I watched him frowning with concentration as we simultaneously uploaded the photo. I put a soft warm filter on mine, hamming up the dreamy Parisian light, and then I tried desperately to think of a caption that would hit the sweet spot between funny and romantic. I finally landed on:Pre-match baking in Le Maraiswith a hearts-in-your-eyes emoji. I absolutely was not going to add any schmaltzy hashtags à la Charlie, as that would simply cheapen the whole thing, in my opinion. And then I posted it before I could change my mind.
After circling Place des Vosges twice, we headed back to my hotel. Worryingly, I felt as though I could have walked around Paris with Marcus in the moonlight forever.
‘How are you going to get back?’ I asked him.
Marcus was staying near the stadium, in a room with nothing much about it other than excellent storage space and a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower, he’d told me.
‘I guess I’ll jump in a taxi,’ he said, making eye contact with me in a way that for a split second made me think that he was wishing he could stay over. No, he absolutely couldn’t be. As well as the obvious reasons, he needed rest and sleep for his match, and to be near the ground the following morning for training. Why had my mind even gone there?
‘See you tomorrow, then,’ I said, fumbling around in my bag for my room key, more than anything so as to avoid looking at him. He was smiling down at me when I did look up, standing dangerously close.
‘I was thinking ... we should probably kiss or something. In case there are any photographers lurking around. It would look pretty weird if I just dropped you off without so much as a peck on the cheek, wouldn’t it?’ he said, tipping his head to one side while he waited for my answer.
‘Um ... really?’ I said. ‘You think they’re out at this time?’
‘They might be.’
My phone began to ping in my bag, which I could only assume was a reaction to the picture I’d just posted. I didn’t want to look – there was the small matter of those horrible comments I dreaded – but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able tonotfind out what people were saying in response. And as I was silently pondering that dilemma, Marcus took a step closer to me, sweeping his hand under my jawline, using the crook of his finger to lift my chin so that my eyes met his. That beard; that one messy eyebrow, that ridiculously shiny hair. Perhaps I should try to enjoy kissing him, whether it was for show or not. That’s what single people did, wasn’t it, kissed random people they only vaguely liked? I’d managed it before Charlie – surely I couldn’t have forgotten how? I closed my eyes as his lips brushed across mine and then too quicklypulled away; I cupped his cheek and pulled him back towards me, kissing him this time, harder than I’d planned. I parted my lips slightly, which was a huge mistake, because somehow the tip of his tongue slid inside my mouth and it felt like my legs had disappeared out from under me and I was floating off into the warm Parisian air never to be seen again and never wanting to be. His hands were on my waist and moving slowly upwards. If I didn’t do something now, we were going to go way too far.Waytoo far. It took every ounce of mental strength I had to push him lightly away.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was a little—’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, cutting him off, because it really was. It had been me as much as it had been him and so, if anything, I should also be apologising. ‘I think we’ve convinced them, don’t you?’ I said, smiling weakly at him.
‘I’d say so,’ he muttered, seeming a little flustered too.
I made a move to leave, because somebody had to.
‘Night, then,’ I said.
‘Night, Ava.’
I walked up to the entrance, feeling him watching me, pushing through the revolving door, entering the safety and absolute silence of the hotel’s lobby, berating myself for coming on too strong, and for enjoying it more than I should have. Marcus could still pull the interview at any point and this – kissing him likethis– wasn’t how I was going to keep him on side. I was halfway through my interview, I couldn’t afford to mess things up now. It was going to be good, really good. I had faith in my ability to write it, and in Marcus’s ability to show me who he was in a way I’d doubted at first. As I took the stairs up to my room, I imagined him hailing a taxi out on the street, and decided that he probably wasn’t even giving our kiss a second thought.
Chapter Fifteen
When Zoe rang the following morning, I was sitting outside a café feeling extremely Parisian on my red-and-white-striped woven chair, facing out on to the street so that I could people-watch to my heart’s content. On the plate in front of me was a warm baguette, which I had to say was not a patch on the delights Marcus and I had made the night before, and a delicate cheese omelette. I was drinking orange juiceandcoffee, because I hadn’t been able to decide which I’d wanted more, and so: when in Paris.
I put Zoe on speaker because I needed to use my hands to spread copious amounts of salty butter on to my bread.
‘Hey,’ I said.
A car honked its horn; a trio of tiny, yappy dogs trotted past.
‘Where are you?’ she asked accusingly.
‘Paris.’
‘I know, but where, exactly?’
‘In a café?’ I said, wondering why the sudden fascination with my location.
‘Are you, you know ... alone?’ she asked.
‘Um ...’ I said, glancing at the couple to my right and a businessman on his own to my left. ‘Pretty much. Why?’
‘I thought Marcus might be with you,’ said Zoe.
‘Marcus is not with me. In fact, he’ll probably be pummelling away on a treadmill as we speak,’ I said.
