The love thing that she really, really wanted had been in her life all along.
Yet it had been invisible to her, despite the brightly coloured clothes and extroverted dance.
A lump rose in her throat.
Elena sat, digesting the revelation.
She couldn’t say anything. He’d only cringe, especially now he knew her deepest secret. Privately he must think her a joke, and who would blame him? Their friendship was too precious to ruin. Telling him would tear their easy camaraderie apart. What if they didn’t make up in time, before her birthday? Elena wiped her eyes. It was enough that she’d finally recognised and felt true love. Utter gratitude filled her for that. This true love had been skulking in the shadows this last year, waiting, watching for the moment it could boldly walk into the sunlight. Rory moving in, Elena’s three accidents, her changing attitude to safety and confiding in him about the fortune teller… it had taken these huge events to make her face how she felt.
Yet, deep down, she’dknown, Elena could see that now. She’d been the one to suggest Rory have the desk opposite hers, and there was that time she’d made a paper plane and aimed it at his head. They couldn’t agree over the pitch for a product and wereboth doing more research. A playful gesture she’d never made to anyone before. And Rory had lost a dear relative at the beginning of the summer. The upset he tried to hide in the office had completely affected her focus and… it had hurt. Then there was the karaoke. Gary had been on at her for ages to arrange it, but she’d balked at getting up on stage. However, once he’d paired her and Rory together, for some reason those nerves lessened.
A cough behind her. Rory sat down. He passed her a takeout cup.
‘You talked about being a broken biscuit,’ he said. ‘Tell me, are you one of our employer’s vanilla sandwich fingers, or a chocolate-covered oatie one?’ The corner of his mouth twitched and a deep yearning rose inside her, wild and unharnessed, to kiss those lips.
Instead, with an innocent air, she flipped the finger at him as her answer and privately adored his soft laugh whilst she sipped her coffee.
26
RORY
Rory sat perched on the edge of the bed. He and Elena had adjoining rooms, and they’d left the door open so that they could shout through and talk. However, they’d hardly said a word on the way back to the hotel and Elena had gone straight to bed, wanting to read a book. Rory understood. After the distressing confrontation with that fortune teller, after reliving the past, she must have been exhausted.
A grunt came through the adjoining door – Elena was clearly asleep. He felt wide awake and hadn’t even got undressed yet. Rory studied his surroundings, focusing on the details, hoping it would stop his mind racing. The bedcover was decadent, velvet and burgundy, and it matched the heavy curtains. The oak furniture had carved legs and on the opposite side of the room was a drop-front desk with a floral, ceramic plaque on the front. On top of it was a bowl of pot pourri, spicing up the room with its heavy floral scent. A large mirror dominated the wall above the desk, its gilt frame glinting in the dim light. Next to the entrance door to his room, on the left, hung an oil painting of Montmartre, with artists sitting in front of easels and people nearby,outside bars, drinking red wine. The phone to call down to reception was an antique black candlestick one.
He stood up. It was no good. Rory couldn’t get Elena’s childhood story out of his head. It erased the beautiful images that should have been there, like the magical skyline of Paris or the latte art in the café they’d visited tonight. Each of their drinks had a chocolate sprinkling of a balloon on top, in the shape of a heart. Despite their fervent denial, the server thought they were a couple, as did the tired-looking woman who came in off the street, intent on selling Rory a red rose to give to Elena. Elena had blushed and, on impulse, he’d bought the flower. No, instead of all that, Rory only saw, in his head, a little girl in Disney pyjamas, out in the woods, scared, on her own, promising away her life, in exchange for her mum’s.
A ball of fire sparked in his stomach. Howcouldthe fortune teller have let a child make such a deal? How cruel to let young Elena – older Elena, too – believe she only had two more decades to live? Yet then see that child home safely? It didn’t add up.
He picked up his journal and phone and headed down the winding staircase to the reception. The owner, Jacques, was handing over to the night porter. It was one in the morning.
‘Bonsoir,’ said Rory, and he attempted a smile. ‘Any chance the bar is still open?’
The night porter shook his head, but Jacques studied his guest. ‘Oui. I was just heading that way myself. One last glass before bed?’
Rory followed him to the left of reception and into the dining area, next to the glassed-off courtyard. Rory tapped into his phone. Let the research begin. So… Fortune tellers were different from psychics in that they might tell you what could happen in the future, or if luck was heading your way, whereas psychics might also tell you why. Mediums were not the same either, as they used a person’s spiritual energy to predict events. Some so-called fortune tellers simply used their skills to help you reflect on your life and understand it, not proclaiming to know what was coming your way. Rory scrolled further… Crystal balls, palms, dreams, tea leaves, cards… He rubbed his head. Elena was one of the most grounded people he knew, so if she genuinely still believed her life was under threat, twenty years on from her mum’s accident, then there was no way he’d dismiss her story outright. However, sometimes there was what looked like concrete evidence for the wildest theories. Like the supposed Illuminati existing and being linked to government organisations. If you spelled illuminati backwards and put it into a search engine, the result was quite, well, illuminating.
Rory rubbed his head again as Jacques brought over two small glasses, a spirit bottle and a carafe of water.
‘May I, monsieur?’ he asked and pointed to the seat opposite.
‘Please. Call me Rory.’ He tossed down his phone.
‘You can’t come to France and not have Pastis.’ He poured the spirit into the two glasses and when he topped them up with water, the liquid turned white.
Rory raised a glass in the air. ‘Cheers.’
‘Santé,’ said Jacques and took a mouthful.
Aniseed? Rory hadn’t tasted that since he was a child. He coughed. ‘Um, very nice.’
Jacques bellowed with laughter. ‘It grows on you.’ He yawned. ‘You can’t sleep? Is there anything else your room needs? An extra blanket perhaps?’
‘Got any tranquilisers?’ He took another glug. Jacques topped up both their glasses.
‘You are in marvellous Paris with… may I say it… a beautiful woman. What is the matter, my friend? You are on holiday,non?’
Rory nodded.
