senses and tuning into the rush of air through her nostrils. And then, suddenly, there it was! There was something. Ordinarily there was very little at all, maybe only the faintest tinge of a change, but nothing to get excited about. But now, tuning in to Paris, the river, the cold of the night, the presence of this virtual stranger’s ha
nds on her shoulders there was…
‘Something sweet,’ Keeley breathed. ‘Caramel maybe.’
‘And coffee,’ Ethan joined in. ‘Definitely coffee.’
‘Is it waffles?’ She was doubting herself now.
‘Yes,’ he answered, the pressure of his fingers increasing a little. Even through the-able-to-withstand-minus-fifty-degrees coat, Keeley could feel the warmth of his body. It was nice. It even felt a little bit ‘comfortable’. But wasn’t that what happened when you clicked with someone? You instantly fell into step with them somehow, like you had always meant to arrive in each other’s life.
‘And pee,’ Ethan blurted out. ‘Undernotes of pee, absolument.’
Keeley opened her eyes then, snapping back into reality and turning to face him. ‘I didn’t get pee.’
Ethan smiled. ‘Ah, that is good. You are still under the tourist illusion that everything in Paris is fragranced like it was manufactured in a perfumery.’ He nudged her arm with his. ‘I am Parisian. It is OK for me to admit that my city is only perfect because it embraces its imperfections. We learn to live with the scent of pee. No one knows where it comes from. We clean. We sanitise. After that, no one wants to know where it still comes from. It is simply part of the fabric of the city.’
Keeley smiled back at him as they began to walk again. He was the most unusual person she had ever met. Wearing the clothes of a businessman with his dark three-piece suit and his tailored winter coat but displaying the heart and charm of someone you might imagine leading a travelling circus – somehow a little bit of gypsy wanderlust mixed with Hugh Jackman’s Barnum.
‘London has its smells too,’ Keeley told him as they fell into step together. She may not be able to experience them fully anymore, but she could definitely recall them. ‘The Tube, that rush of warm, slightly sweetened air as the trains rush past… the parks in the springtime, daffodils, ducks… and different cultures.’ She breathed, remembering. ‘Crazy weird fruit outside Asian minimarkets and… the food stalls at Lower Marsh Market.’
‘It sounds magnifique,’ he answered her.
She turned her head, their eyes connected and Keeley felt it deep. Her words had resonated with him.
‘Have you been to London?’ Keeley asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Non.’ He seemed to stiffen up a little then, his hands going to the top button of his coat, fastening and unfastening it. ‘It is not somewhere I have… had the chance to travel to.’
‘You should,’ Keeley said, finding herself wanting to see his smile again. ‘I mean… it’s maybe not thought of as quite as romantic as Paris, but it has a lot going for it.’
He did finally smile then. ‘The ducks and the food stalls?’
‘Definitely the ducks,’ Keeley said. She looked up and saw they had arrived outside her hotel. ‘Oh.’
‘You do not want to be here?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, no, I do. I mean, it’s a very nice hotel. Our room is huge and… the Christmas tree in reception is definitely huge and—’
‘You say the word “nice” like it is a bad thing. You do not like this hotel?’
‘I don’t dislike it,’ Keeley said, checking out the entrance and that revolving door Rach had become trapped in. ‘It’s just… not really that memorable, you know. It’s clean and it’s modern and there are many glitzy touches of Christmas now, including an animatronic reindeer… but although it’s called “Perfect Paris” it could be… anywhere in the world.’
He was staring at her now. Properly staring and it was a little unnerving. Those grey eyes were fixed on hers and he wasn’t saying anything, simply looking at her and breathing slowly in and out. She couldn’t tell if he was absorbed or if what she had said had made him angry somehow.
‘Ignore me again,’ Keeley said hurriedly. ‘I really should be more grateful to even be here in Paris in December.’
Finally he spoke. ‘No.’ He looked like he was gritting his teeth. Maybe it was simply the cold weather. ‘I am curious for what you say about… this hotel.’
‘Well,’ Keeley said, turning to observe the façade again, ‘my job in England is to pull together themes to create a look that’s universally appealing to buyers looking for their perfect home.’ She smiled at him. ‘Except I don’t like to use the word “themes”. I prefer to use the word “feelings”. Most people, if they’re really honest with themselves, buy things with their emotions, whether it’s houses or cars or a new pair of shoes. Even if they might try to convince themselves it’s for practicality, you can guarantee the thought process has had a “feeling” attached to it.’
‘Shoes?’ Ethan asked, the corners of his mouth rising to form a wry smile.
‘Honestly,’ she told him. ‘Shoes you can run in – practical – are usually bought because you still remember the time your feet hurt so much when you wore heels for too long. Therefore, a feeling.’
‘This coat?’ Ethan offered, arms out, turning in a spin like he was performing on ice.
‘You might think it’s practical,’ Keeley told him. ‘To keep you warm in the winter but…’
‘But?’ he asked, sounding intrigued.
‘But… I think perhaps you bought it because, when you put it on, it took away a memory of when you were once bone-chilling cold.’
*
The breath caught in Ethan’s throat and it was all he could do to hold it together. Astute didn’t even come close. Somehow this woman had seen inside of him. He vividly remembered buying the coat. He had been with Ferne, browsing at one of her favourite flea markets, when he had spotted the nearly-new garment on a rack. The pure wool had felt good on his fingertips, soft yet also somehow strong. He had shrugged off the cheaper version he had been wearing and pulled the coat around him. Straightaway it felt like some kind of suit of armour. Looking at himself in the stallholder’s mirror he had seen two versions of himself. This version in the new coat, the vision of the him he could be, and then the old version. The too-skinny boy who had been bone-chilling cold every night of his life at the orphanage. This coat, although second-hand, had been the most expensive item he had bought up until that day. And it still meant the world.
‘Sorry,’ Keeley spluttered. ‘That was stupid and… way too deep and…’
‘Non,’ Ethan said, shaking his head. ‘I am sure you are right. About people leading with feelings. I simply thought, with vacations, people would want “luxury”.’ That’s what Ferne had wanted. That’s what Ferne had wanted for their clients. And Ethan still very much needed to trust that she had been right. Why wouldn’t she have been right? Perfect Paris was a success story after all.
‘Well, “luxury” means different things to different people,’ Keeley told him. ‘Like, “luxury” to my mum means getting all the Waitrose best stuff to impress her friends. Whereas, to me, “luxury” really does mean “comfort”.’ She drew in another breath as if musing on the subject a little further. ‘I always think the best things are the little cosy touches coming together to make up the bigger finished picture.’
Was this true? His heart was thudding in response to what Keeley was saying, but what was it telling him? That his best friend’s creation of a sleek, opulent brand was flawed? That Perfect Paris was a little too perfect? He didn’t know how to respond. He was so conflicted and he couldn’t get his brain to slow down.
‘You are free tomorrow?’ he asked her. Conflicted or not, something was telling him he wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear what she had to say and get to know more about her ‘feelings’.
‘I…’
‘Excusez-moi, you are on holiday. You are busy. I apologise.’ What was he thinking? He had enough on his mind with Louis breathing down his neck. He should take her reticence as a sign and back away.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, I am here with my friend and I don’t know what she has planned but maybe we could—’
‘Run,’ Ethan suggested quickly. He’d said the first thing in his brain just to get something
out there. Apparently backing away wasn’t going to happen.
‘What?’
‘The… exercise we talked about. You said you sometimes like to run. I could… maybe show you hidden Paris this way.’
‘Early,’ Keeley breathed. ‘And, to be completely honest with you, I’m more a 4k person than a 10k person.’
Somehow she was suddenly closer to him now, her body only an inch or two away. ‘Early would work for me,’ he answered.
God, the overriding feeling he had now was that he wanted to kiss her. Long and slow yet fierce. As that realisation hit, it was all he could do to stop himself sweeping her into his arms. Why was he allowing himself to feel this way? How come he could not stop it?
‘Is six too early?’ she asked him, wetting her lips a little.
The action sent a shot of adrenaline spiralling around him like lights around the boughs of a Christmas tree.
‘Six is… comfortable,’ he whispered.
His heart was beating hard, and it took every bit of restraint he owned not to simply take her face between his hands and draw it towards his. And then, somehow, her fingers found his or maybe his fingers found hers. Whichever way it was, their hands became entwined, skin on skin, tiny movements, so delicate, but infinitely there. He had absolutely no words for how the connection was making him feel. And he understood it even less.
‘I should go,’ she said, breaking the contact, albeit slowly, one gentle fingertip at a time.
‘À bientôt,’ Ethan said, watching her as she finally stepped away from him. ‘Bonne nuit.’
‘Goodnight.’
Twenty-Eight
L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris
I want to see this guy. Take a photo. Find out his last name so I can stalk him on socials. French kiss his face off. I can’t sleep. Morphine needs to be stronger man.
The text ended with the emoji of the green pukey face and the smile dropped from Keeley’s lips at Erica’s message sent an hour ago. It was 5 a.m. and the comment about morphine reminded her again exactly how sick Erica was. There she was, texting every nuance of her chance encounter with Ethan and Erica was back in the hospice, clinging to the time she had left. She would FaceTime her again later, show her some more of the sights of the city and attempt to keep her spirits high.
