That Night In Paris Page 2

  “As you can see, we’re underway. Our drive to Dover will take around two hours, then we’ll catch the ferry to Calais—with the coach—then on to Paris. We should arrive around 5:00pm. We’ll get you situated at the campsite and then we’ll get back on the coach for the Paris night tour, which I know you’ll just love.”

  A panicked voice from the seat in front of me spoke in a not-so-subtle whisper to the woman next to her. “Campsite? She said campsite. Are we on a camping trip?” I peeked between the seats to see her frantically searching her phone, probably for the confirmation email. “Oh, my God. Is that why they made us pack sleeping bags?” she hissed. I tapped her on the shoulder. Her head swivelled and two chocolatey-brown eyes fixed on mine.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  “Hi.” Her seatmate turned around and joined the between-the-seats huddle.

  “It’s not a camping trip,” I said, hoping to reassure her with the confident tone of my whisper. She looked dubious, so I explained. “We’re staying in cabins at a campsite. We’re not camping.” I saw her visibly relax, then turn around and rest her head against the seat.

  Her seatmate introduced herself. “I’m Danielle.”

  “Hi. Cat.” I pointed to Louise, “Lou.”

  She pointed at the woman next to her, “Jaelee.” Jaelee swung her head back around and offered a relieved smile.

  Although we were being quiet, I suddenly realised that the rest of the coach was silent. When I lifted my head, I saw Georgina staring at us with a look that could turn someone to stone. Yep, definitely a former schoolteacher. I had to stop myself from saying, “Sorry, miss.”

  Jaelee and Danielle turned towards the front and Lou and I threw each other a look, then ducked behind the seats, stifling giggles. Maybe we were going to be the naughty ones, rather than the four Kiwi guys up the back.

  Georgina continued her first-day spiel. I knew all about these from Sarah, because I’d helped her perfect hers when she was touring. It took nearly the whole drive to Dover and was all about the logistics of life on the road with fifty-five people. I tuned out of a lot of it as I watched the London traffic and busy streets evolve into green hilly countryside, with pastoral scenes of sheep and cows lazily wandering around paddocks.

  When I heard, “Let’s talk about the difference between tourists and travellers …” I tuned back in. This is a philosophy the Parsons girls subscribe to—although Sarah more so than me, because she’s more intrepid and I tend to consider travel a means to finding good food and drink.

  The theory says that the traveller embraces the differences of each new location and the tourist bitches and moans about them, often incessantly. I was very much an appreciator of different places, particularly the wine, the beer, the cheese, the bread—well, you get the drift. But unlike me and my fellow travellers, tourists should just stay home and watch Netflix.

  My phone vibrated inside my bag and I retrieved it without thinking. Alex—for the third time that day. I felt a twinge of guilt, which vanished as soon as I read the text.

  I’ll miss you.

  I sighed heavily. How had he not got the message? I was leaving the country to get away from this mess—from him—so things could blow over. I put my phone away without replying.

  So, yes, I may have been a traveller, but first and foremost I was an escapee, a runaway, a fugitive from love.

  I was ridiculous.

  Ten Years Ago

  “Catey? Are you okay?”

  I want to punch that concerned look right off Scott’s face. Instead, I glare at the offending screen.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re still logged into your email.”

  “What?” He leans over my shoulder.

  “On my laptop.” I point at the email. “You’re still logged in.”

  “Oh, fuck.” I snap the lid shut and stare at the inverted Dell logo.

  “You said you ended it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I leap up, my fury making it impossible to sit. “Bullshit. Why—why—would I have agreed to this stupid trip if I knew you’d just rush home to her afterwards?”

  “I …”

  “‘I hate being here with Catey,’” I sing-songed. “Do you? Do you really, Scott?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Wow. That’s … you said you loved me—yesterday. Yesterday you said that. Was it a lie?”

  “No. Yes. I—”

  “Which is it, Scott? Oh, my God.” My hand flies to my mouth. “Do you love her?”

  “I … yes.”

  “But … but why did you say you love me, then?”

  “Because I do.”

  “That doesn’t make any frigging sense! You can’t love both of us.”

  “I know! But I do, and I’m all fucked up.”

  “Oh, poor you. Poor Scott!”

  I collapse on the end of the bed, the weight of his revelation sucking me down.

  “You did this, you know,” he says quietly.

  My head snaps up. “What?! It’s my fault? You stuck your dick into someone else, and you’re blaming me?”

  “That’s crass, Catey. And you left! You did. You moved to London without me.”

  “For a year! Just a year—and I asked you to come with me.”

  “I came.”

  “Not to stay.”

  “I never wanted to live in London. That was your thing. There’s nothing for me in London.”

  “There’s me.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Catey, and you know it.”

  “Well, what do you mean, Scott?”

  “You have your sister, your friends, but …”

  I can no longer look at his contorted face; I don’t want to feel any empathy towards him. “I stupidly hoped you’d want to come with me, but when you said you didn’t want to, I thought we’d be all right, that we could make it work. It was just a year, Scott.”

  “We should have broken up in Sydney.”

  I lift my eyes to his. “What? No, don’t say that.”

  “We should have. We want totally different things.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “Jesus! I came to see you. I can’t win! For fuck’s sake, I came!”

  “Yes, yes, you did, even though you screwed someone else the moment I left and now you supposedly love her.”

  “I hate this.” He’s on the verge of tears and all I can think is, good.

  “We shouldn’t have come here. I can’t believe you talked me into this frigging trip after everything that happened,” I say, almost spitting the words.

  “We’ve had some good times.” What?

  “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s been the week from hell, Scott. I never know from one day to the next who I’m going to wake up next to—whether you’re going to love me that day or not. And apparently you have been miserable the whole frigging time.”

  “Catey …”

  “What?” I snap.

  “Can I come sit by you?” I concentrate on the pattern of the tiled floor, the fight ebbing out of me.

  “Fine.”

  “Catey, I am so sorry. I know I hurt you. I don’t know what to do. I am so confused. I do love you.”

  “No—”

  “I do! I’m … I’m really messed up.”

  “Wonderful.” The sarcasm feels good on my tongue.

  “No, it’s horrible. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought you’d have your year away and I’d come to visit, then you’d come home, and we’d be together. And then when I met Helen …”

  “Do not say her name to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought …”

  “No! Don’t talk about her.” I rise from the bed and take my suitcase out of the tall wooden wardrobe, plonk it on the bed and start flinging my clothes in, not caring that I’m mixing dirty and clean clothes together. I even don’t bother folding them.

  “Wait
, what are you doing?”

  “Packing,” I answer as though it’s not completely obvious.

  “You don’t have to do that. We still have a week left. What about Italy?”

  “You can’t possibly think I can stay.”

  “Why not? Everything’s paid for.”

  “Scott, you sent a love letter to another woman.” I let the statement hang in the air, pinning him with a scrutinising stare. There’s a moment of stillness before he speaks.

  “Yes.” It’s almost a whisper.

  “But you want to keep going on our trip?” He can’t possibly mean it.

  “I know it sounds crazy—”

  “Um, yes. It does.”

  “But I do love you. And I know how important this trip is to you. I don’t want you to miss out.”

  “Because if I do, it will be your fault.” I realise the truth of it as the words come out of my mouth. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re in frigging Paris.”

  “No, that’s—”

  I cut him off, unwilling to hear another word. “You need to come with me to the train station. I have to change my ticket and it’s on your credit card.” I go into the bathroom to retrieve my toiletries.

  “Catey Cat, please—”

  “Don’t,” I shout from the bathroom. I return to the room, the fury rising. “Don’t call me that—ever again.”

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I can’t stay, Scott. How do you not get that?” My tone rises with incredulity. I stuff the toiletries bag into my case.

  “Please!”

  I stop and turn and watch him with a detached fascination. I’m stunned by his tears and I can’t decide if he’s heartbroken or just feeling sorry for himself.

  I don’t care.

  “You know what? You don’t get to be upset,” I reply, oddly calm. “I’m not interested in how awful you feel.”

  His face hardens in an instant and I have my answer—crocodile tears. “Fine.” He shoves his feet into his shoes.

  “Yes, exactly—fine.” I zip up the suitcase and scan the room with my eyes. If I forget anything, I’ll never see it again. Because I’ll never see him again.

  “Let’s go, then,” he mumbles as he opens the door.

  I lift the suitcase from the bed and follow him, now numb.

  Chapter 2

  “Well, that’s not a cabin,” said Jaelee.

  The four of us stood facing a row of wooden structures at the Paris campsite. Jaelee dropped her case to the ground with a thud, and I waited for a foot stamp that didn’t come. I was still deciding about her. Danielle’s face scrunched up like she smelled something bad. I was still deciding about her too.

  Bus bestie Lou shrugged her shoulders and forged ahead, boldly stepping inside the cabin assigned to us. She promptly came back out again.

  “I don’t think we’re going to fit,” she said, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. Danielle’s grimace intensified and Jaelee stayed rooted to the spot, scowling.

  I leant in and surveyed the entire cabin in approximately half a second.

  Jaelee was right—these were decidedly not cabins. I’d seen cabins before. I’d even slept in a few—mountain cabins, lakeside cabins. Cabins were cosy and had fireplaces and handmade quilts to snuggle up with. Sometimes, they had dead animal heads hanging on the walls (as opposed to live ones). Cabins had room for people to gather in, to sit on overstuffed furniture and drink mulled wine and hot chocolate, or even do tequila shots.

  What we were looking at was the opposite of a cabin. It was essentially a gardening shed with bunks—bunks with plastic-covered mattresses. In case we wet the bed? I wondered.

  I straightened up and turned to Lou. “Where are we supposed to put our cases?”

  “Pretty sure we leave them outside when we go to bed.” We grinned at each other. My affection for her was growing with each minute, our wromance well underway. She pulled Danielle into a side hug, cajoling her with, “Hey, neighbour—” an eye roll in response “—it’s not that bad. And it’s only for two nights.”

  “This isn’t even Paris,” Jaelee scoffed, holding up her phone for the rest of us to see. “We’re miles out of Paris.” Jaelee—possibly Danielle too—was most definitely a tourist. I kicked into teacher mode, easy for me since I’d been in the classroom the day before.

  “Right, you two, that’s your cabin. Take your cases inside, freshen up, change clothes if you like, and meet us out here in ten.” Their eyes widened, then they did as they were told. Yes, there were grumblings I could only just make out, but I’d heard far worse from the mouths of teenagers.

  Lou murmured, “Nice work,” as we entered our cabin, swung our cases onto our respective beds and sat down. Our knees didn’t quite touch.

  “So, we’re definitely going to be friends with them, right?” she asked quietly. I pursed my lips, trying not to laugh. “I mean, I’m just checking, ’cause I don’t think they’re gonna be easy.”

  Giggles exploded out of me and I grabbed the pillow off my bed to cover my mouth. Lou did the same and we laughed long and hard. Hopefully, they didn’t hear us—they were right next door.

  Half an hour later, the whole tour group gathered outside what I had dubbed “the circus tent”, a giant yellow and white striped tent where we’d eat dinner that night and both Parisian breakfasts. My dreams of café au lait and pain au chocolat had vanished. I seriously doubted there was an espresso machine in there—clowns and a trapeze, more likely.

  Ventureseek reps sped amongst us with stacks of plastic cups pouring scant measures of what was likely cheap bubbles. I took one from an Aussie girl and gave her a smile. It wasn’t her fault my mattress had a plastic cover.

  Cup in hand, I turned to my three new friends—Lou and I had decided to keep the other two after all. “A toast—to new friends and to Paris’s finest garden sheds.”

  To their credit, even Danielle and Jaelee smiled at that, tapping their cups against mine and Lou’s. I took a sip and grimaced—make that extremely cheap bubbles. Traveller, traveller, traveller.

  “What do you think they’re going to serve us for dinner?” asked Danielle.

  A sardonic look passed over Jaelee’s face as she murmured, “From the look of the place, hotdogs and tater tots.” Her American accent hit the “r” hard.

  “Summer camp?” I asked.

  “Ages seven to sixteen.”

  “Is it like in the movies?”

  “Exactly.” She proffered a snarky smile and I thought how nice it was being eye to eye with someone. As a shortish woman—five-foot-one-and-three-quarters—I look up to most people. I mean this literally, not figuratively. It is my experience that most people suck.

  Danielle pestered one of the reps for more bubbles, so we each got a top-up. I was glad we’d decided to keep her.

  “So, Dani …” She cocked her head at me, a furrow between her brows. “Sorry, I probably sound English, but I’m actually Australian and it’s a bit of an Aussie habit, shortening names.” I pointed around our quartet. “Jae, Lou, Cat …”

  She appeared to be considering whether she wanted to spend the rest of the tour being called “Dani”. From her expression, she didn’t. “So, ‘Danielle’, then?”

  “Actually, I don’t mind it. You can call me Dani.”

  I was surprised, but pleased. “So, Dani. You’re travelling alone too?”

  “Yes,” she said pointedly. “My best friend, Nathalie—well, we were supposed to be on this trip together, but she eloped instead.”

  Three pairs of wide eyes stared at her, unblinking.

  “She got married?” asked Jaelee.

  “Yeah, well, not yet. Tomorrow, actually. In Mexico. I … I wasn’t invited.” I thought leaving an alcoholic husband was having a hard time. Well, it was, but so was this. Dani chewed on the rim of her cup.

  “Well, that sucks. I’m sorry, Dani.” I could already tell that Lou was a terrific commiserator.

  “Okay
. We’re clearly going to be a foursome, so let’s get the preliminaries out of the way.” Jaelee took charge. Pointing to Dani she said, “Crappy best friend.” Dani seemed to take the label in her stride and sipped her bubbles.

  Then to Lou, “You. Go.”

  “Alcoholic husband, probably separating, taking some time by myself—to decide, so, yeah …” We all nodded solemnly.

  “Now you.” Jaelee pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me.

  “Well, it’s nothing like any—”

  “No rationalising. Just go.”

  “Apparently my flatmate’s in love with me, but I don’t feel the same way and I’m on the run.”

  She nodded with approval. “Good.” Good? “So, me …” She paused—for effect, I was sure.

  “The love of my life just married someone else.”

  Frigging hell. Somehow, I’d managed to gravitate towards three women who’d had the shittiest of shitty things happen to them, and there I was, just a lowly love fugitive.

  Still, any lingering doubts about booking the tour on a whim had vanished. As I drained the last of my cheap bubbles, I took a moment to appreciate my new gal pals. We’d have the next two weeks together, and no doubt we’d spend a good chunk of the time talking about all the shit going down.

  In the absence of Sarah, I’d hit the jackpot.

  ***

  “And if you look to the right …”

  There was a collective gasp as fifty-three people got their first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower from the Champ de Mars, silhouetted against a darkening orange and pink sky.

  Georgina was right—I was loving the Paris night tour.

  I’d been to Paris before—lots of times. It was the sort of place I could get to for next to nothing and it had been the destination for several last-minute girls’ weekends away. Discounted flights on easyJet—carry-on only—then staying in a cheap hotel or an Airbnb in one of the not-so-nice parts of the city, sharing a bedroom and sometimes even a bed.

  My London-based bestie, Mich, taught at the same school as me and was my usual partner in crime—or enabler, whichever one corresponds with me spending an indecent amount of my disposable income on last-minute travel.