That Night In Paris Read online

  That Night in Paris

  SANDY BARKER

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Sandy Barker 2020

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Sandy Barker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008362843

  Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008362836

  Version: 2020-02-17

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Ten Years Ago

  Chapter 2

  Ten Years Ago

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Two and a half Months Later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  For my dear darling adorable little sister, Vic.

  About This Book

  This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

  Chapter 1

  “I have completely cocked things up.”

  “Hello to you, too.” My sister, Sarah, peered out from my iPad, her nose bigger than it was in real life.

  “Sorry, hello,” I retorted. We were sisters and best friends—couldn’t we skip niceties in a crisis? And this was a crisis.

  “So, how have you cocked things up?” she asked as the screen turned white.

  “Sez, have you put me down?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her face hovered over the screen. “I’m folding the washing.” She’d put her iPad face up on the bed, giving me a lovely view of her ceiling. “Sorry,” she added, her face moving out of frame again.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “So, you, cocking things up—go,” she prompted again.

  “I slept with Alex.”

  Her face reappeared as she righted the iPad and stared at me, a questioning crease between her brows. “Sorry, what? Alex?”

  “My flatmate,” I answered flatly.

  “Oooh, Alex. So, he does exist.” She grinned, obviously pleased with herself.

  “Ha ha, very funny.” Sarah had stayed with me after her trip to Greece a couple of months before. She’d met my flatmate, Jane, but Alex hadn’t been around that week, so Sarah thought it was hilarious to joke that he wasn’t real. Believe me—and my lady parts—he was real.

  “So, what happened?” She abandoned her washing and propped herself up against her bedhead, settling in for the duration.

  I snuggled amongst the throw pillows on the sofa, also settling in. It had been two days and fourteen hours since The Incident (note the capital letters), but it was the first time I’d been alone in the flat and my first opportunity for a proper sister debrief. Until that moment, I’d been lying low in what I’d like to think was an impressive display of both restraint and stealth.

  “Well, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before—the usual stuff really. Jane went out. Alex and I stayed in. We ordered Indian takeaway and opened a bottle or two of wine, aaand we ended up having drunken sex on the sofa.” She made a face. “What?”

  “The one I slept on?” She looked like she’d smelled someone else’s fart.

  “Yes, Sarah, that one. The sofa I am currently sitting on. It’s not like we had sex and then you had to sleep on it. You were here ages ago. Besides, we cleaned up afterwards.” Her grimace intensified. “Look, you’re focusing on the wrong thing.”

  “Sorry,” she said. I waved off the apology. “Well, how was it?”

  “What?”

  “The sex.”

  “It was drunken sofa sex. How do you think it was?”

  “Oh-kay. So, what now?”

  It was a good question. What I had wanted to happen was absolutely nothing. I’d wanted to wake up the next day, make our usual pleasantries over tea and coffee and get on with my life. What I didn’t want was Alex making goo-goo eyes at me over the toaster, then professing his long-held and undying love for me.

  Yes, that really happened.

  “Well, we each went back to our rooms and I fell into a wine-induced coma. When I woke up, he was waiting for me in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a weird look on his face. I took the tea and he launched into a monologue about being in love with me—how he’s always hoped something would happen between us, and that he wants me to meet his mum.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open a little. It was the exact same reaction I’d had in the kitchen two days before. Her face contorted. “Fuuuuuck,” she said slowly. I hadn’t realised how much you could drag that word out.

  “That’s what I thought—think. Yes, I still think that.”

  “So, I’m guessing you don’t feel the same way?”

  I snorted in reply. I couldn’t help it—totally involuntary. “Alex?” I asked, as though his name alone was enough to convey how ridiculous her question was. Of course, my audience of one had never met Alex, so how was she to know? The left side of her mouth pulled taut. Bollocks, that had definitely come out snarky. “Sorry,” I muttered. She shrugged, instantly forgiving me—one of the things I loved about my sister.

  “It’s just that, yes, I mean, he’s cute in a British sort-of podgy, floppy-haired, Andrew Garfield kind of way, but I don’t really fancy him. Plus, he’s nice enough, but he’s so dull. He only ever talks about his work—boring as anything—and his latest obsession—get this, virtual reality. He’s even kitted out his room with a whole set-up since you were here.”

  “Oh, wow. That sounds cool.”

  “Are you paying attention? It’s not. Besides, I tried it. It made me sick.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I’ve been hiding from him.”

  “So, how’s that going?”

  “So far, so good. Although I had a near miss with him last night when I got up to go to the loo.” I could see the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth and watched her succumb to laughter. My giggles followed soon after.

  “You’re a dork,” she said, her laugh subsiding.

  “Yes, thank you, I know.”

  “So, what’s your long-term plan? You going to keep skulking about y
our flat, hoping you don’t cross paths on the way to brush your teeth?” I could tell she was enjoying herself.

  “Actually, no. I’ve booked a tour.”

  She looked intrigued. “A tour?”

  “Yep. For half-term. I leave on Saturday. It’s, uh, well, it’s a Ventureseek tour.”

  I let my reveal hang in the air.

  Sarah had worked for Ventureseek ten years ago as a Tour Manager. She’d shared all the glorious—and gory—details, and I had a pretty good idea what I was in for. What I didn’t know was how she’d react.

  Apparently, it would be blinking at me, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish out of water. “I’m sorry, what? You’re going on a Ventureseek?” She used the tour company’s name like a common noun.

  “Yes,” I replied, sticking to my guns. I’ve never really understood that expression, by the way, and I’m an English teacher, but whatever metaphorical guns were, I was sticking to them. Besides, I’d just forked out eleven hundred non-refundable pounds.

  Her brows furrowed. “But you said you’d never go on one of those tours. You specifically said, and I remember this clearly, they were for drunken hooligans and idiots who couldn’t find their way around Europe by themselves. You said you’d never ever go on one—ever. You were quite clear about the ‘ever’ part.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So? What happened?”

  “I panicked,” I answered, half-resolute, half-defensive.

  She was quiet for several moments, then shrugged. “Huh. Well, okay. So, you leave Saturday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And which tour is it? I mean, how long?”

  “Two weeks, fifteen countries, or something like that.” She nodded, and I could see her mind at work.

  “So, Paris, the château, Antibes, Florence, Rome, Venice, Lauterbrunnen, Koblenz, and Amsterdam. Right?” Damn, she was good. Ten years on and she still knew the itinerary of a two-week tour looping around Europe.

  “Uh, yes, I think so. That sounds right.” She nodded again.

  “Cool. You’re gonna want to pack a few things that won’t be on your list.” Big Sister Sarah kicked in and I retrieved a pen and paper to take notes as she dictated. Insider info is the best.

  ***

  Two days later, at a ridiculous hour of the morning—7:00am—I was standing on the footpath outside a large inner-London hotel amid the bustle of travellers lugging their luggage. Peering at my phone, I re-read the confirmation email for the tour, which included the tour code. I looked along the line of identical buses—I counted eight—and back at the tour code. How was I supposed to know which one was mine?

  “Hi. Can I help?” said a friendly Australian voice to my left. I looked up to see a guy in his mid-twenties wearing a shirt with the Ventureseek logo embroidered on the pocket.

  “Uh, yes, please. I’m not sure which bus I’m on. Here’s my tour code.” I showed him the screen of my phone and he read it, his head at an awkward angle.

  He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “You’re in luck. That’s my tour. I’m the driver—Tom—and this is our coach.” He indicated the closest bus and I made a mental note to call it a ‘coach’. “Here, let me take that,” he said, indicating my case. I passed over the handle and he expertly retracted it and slid the case into the hold under the bus—sorry, coach. When he turned around, he pointed to the leather messenger bag slung across my body. “That one stays with you.”

  “Oh, lovely. Thank you.” The coach thing sorted, my mind leapt to caffeination—I am next-door-to-useless without my morning tea and it was excruciatingly early for a Saturday. “Uh, do you know where I can get a cup of tea?” I also needed a wee, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “There’s a café in there. It has decent tea.” He pointed towards the hotel lobby, then checked his watch. “You’ve got about twenty-five minutes.”

  I had a sudden thought. “Oh, can I bring tea on the coach?” I said, prouder than I should have been for calling it by the right name.

  “Of course! But if you spill, you’ll be on coach-washing duties,” he deadpanned. I wasn’t sure if he was serious until the smile broke across his face. “Kidding, mate.”

  Several other people were now waiting for him to take their cases, so I skedaddled. I found the toilets, then got myself some tea and a giant gooey brownie. I am not usually a cake-for-breakfast person, but my only other choices were a ham and tomato sandwich, which had seen better days, or a floppy croissant. I was going to be in Paris that afternoon; I could wait for a decent croissant.

  When I left the lobby, the coach was filling up and I climbed aboard, holding my tea steady. I walked down the aisle and a few faces looked up and smiled. I smiled back and kept going, passing up several empty aisle seats.

  You might not guess this about me—even if we met in person—but I don’t like people very much. I don’t mind my friends or my family or a small portion of the people I work with, but strangers and crowds, and most people in general, irk me. So, I avoid them. It’s a flaw, I know, but it keeps the extroverted introvert in me sane.

  When I got to two empty seats about a third of the way along the coach, I scooted in next to the window, tucking my bag under the seat in front of me.

  I sipped my tea and regarded the brownie. I didn’t want it, and I wished I’d said yes when Jane offered to make me some toast for the ride into the city. She’d been an absolute gem and had driven me. Granted, it was in my car and I was letting her drive it while I was away, but we’d had to leave home at the ungodly hour of 6:00am—on a Saturday.

  I wrapped the brownie up and put it in my bag just as a tall woman stopped in the aisle next to me.

  “Hi, is this seat taken?” she asked in an American accent, or it could have been Canadian.

  She had a pretty, approachable face which made me like her instantly—a rare occurrence—and knowing I’d have to share my row with someone, I replied, “No, go ahead.” She pushed a large floppy bag onto the parcel shelf above us and sat down heavily with a sigh.

  “Gosh, I’m so glad I made it. I came straight from the airport.”

  “This morning?”

  She nodded and tucked her short blonde bob behind both ears. Her hair was the kind of naturally sun-kissed blonde that screams of good genes and makes you turn an ugly shade of green.

  “Yep. Just arrived from Vancouver.” She’d flown internationally and was getting straight on a bus tour—sorry, coach tour? I figured she wouldn’t want to hear me moan about waking up at 5:00am.

  “I’m Catherine—Cat,” I said instead.

  “Louise—Lou,” she replied.

  “Well, we’re clearly destined to be friends, Lou, because your name is my middle name.”

  “No way.” She chuckled.

  “Way. Catherine Louise Parsons.”

  “Louise Eva Janssen.”

  We shook hands to formalise our budding friendship, then sat in easy silence as we watched the coach load up with pairs and singles and a four-pack of Kiwi guys who made their way noisily to the back of the coach.

  We exchanged a look as they passed by us, only Lou’s look said something quite different to mine. “They seem fun,” she said brightly.

  They seem like trouble to me. My teacher senses tingled.

  Or perhaps it was being a thirty-five-year-old on an 18-35s tour that had my hackles up. What the hell was I doing? I should have booked a Trafalgar tour where I’d be the youngest person on the coach. I’d get to spend two weeks travelling across Europe with people my grandparents’ age, being fawned over and called “love” and “dear”.

  I shook the ridiculous thought from my mind. This tour was going to be a blast and by the time I got back to London, Alex would have realised his feelings were nothing more than a silly crush. Then we’d go back to being normal flatmates, who barely saw each other and squabbled over whose turn it was to take out the recycling.

  The large red numbers at the front of the coach showed 7:26am w
hen an attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair stepped on board and called out above the hubbub of chatter, “Good morning, everyone.” The whole coach quietened down immediately, which impressed me. I wondered if she’d ever been a teacher—she had that air about her.

  “I’m Georgina, your Tour Manager, and this is our driver, Tom.” Tom turned around in his seat and waved to us. We waved back like a bus full of schoolchildren on our way to an excursion. “If you do not have a British or an EU passport and haven’t checked in with me yet, come up to the front now so we can get away on time.”

  I did have a British passport—thank you, Dad, for being born a Brit—so I stayed seated as two people moved along the aisle, passports in hand. Lou answered my unasked question with, “I saw her when I got here.”

  “Oh, good. You know,” I said, changing tack, “I only just booked this tour three days ago—the last seat, apparently.” I figured if Lou was going to be my bus bestie, I might as well fill her in on why I was there.

  “Oh yeah? Me too! Well, not the last seat, obviously, and it was Monday when I booked—Monday West Coast time—so what’s that? Five days ago.”

  “Huh. We’re probably the only ones, don’t you think? Booking last minute, I mean. It hardly seems like the sort of tour most people would book on a whim.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. So, why did you?” she asked, emphasising “you”.

  “I slept with my flatmate and he’s decided he’s in love with me.”

  “Ahh. And you’re not in love with him?”

  “Correct. And you?”

  “I think I left my husband. He’s an alcoholic.”

  I had not expected that. Rendered verbally impotent, all I managed was, “Oh.” She clenched her jaw, drew her mouth into a tight line and nodded, all while blinking back tears. Instinctively, I laid a hand on her knee and she let me. Heavy stuff for first thing in the morning.

  Georgina appeared in front of us again, lifting a microphone to her mouth as the bus—sorry, coach—pulled away from the kerb. Not having to project this time, she spoke quietly into the mike with a deep, throaty voice. “Good morning, everyone.”

  Again, like schoolchildren, we replied en masse with a sing-songish, “Good morning.”