That Night In Paris Read online

  I made short work of paying the bill—a ridiculously small amount for the incredible meal we’d had—and we soon stood outside, the cooling night air giving me goosebumps. I slipped on my jacket, but still felt the chill.

  He must have noticed. “Here.” He put his arm around me and pulled me close. The warmth of his body was welcome but also massively distracting. My lady parts had no way of knowing this was chivalry and not seduction.

  I tried to send a signal to them, but they ignored me. “So, we meet the bus near Castel Sant’Angelo, non?” he asked. He was so good at remembering details—probably why he was so successful as a journalist.

  “Oui,” I replied.

  “This way.” We walked slowly, our heights making the whole “arm wrapped around me” thing a little awkward, but I didn’t want him to let me go.

  When we arrived at the pick-up point, there were a few people from the tour group already there, but none that I knew very well, so I just smiled my hellos. We were ten minutes early, and part of me wanted Jean-Luc to leave right away, so we could say goodbye without a huge audience. Another part wanted him to stay as long as possible.

  I looked across the nearest bridge spanning the Tiber and saw Georgina leading a large group of people towards us. Bollocks. They’d be at the pick-up point in moments.

  “Hey, you guys!” called a cheery voice behind us. Lou. We turned around to greet her, Dani, Jaelee, Craig and Jason. Lou made introductions between the men, who all shooks hands, then gave Jean-Luc a hug he clearly didn’t expect. He returned it good-naturedly.

  “How was your night?” she asked looking back and forth between us.

  “Lovely. We, uh, explored a little. There are definitely some places we need to go back to tomorrow. Oh, and we had the most amazing dinner.” I had a thought and turned to Jean-Luc. “Do you think Anna would mind if I took the girls there for dinner tomorrow night?”

  I heard, “Hey!” from Craig. Oops, I’d forgotten Craig.

  “And Craig.”

  “And me.”

  “And Jason.”

  Jean-Luc laughed. “I think she would be very happy to see you again and to cook for everyone.”

  “She will miss you, though.”

  “Yes, but I think you are, how do you say, a good substitute.”

  “High praise.” I smiled up at him, forgetting we had an audience of five. When I realised, I was met with a collection of amused faces. I bit my bottom lip. “Uh,” I said to Jean-Luc, “come with me.” I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him away from the group. I was fairly certain I heard a disappointed, “Aww,” from Dani.

  When we were far enough away from my friends, I stopped and faced him. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I was hit with a rush of sadness and regret.

  How had I ever cut ties with this person, the boy who had become this wonderful, funny, beautiful man? I was such an idiot. And now I had to say goodbye to him not knowing when I would see him again—if I would see him again. Would we end up like those acquaintances you run into at the shops? Oh, we must catch up soon. Oh, I’d love that. Give me a call.

  Regret was fast turning into panic. “I really do want to make sure we see each other again.”

  “Good,” he replied. “So do I.”

  “Are you … do you … are you coming to London any time soon, for work?”

  “Nothing planned at the moment, but I can let you know.”

  “Right.” I bit the lip again. “So …”

  “This is terrible, yes?”

  “It’s the worst.”

  Jean-Luc threw a look over his shoulder at my friends. When I looked, I saw that Georgina and the large group had arrived, but Tom and the coach hadn’t—another moment or two to drag out this excruciating goodbye.

  “This may surprise you,” he said, turning back to me. “But I was hoping to kiss you.”

  It did surprise me, but it was also thrilling. I’d wanted to kiss him—badly—since the moment we saw him on the street in Paris, before I even knew who he was. And standing there in Rome, after the night we’d had together, I didn’t care that it was probably a terrible idea.

  “You should.” I peered up at him. “You should definitely kiss me.”

  His eyes lit up and a soft smile alighted on his face. His hands—his large, strong, warm hands—found my waist and snaked around to the small of my back, pulling me closer to him. I stretched onto my tiptoes and lifted my face to meet his.

  He tilted his head and his hair fell across one eye as our lips met. His were firm and warm as they moved against mine, tentatively at first, then with an ardour I knew I would remember all my days. I felt a flick of his tongue against mine, and his arms tightened as he held me close against him. My feet lifted off the ground for an instant—just long enough for me to feel like a beloved little being.

  The sophomoric chorus of “Ooh”s receded into the background, and when my feet were back on the ground and we slowly pulled apart, I was a little breathless. I looked up into those incredible green eyes.

  So was he—breathless.

  “I have waited twenty years to do that.”

  I stared at him wide-eyed.

  “It was worth it, the wait,” he concluded. I broke into a huge grin and he did the same. “I will call you. We will make plans.” All doubts that we’d see each other again dissipated into the cool Roman air.

  “Sounds good.”

  I heard the coach pull up and people started to file on, the bright lights from inside spilling onto the footpath.

  Jean-Luc grasped both my hands and I turned back towards him. He leant down and kissed one cheek, then the other, then softly pressed his lips to my forehead. “Goodbye, ma chérie.”

  Oh! So that’s what forehead kisses meant!

  “Bye!” I stood on tiptoes again and planted a big smack on his lips, then skipped off to the coach. I was the last to board and as I passed a scowling Georgina I said, “Buona notte, Georgina.” I saw confusion register on her face as I stepped onto the coach.

  But I didn’t give a flying fig about Georg-bloody-ina. I’d got my first wish.

  ***

  Early the next morning, the whole tour group was up, dressed, breakfasted, and on the coach by 6:00am—because when you’re going to the Vatican in a large group, you need to be in line by 6:45am to meet your guide and get your tickets.

  When Tom pulled the coach to a stop, close to the Vatican’s entrance, we hustled out and lined up on the footpath like schoolchildren. Georgina seemed pleased with how well we executed this manoeuvre, but really, she’d explained it in such excruciating detail on the ride into the city, we were hardly going to mess it up.

  Gabriella, our guide from the day before, approached us, seemingly unhurried but bustling with efficiency. “Buongiorno!” she said cheerily. It was a vast contrast to how she’d greeted us the day before. Perhaps she was a morning person. Only half of us replied; the others were probably still half-asleep.

  I was usually a morning person, but the late nights of the tour were taking their toll. I hadn’t once woken up without the help of an alarm, something I rarely used in the real world. I stifled a yawn so I didn’t insult her.

  I saw Gabriella hand a thick packet to Georgina, who handed back an envelope stuffed with the euros we’d given her on the ride into the city. Georgina walked the line and handed us our tickets.

  “Everyone, this is a very busy time here at the Vatican and you are a large group,” said Gabriella. “I will need you to be close to me and to each other. Unfortunately, there is not a lot of time to explore yourselfs.”

  I noticed the incorrect word, but really, English is so stupid sometimes. “Yourselfs” should be grammatically correct. “Now, the Sistine Chapel. It is small and crowded, so please stay as a group, sì?” I nodded, even though she probably couldn’t see me. Being a teacher meant that certain behaviours were indoctrinated. When someone gave you a set of instructions, you affirmed you had heard and understo
od them—at least that’s what I tried to drum into my pupils.

  We entered the Vatican at 7:45am and by 10:00am, we were wandering around Saint Peter’s Cathedral with a free pass to do as we liked for the rest of the day. Lou and I had decided on a day of sightseeing, which Jaelee allowed on the proviso that we’d meet her and Dani mid-afternoon for shopping, then prosecco.

  I wasn’t sure if I was up for the shopping part, but we were halfway through the tour and I thought it would be nice to spend some time together, just the four of us. I’d given Jason and Craig the restaurant’s address, so they could meet us there at seven.

  It was going to be a huge day.

  I loved the Sistine Chapel, by the way. We only got to spend about ten minutes there, and it was a lot smaller than I’d imagined, but that ceiling. Unlike the Mona Lisa, it was not over-hyped; it was breathtaking.

  And the whole time we were there, as I drank in as much detail as I could, I couldn’t get it out of my head that it had been painted without the ability to step back and make sure the perspective was right. He’d painted it on his back. He’d just known how to make it seem like the figures were three-dimensional, reaching for us mere mortals on the floor. Incredible.

  Vatican

  Sistine Chapel

  Saint Peter’s

  ***

  “I have wanted to do this forever!” Lou was so excited about the Trevi Fountain, it was infectious. She had her three coins at the ready—all one-euro coins—she refused to scrimp. She turned away from the fountain and, like I’d done the day before, closed her eyes and tossed them one at a time into the fountain. Three coins, three wishes.

  She opened her eyes and grinned at me, her shoulders rising in excitement. “We need a selfie. Come stand here.” She pulled me into position and swivelled her phone’s camera to take the shot. “Awesome,” she said, then pocketed her phone.

  I had a sudden realisation. “Oh no, Lou. I didn’t get a photo with Jean-Luc last night! Oh, how stupid.” I tapped on my forehead with my palm.

  “Is now a good time to tell you I have two photos of you together?”

  “You what?” I was getting jostled by the swelling crowd of people. Lunchtime at the Trevi Fountain was obviously a popular time.

  “Let’s get out of here and I’ll show you.”

  I trailed Lou through the hordes into a side street where it was more subdued. She leant on a wall and scrolled on her phone. “Here.”

  She handed it to me and there was a grainy photo of Jean-Luc and me from the night before, kissing. “Huh. Well, that’s not pervy at all.” I gave her a “please explain yourself” look.

  “Okay, it’s weird, I know. But that’s your first kiss. And when I send it to you, you’ll have a photo of your first kiss!”

  It may have been misguided, but she was right. “Well, that’s true. Uh, thank you, I guess. And there’s another one?”

  “Yes.” She took her phone and scrolled some more, then turned back it towards me. “This one.” It was Jean-Luc and me in the Irish pub. We were seated at the table alone, so it was after I’d had my swooning episode, and we were smiling at each other. It was lovely.

  “Oh, Lou.” I blinked back tears that came from nowhere. “Oh, thank you. I—wow. Thank you.”

  She took her phone back, tapped on it a few times, and my phone beeped. “I’ve sent it to you. I would have given it to you before, but I didn’t want you to think I’d been all stalkerish and I thought you’d probably get some photos last night. It was just back-up.”

  I hugged her, tight and quick. “You are the best. Right, now. I want to show you the Pantheon—you’re going to love it—and this incredible fountain—a different one. Then we can look at what else is on our list, all right?” I got my bearings. “The Pantheon’s this way,” I said, taking the lead.

  Lou loved the Pantheon and I loved seeing it again. We stayed longer than Jean-Luc and I had, reverently talking in low voices as we stood in front of every statue and pointed out details to each other. She also loved Piazza Navona and we decided to stop there for lunch before we made our way to the Spanish Steps.

  With so many choices for lunch, we chose the closest restaurant and sat side by side, looking out over the busy piazza. We knew we’d overpay for lunch, simply because of the location, but we didn’t care. It was noon on a bright sunny day in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. We could spring for a pricey plate of pasta.

  A waiter approached and brought us two menus in English. Was it that obvious? I’ve sometimes been told I look Italian—also Greek, even Lebanese—but, clearly, to the practised eye of Giancarlo, not so much.

  “Only a couple of days left in Italy. I’m having pasta,” said Lou.

  “Mmm. I know what’s in store for dinner. I’m going with the Caprese salad.”

  “Oh, should I have something light? Breakfast was, like, ages ago. I’m kinda starving.”

  “True.” Breakfast had been at 5:30am and it was only sweet rolls. My stomach gurgled and I looked at the time. We wouldn’t be eating dinner for nearly seven hours. To hell with it. I was having pasta too. When Giancarlo came back, I ordered the Napolitana and Lou ordered the Carbonara. I added still water and a carafe of white wine to the order—in Italian. Bad Italian, but Giancarlo didn’t laugh at me or even wince, so I did all right.

  “I want to know everything,” said Lou. We’d been on the go for hours and this was our first chance to properly talk. I waited as our waiter put bread and oil on the table, then poured our water and wine before he disappeared. Italian waiters were so efficient.

  “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Start with what you wished for,” she said, a cheeky grin on her face. “Was it to marry Jean-Luc and have his beautiful babies?”

  “What’s with everyone asking about the damned wishes? And no, I didn’t wish for that. What did you wish for?” I retorted.

  “Nope. You first. I didn’t spend last night with a hot French guy.”

  It wasn’t like telling Lou my wishes would make them not come true. But still, there were more interesting things to tell. I started with us meeting up and pointed to where Jean-Luc had been standing when I’d first seen him. She nodded as though she could visualise it. I also told her about how I’d nearly cried at the wine bar—and why—then about the meal at Anna’s, and finally Jean-Luc’s confession.

  “I can’t believe we get to go there tonight. It sounds amazing.”

  Somehow, she’d managed to ignore the massive reveal about Jean-Luc being in love with me twenty years ago. I tried to temper my annoyance. “It is. I’m sure you’ll love it, but what about what he said? About love?”

  “Mmm. Yeah, that’s huge.”

  I stared at her. “Yes, I know, Lou.”

  “I’m not being very helpful.”

  “No.”

  Our pasta arrived. Giancarlo held up a wedge of parmesan with a questioning look on his face. I nodded and so did Lou. He grated a smattering over my plate and I wished I knew the Italian for, “just leave the wedge.” There was never enough parmesan. Like all other cheese, I love the stuff.

  “So, you really had no idea? About the love part?” Lou loaded up a fork with Carbonara.

  “Nope. I keep replaying memories in my head, but in each one we’re just besties, like you and me. You’re not secretly in love with me, are you?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. After a sip of wine, she said, “Hey, that’s good.” I tried a sip. She was right. “Nope, not in love with you. But be assured, if I was going to fall in love with a woman, I’d consider you a catch.”

  “Aww, Lou, thanks.”

  “You are! Anyway, memories …” she prompted.

  “Oh yes. Well, he left Australia when we were fifteen and I can’t wrap my brain around how a boy that age knows he’s in love. I didn’t know anything back then—anything. Sometimes I still feel like I don’t.”

  “And has your mum sent the letter yet?”

  “No.
I guess scanning a letter is more challenging than Mum’s usual foray into technology. She can’t even figure out how to watch Netflix without my dad’s help. I should have called him instead.”

  Lou laughed. “My dad’s the same. He’s always calling to ask me why his TV screen’s gone blank. But my eighty-year-old grandmother, she’s on Twitter.”

  “Hah! You’ll have to show me so I can follow her. What does she tweet about?”

  “Mostly she tweets photos of her daily martini and selfies from when she goes to the Y.”

  “The gym?”

  “Yep?”

  “Your eighty-year-old grandma goes to the gym?”

  “Three times a week.”

  “Oh, my God. I want to be like that when I’m eighty. Oh, speaking of fabulous older women, I forgot to tell you, Jean-Luc and I saw Isabella Rossellini yesterday. On the street. She even smiled at me.” I couldn’t believe it, but Lou clearly had no idea who Isabella Rossellini was. “You don’t know who she is, do you?”

  She grimaced apologetically. “Should I?”

  “Um, yes. You should. She’s uber famous, and she’s in her sixties and she’s still breathtakingly beautiful.” Nothing I was saying was ringing a bell for Lou. “At least tell me you don’t know the names of all the Kardashians.”

  “Oh goodness, no. They’re heinous.”

  “We can still be friends then. Oh, and she was one of my wishes. Well, not her, but I wished that when I’m in my sixties, I’ll look as good as she does.”

  “Oh, good wish! And you probably will. You’ve got great skin.”

  “Thank you, and maybe if I adopt your grandma’s lifestyle—daily cocktails and trips to the Y—it will come true. I think she may be my guru.”

  “Isabelle Rossa-whatsit?”

  “It’s not—never mind. I meant your grandma.”

  “Oh, yeah. Nana’s great.”

  “When I said that to Jean-Luc, about looking good in my sixties, he said he was sure I would.”