Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Chapter 21

It started well enough. It wasn’t difficult to hold off on applause until he was certain the time was right. But Livia was watching him like a hawk. The first time he slipped up, shifting in his seat and lifting his hands when the movement was not, in fact, over, attracted a scowl that made him question all of his life choices.

During a dramatic pause, his phone beeped. He hauled it out of his pocket like a hot potato, muttering an apology to no one in particular as he turned the sound off. Livia must have had laser eyes because he swore he could feel her glare, even though he didn’t dare look at her. He settled back to watch, but the velvet seat was bouncy and uncomfortable, and all the frolicking and music looked and sounded the same to him.

Other patrons had concert programmes and, at the twenty-minute mark, he was wishing he had one, too. If he knew what on earth was going on, between the men in tights and military uniforms and the women in pastel tutus, he might have been able to concentrate – and at least with a programme, he would have had something to do with his hands.

He gathered there was some sort of battle taking place on stage partway through the first act, but it baffled him more than ever. All the arms and legs and swirls of colour acted on him like hypnotism. He snapped upright with a gasp, realising he’d almost fallen asleep. He risked a glance at Ren, to find her grinning ruefully at him.

He leaned on the armrest to whisper in her ear. ‘Kick me if it happens again.’

‘Shh,’ hissed Livia from Ren’s other side.

He settled back in his seat, rubbing his eyes and blinking to try to stay awake. The interval seemed to arrive all of a sudden and he squinted as the lights came up. Before his eyes had adjusted, Livia was whisking Ren away and he had no idea if he was supposed to follow. The soothing music had dulled his other senses somehow – either that, or this whole scenario was designed to make him feel stupid. A bit of both, he suspected.

When they’d been gone ten minutes, he decided he should stretch his legs, too, and stood to leave the box, but he paused when he heard muttered voices on the other side of the door.

‘You are so much more than this, Ren – than . You are an Asquith-Lewis. I know Charlie hurt you, but it’s time to hold your head up and take responsibility for your next steps. This is only getting in the way.’

‘Listen to yourself, Grandmama,’ came Ren’s voice. ‘I’m not “more” than anyone. There is no “us” and “them”. There’s so much out in the world to experience—’

‘And you are going to get hurt experiencing it! I had hoped by now that you’d be ready to end this farce and return to London.’ ‘Farce’ was a suspiciously apt term, Sacha thought.

‘You gave me until next Friday and I want to spend that time with him.’

‘I can’t imagine why. You know full well that there is no way I will approve of him as a partner for you.’

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Sacha turned away and headed back to his seat. There was a lot in that conversation he shouldn’t have overheard, but that last part would be the most difficult to forget, especially because he was struggling to remember that Ren had been playing the role and not telling the truth when she’d said she wanted to spend time with him.

He slumped down in his seat, taking deep breaths and not caring if Livia made snide comments about his posture. He glanced at Ren as she strode back to her place, her expression troubled. He refused to move his legs when she tried to get through.

‘I have bad manners,’ he murmured so only she could hear him. He took her hand to help her climb over him. ‘I’m the last man in Paris you would want to sit next to at the ballet.’

She took his hand and leaned close to whisper in his ear, ‘You can take me to a hip-hop concert next time.’ He snorted in surprise and Livia glared at him again, but he it didn’t bother him so much with Ren’s hand still clutched in his. She settled back, her eyes on the stage, but her fingers still looped through his.

One more act to go. He could do this.

An hour later, he’d survived the experience and applauded the end with genuine enthusiasm. He’d resisted the temptation to hum along with the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’, when he recognised it and managed to stay awake by fiddling with Ren’s hand.

When they emerged from the palais, the last rays of weak sunlight streaked the sky and the Christmas lights were blinking on in the square. If it had been his family, they would have raucously critiqued the show as they wandered around looking for somewhere to have a drink, but Livia rushed to her waiting car as though it was about to turn into a pumpkin.

‘Darling, I must hurry to the Gare du Nord.’

‘You’re going back tonight?’ Was Ren… relieved?

Livia merely nodded, once, in reply. ‘There is important work to be done in London this week. I will see you in Val d’Isère on Friday night.’ She gave Ren a lipless peck on the cheek. ‘All of… this will be behind us.’

‘Goodbye, Grandmama,’ Ren called as they waved Livia off.

When she’d disappeared from view, a stillness settled over them and he realised he was still clutching her hand. ‘That went… well,’ he said haltingly. And then she burst into laughter.

‘Oh, God.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth as her shoulders shook. ‘I’ve never… standing up to Grandmama is not something I usually , but…’

‘You did it.’

‘I did! And so did you! If you hadn’t been there, she would have been finding all of faults instead.’

‘I’m happy I was of service,’ he muttered.

‘I’m sor—’ He cut her off with a sharp look. ‘Okay, I won’t apologise, but… I know you don’t deserve to be treated the way she and I have treated you.’

‘

I accept, but not you. You were kind to my family today. Your grandmother evidently doesn’t understand or appreciate you.’

Ren opened her mouth to say something – to defend her grandmother, he suspected – but she closed it again, her expression pensive. ‘She’s the only family I have.’

He squeezed her hand and then, with a gruff sigh, wrapped his arm around her. ‘I understand.’ He was lucky the day hadn’t gone worse for her. He would be gone from her life soon and that was for the best.

‘And I wasn’t to your family. I liked them,’ she insisted, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘

were kind to grandmother when she didn’t deserve it.’

‘They liked you, too,’ he blurted out before he could stop himself. ‘You’re not… what I expected, Ren. I think I… wanted you to misunderstand me, to judge me and my family. But you didn’t,’ he admitted.

She smiled up at him, her eyes so warm he needed to blink so he could breathe. ‘Remember I thought you were a bicycle courier the first time I saw you. Is that why you won’t tell me your job? Because I judged you on that first day?’

His brow rose. ‘Yes, perhaps. Shall I tell you? Now I know you?’

When had that happened? ‘Is it something that requires a university degree?’ she asked. He gave her a slight nod. ‘Are you a writer? A poet?’

Only in his head. ‘No, I’m a—’

‘Shhhh!’ Ren said, pressing her fingers to his lips. ‘I want to guess. I have a bit more time.’

But they didn’t have any more time, with no actual plans to see each other again. If he asked her to dinner with no pretext, would she come? And then what would they be? At least as a fake couple, the expectations were clear.

… It felt as though someone had tattooed those words on his chest without his permission. Ren had to take her place in her illustrious family, while his family took up all of his time and space. He could fill the page with some kind of love story, but it wouldn’t have an ending she would care for.

He should let her go… ‘Will you… would you like to come to the marché de Noël with us?’ was what emerged instead. ‘I am meeting Nadia and Raphaël at the Tuileries.’

Her face lit up and he was struck by the thought that he would make many more bad decisions for that smile. ‘I’d love to. That sounds a thousand times better than an afternoon at the ballet with my grandmother.’

If she’d thought the city of light was magic at night, then the Christmas market in the Jardin des Tuileries was a full-on fantasy world. The outline of the Ferris wheel glowed against the night sky. The gabled roofs of the stands selling food and artisanal products made a cosy zigzag of light, softened by lush pine boughs and shiny baubles. Wooden nutcracker dolls the size of humans stood guard next to Christmas trees, decked with rustic straw stars and ribbons and glass teardrops. The scents of cinnamon and honey and herbs tickled her nose and teased her tastebuds.

Ren’s newfound passion for ‘le streetfood’ was indulged as they stood at a wooden barrel and ate grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, made in a stall nearby in a cast-iron skillet dripping with butter. She was certain it tasted better simply because it was called a ‘croque monsieur’ instead of a cheese toastie, and the side serving of fresh oysters and champagne didn’t hurt, either.

When she was tempted to try a giant gingerbread heart, Nadia steered her towards the loaves of pain d’épices instead, the dense honey and ginger cake that went a little too well with vin chaud. Ren was pleasantly tipsy in no time, which helped the stilted conversation she was determined to have with Raphaël. She discovered he and Nadia still lived in Aubervilliers, where Sacha had grown up, and that Nadia was a nurse. Raph looked at Sacha a lot when he answered her questions about school, and she gathered he was a strict homework monitor.

The only time she saw any enthusiasm from the boy was when they reached the 6G, a horrible, whirly nightmare of a ride. Nadia grumbled as she paid for his ticket and then stood biting her nails as he took his turn. Ren was too anxious to watch, but Raph returned miraculously intact.

After wandering past stalls piled high with fragrant natural soaps, glassware, ceramics and woodcraft, they reached the vintage carousel, glittering with mirrors and glass jewels, playing jaunty pipe music as the horses slowly rose and fell. Ren studied it in wonder, thinking of all of the smiling faces the ride had seen over the decades, the changing faces of Paris it had witnessed. Before she realised what he’d done, Sacha pressed a token into her hand and gestured towards the gate with a smile.

‘I can’t go on my own!’

‘Do I have to supervise you?’ he teased.

‘No! I mean, we’re two adults. Won’t it look silly?’

‘Not with that smile. You look… very childlike.’ She scrunched up her nose, but his warm smile suggested he’d meant it as a compliment. ‘You’ve never been on a carousel before. You must.’

Raphaël appeared beside them with a bored sigh. ‘I can go, also,’ he said impatiently. She whooped with excitement and he looked even less impressed. But Ren clutched his arm and dragged him in with her.

‘Choose your horse carefully!’ Sacha called after her.

Raph laughed at her as she took Sacha’s advice seriously and studied the grave, horsey faces and their painted finery. She chose one with its mane whipping out behind, as though it were racing at Ascot, and the music started as she clambered on.

She yelped as her horse rose with a slow shudder, but the old ride soon reached its stride and she clung laughingly to the swirled pole as she was gently buffeted up and down in a movement that felt nothing like real horse riding. Under the painted landscapes and old-fashioned portraits on the carousel, with fairy lights and the dark sky above, the world felt generous and full of hope.

Then a voice reached her ears dimly and intruded on her moment. ‘I say! Is that…? No, what the hell am I thinking? On a carousel?’

‘Hmm?’ came the bored response.

‘Gosh, it really looks like—’

She didn’t dare to look. The ride slowed, the music growing distorted and eerie, like a dream turning into a nightmare. She sought out Sacha, his smile fading as he studied her. He stood to one side of the gate, completely unaware of who stood on the other side, only a few feet away, and he didn’t deserve what she was certain was coming.

‘Ren? It you!’ said the voice as she exited the gate of the carousel as calmly as she could. Sacha’s head whipped around to take in the blond swoosh of hair, the broad shoulders and arrogant posture to match the patrician vowels. Sacha drifted closer, his hand closing in her coat at the waist without thought.

‘Putain,’ he muttered.

‘De bordel de merde,’ she added under her breath. She lifted her chin and faced the man she’d thought she’d marry. ‘Hello, Charlie.’