Outside her apartment door, he turns her to face him. ‘But I was thinking, when I go, you could come with me.’ His eyes travel over her face – one that she spent hours perfecting in front of the mirror earlier. ‘They have art schools in Los Angeles, after all.’
She laughs. ‘Los Angeles? Why on earth … Oh.’ She gets it then. Hollywood. He wants to chase the big films, the big orchestras, the big money. He wants to make a name for himself. Which she’s not surprised by. He’s always had this kind of restless energy about him, the need to keep moving, to find the next thing. It’s like he’s never content just to sit in one place. Even for her.
She offers a smile she hopes doesn’t look forced. ‘I’m not really sure Hollywood is for me.’
‘Why not?’
She gestures down at herself. ‘Do I seem like the adventurous type to you?’
Although she has been thinking of it. Not Hollywood, obviously, but art school. And on nights like tonight, when art – because film is art – moves her to emotion, it makes her think about how she wants to do something more than teach finger-painting to five-year-olds. Not that she doesn’t love the children – she does, and a part of her feels content with it. But maybe it’s him, and his need to experience everything life has to offer, that’s making her want more.
He takes a step towards her, her back against the door, and reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Where he touches, goosebumps prickle. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘I think you might have more adventure in you than you give yourself credit for.’
Their gazes meet, the street lamps of Paris flickering in his eyes. She stretches on her toes to press her mouth to his, feels the curve of his lips as he smiles against hers. He edges closer, one hand coming to her hip, over her dress, the other cupping her neck. Her skin turns hot and needy under his touch, and her breath hitches as he moves his mouth to her jawline.
Her head tips back, her eyelids flutter closed as he kisses a path down her neck. She wants him. She’s not supposed to have men inside her apartment, not with the landlady downstairs, but it’s getting harder each time to say goodbye.
He pulls back, the weight of his focus heavy on her, and the darkness between them hums.
Later, when she lets herself into her small apartment, she reaches for the drawer in her bedside table, pulls out the application forms she has stored there. One for a school in Paris, because where better to study art than here? But the thing is, although she’s never imagined America, other than a strange sense that she might like to visit New York one day, shehasimagined leaving Paris, escaping this city where her sister died, where her parents are, where, despite all the richness it has to offer, she feels trapped sometimes. There’s a good school in Lyon, and she’s even thought about learning Italian, trying Florence.
It’s a silly dream, so unlikely to ever happen, for so many reasons. Even without the barriers she’s sure she’ll face, she couldn’t justleave. She’d be abandoning her mother for one, her father spending most nights out with one of his many mistresses. The two of them are married only in name, and her father is too chicken to divorce her mother, worried about how it might look, especially after the loss of a child. And her mother might not want her here, given that she still blames her for what happened the day of the bombing, but she definitelyneedsher.
Still, it can’t hurt to apply, can it? If she doesn’t get in, then that’s the decision made for her.
When Lissa comes to, on the sofa in her flat, Netflix still playing, she presses her hands to her temples. Enough. That’s enough of this now. She needs to figure out what it means, why it’s happening.
The dream book she bought was useless. She thinks of the Google search she did several weeks ago, of therapists claiming they could help people uncover their past lives. Well then. Maybe it’s time to look up this Saskia Arthur’s number and see if she really is as clairvoyant as she claims to be. After all, what has she got to lose?
She’s having second thoughts by the time she parks up outside the little cottage over a week later. If it’s possible to have third thoughts, then she’s having those as she gets out of the car and crunches across the gravel driveway. She could just not go in. Turn around, call and say she got stuck somewhere. But she’s here now. She’s paid for the session already. And worst case, it’ll be a funny story to tell Darcy.
Saskia Arthur, when she opens the door, is a little older than she appeared in her photo, a few more creases around her eyes and mouth. Her smile is the same, though – warm and inviting. Her grey hair is pulled back into a rather severe bun, small diamond studs winking out of her ears in the evening sunlight, and she’s wearing a jumper and jeans combo that can only be described as practical. Where is the flowing skirt and hoop earrings and mystical energy?
She beckons Lissa inside, then leads her through the cottage into a small back room, where there is a therapy couch opposite two armchairs. The walls are painted light blue, and landscape paintings make up the majority of the decoration. She gestures for her to take a seat in one of the armchairs, and Lissa does so, trying not to fidget.
‘So,’ Saskia says, taking a seat in the other armchair. She folds her hands in her lap like a schoolteacher, the gold ring on her little finger glinting as she does so. ‘Tell me what brings you here today.’
‘Ah …’ Lissa feels her neck heat as she tries to think of an acceptable answer to this.
‘You said you were interested in past lives, is that right?’ Saskia prods. Lissa nods. ‘So were you hoping for me to help with some past life regression?’
‘No.’ The firmness in her voice makes Saskia’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction. ‘Sorry,’ Lissa says, biting her lip. ‘It’s more … I wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.’
The eyebrows creep up even further. ‘Questions?’
‘It’s just … I know you do the hypnotherapy and stuff, but on your site it says you’re also …’ She gestures into space, trying to remember the word.
‘Clairvoyant?’
‘Right. Exactly. Well, I was wondering if you could use that to help me out a little.’
‘Help you out?’ Saskia repeats, sounding genuinely baffled.
‘I just …’ Lissa realises she’s twisting her hands in her lap. She makes herself stop and blows out a breath. ‘Look, this is going to sound crazy, but—’
Saskia holds up a hand. ‘There is no judgement here. And I don’t believe in the word “crazy”.’
‘Right.’ Lissa shifts her weight in the armchair. ‘Well I think I might have had a past life.’ Saying it out loud sounds totally insane – and yet not at all. Because giving voice to the idea seems to settle something in her. ‘Or, well, multiple past lives. Is it possible to have multiple past lives?’ And yes, she is going there. She is having this conversation with a so-called holistic psychic therapist. She’s just thankful that no one is around to see her doing it.
