‘Affairs of the heart? I see you’ve booked two rooms. Perhaps you wish for more than friendship? Are you secretlyamoureux de…’
Rory looked confused.
‘I mean… in love with her?’ Jacques said.
‘No!’ he said. This Jacques was worse than Tahoor.
The man gave a chuckle. ‘You have to excuse me. My wife is always telling me off for being too outspoken.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Twenty-nine years. We met at the student protests, in the mid-eighties, never imagining we would one day be upstanding hotel owners, with responsibilities and a reputation to keep. We were going to change the world back then.’ He shook his head in an affectionate manner, as if sitting opposite himself and his wife all that time ago. ‘Are you in love,mon gars? Someone else back home has attracted your attention?’
‘Not at all. I don’t think I ever have been.’
Jacques’ eyes bulged and he put down his glass, loosened his shirt and rolled up his sleeves further. He leant forwards. ‘Impossible.’
‘Of course you’d say that. You’re French,’ said Rory, a twinkle in his eye. Jacques hesitated and then burst out laughing again, a friendly roll of humour that filled the room.
‘Bon, of course, and you English eat cucumber sandwiches with the King,’ he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Never in love? Are you sure?’
‘Well, how do you know?’
‘That is like asking how do I know how to breathe? It’s not something you consciously think about, and that’s the point. You simply wake up one day and realise how much this person has become part of your life, that they are in your mind every day,every hour; their problems, their successes, their amazing qualities, flaws, the mysterious parts of them… You accept it all, as you accept yourself. The person you are in love with is like… home. They are your secure place. Your happy refuge. Your escape from the world.’ He raised his hands in the air. ‘For me, home is not a building, it’s not a town… it’s a person who makes you feel you are exactly where you should be, when you are together.’ He raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Rory shrugged. ‘It hit me, one day, when we went to the Eiffel Tower. We stood underneath, eating ice cream, and Michelle was so keen to go up to its top. Neither of us ever had before and I’m afraid of heights. But then and there, looking at her excited face, the mouth that kissed me so gently, but was equally forceful shouting at rallies, the fiery, intelligent eyes… I’d do anything to make her happy, to keep her safe. I knew her happiness and safety came before mine. I’d never felt like that about anyone before.’
‘You went up the tower?’ asked Rory, sitting up straighter now.
‘Scariest day of my life.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not that she ever knew that.’
‘But what about hearts and flowers, a fanfare of music, candlelit moments, fireworks and Cupid with his bow…?’
‘Mere frivolous decorations to what really matters. Although there was a song I found myself singing, ever since I met her. “Venus” by an English group, Banana… Bananarama. It was released by them in the mid-eighties and the lyrics resonated. We were in a bar, after the demo where I first met her, with a crowd of people, and it came on and we all sang along. Ever since that night, now and then, I’ve sung it when alone. Michelle is my Venus – was from that first moment. My goddess of love.’ Jacques knocked back his drink and got to his feet. ‘Bon, I am rambling. Pastis always loosens my tongue. I would be no matchas a spy for your British James Bond.’ He pushed over the bottle. ‘On the house. Sleep well,mon ami.’ Jacques held out his hand and Rory shook it, hardly able to move, acting as if on automatic. Eventually, he reached for another Pastis. Then another.
Sunday 8th December
With the help of 4 glasses of Pastis – Jacques is wrong: it does not grow on you and now my mouth tastes of moth balls – and after 1 hour of examining the evidence, until 2.30a.m., I crawl into bed and for the 100th time, mull over everything Jacques said.
Elena has… let me see… at least 6 outstanding qualities! She is hardworking, funny, kind, generous, intelligent, and has incredible taste in silk dressing gowns.
3 outstanding flaws – she doesn’t reach out for help enough, plays ‘gentle jazz’ (aka KILL ME NOW music) and doesn’t like pickles.
Also, she carries 1 big mystery – where does she disappear to, upstairs in the house?
1st epiphany – I would do anything to make her happy. Even eat pineapple on pizza.
2nd epiphany – I would do anything to keep her safe. Like finding an answer to what happened that night, in the woods, in 2004.
3rd epiphany. Oh God. I even have a song. ‘Ocean Eyes’. I’ve sung it every night since working at Bingley Biscuits. On the very first day of my first contract, Elena’s eyes struck me as being so very much like the ocean, clear and blue… and yet, when I peered in, when she was earnestly talking, I saw trouble and sadness – as if a shipwreck were hidden in the depths, hiding a tragic story; a shipwreck that also held the most precious treasure.
4th epiphany. A sense of home. I’ve felt that ever since we’ve worked together. I didn’t know that’s what it was, but now I recognise it. With Elena, wherever we are, I feel enveloped in a warm, safe feeling that I won’t be made fun of – unless I deserve it! – or hurt; that… yes, Jacques is right… that I’m where I should be. I look forward to seeing her every morning. It makes me feel as if the day will be okay, or that if it isn’t, no matter, I’ve got Elena to laugh or cry or talk things over with. I don’t think I appreciated this before the last few weeks. Like the time I found out, whilst at work, that Dad’s cousin, Tasha, had passed. It was at the beginning of the summer. She was close to him and Uncle Tony, being an only child and living near them when she was little. Tasha loved Mum too and was thrilled to have a woman near her own age in the family, and they became the best of friends. I knew Tasha was ill but she’d always been so tough over the years, telling me other children were saps for teasing me for having no mum; pushing Dad into dating several years after Mum had gone, saying Linda wouldn’t want to see him on his own. The tears ran down my face at my desk in the office and I wiped them away as discreetly as I could. Tasha had told me stories about my mum when it was too raw for Dad, like how Mum had asked for a swimming with sharks experience for her twenty-fifth birthday and my dad bought her a session at the local aquarium. My grandparents went to watch and she said it was her happiest day ever, third to getting married and having me. Tasha had teased her, saying anyone with any sense would have just asked for a spa weekend. Elena came over to my desk – the only person who had spotted my upset. She put a hand on my shoulder. She didn’t do any of that stuff like starting sentences with at least, or going on about how Tasha was no longer suffering. Elena simply said she was there if I needed to talk and then fetched us coffees, and the world began to feel okay again.
And breathe… But I can’t; my chest’s bursting with the 1 big conclusion from all of this. HOLY CRAP, JACQUES, HOLY PASTIS! Is Rory Bunker in love, for the 1st time ever, and with the most unlikely person?
No. No way. It doesn’t add up, on paper. Gather the statistics and there would be too many differences… right? Yet you only have to look at science to see how opposite charges attract…
Rory tossed down his journal and held his head in his hands, worried that if he didn’t physically hold his skull together, it would explode. There was no denying it. Rory was in charming Paris, with its cobbled streets and twinkling lights, with its buskers and mime artists, and hewas… Rory Bunker wasamoureux d’Elena Swan.
The way her nose twitched before she laughed, those exquisite ocean eyes that rippled with every emotion; that intense look on her face, at work, when she was putting together a pitch, full of know-how; the way her blonde hair bounced up and down when she talked excitedly about her ideas for marketing the latest product; how Elena chatted when she thought no one was listening to Brandy and Snap, gently, respectfully, acknowledging the sentience in them; her eyebrows that said more than a million words if she was upset, excited, or thought him to be an idiot. Rory grinned to himself. Like every time he made her do the Good Times Dance. As for those lips that stood for no nonsense, that could be so sympathetic, lips he longed to kiss, and that laugh that lifted the day, like the catchiest Top Ten hit, and the curvy waist, those long legs and… The thoughts and emotions that he’d harboured for so long, without understanding them for what they were, overwhelmed him. Now it made sense why such primeval pain had cut through his body at the sight of the firework in her chest, and why he’d not hesitated about pulling her to safety in the pool, even though the diver could have hit him with full force. It explained why this job at Bingley Biscuits had felt like no other – like sun on a cold day, summer holidays, like Friday afternoons, and freshly baked cookies, and not just because the company made biscuits! His sport-loving friends hadn’t been able understand why he’d given up the freedom of contracting to sign permanently with one company. Rory hadn’t been able to give them a good reason.
