‘I just want to get home, fall into bed, and sleep for three days,’ I say, more to myself than to Cassie. I’ve changed into my pyjamas, washed off my makeup, and started packing, even though I’ll have ample time in the morning.
‘That can be arranged,’ Cassie says from her bed, where she’s also in her pyjamas and is idly scrolling on her phone. ‘You’ve certainly earned it,’ she adds.
I stop folding my clothes and watch her for signs that she’s cross with me. ‘It’s for the best,’ I say, though I sound about as convincing as a ‘real’ sighting of Nessie.
‘What is?’ she asks without looking up.
‘Turning down a collaboration with Leo.’ I continue packing. ‘It’s for the best, right?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Her tone is a like a siren’s song and I can’t resist lifting my gaze to meet hers. Right, so she is cross with me – at least a little bit. I recommence packing, taking extra care to fold and place each item into my case just so.
‘Our design aesthetics are poles apart, for one thing,’ I say. ‘Plus, his fashion house is across the Atlantic – so that would be problematic. And there’s his whole vegan leather slant – I mean, brilliant initiative, great for the environment – but where would we source cacti in the UK? And do we even want to branch out into accessories?’ I’m aware that I’m rabbiting on but it’s only when I say, ‘And, really, he’s so… so…’ that Cass interjects.
‘Elle, just stop.’
I drop a pair of trousers, unfolded, into my case, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. ‘I am so stupid, Cassie. I thought I could be professional and talk to him – designer to designer – but… I can’t believe he’s engaged.’ I barely get the words out before my throat closes – it’s as if I’ve tried to swallow a golf ball.
Cassie leaps off the bed and is over to me in a heartbeat, wrapping me up in one of her sisterly hugs.
‘It’s all right, Bean. It’s all right,’ she says. And I am so close to succumbing to a bout of tears – it would be easy to let Cass play big sis and wallow – but a little voice inside tells me that crying will just burden her further. And she’s already shouldering so much.
I ease back and stand tall, swiping under my eyes. ‘Soz.’
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ she says, watching me closely. ‘This past month has been a lot. You’ve just pulled off the biggest show of your career, with very little notice, you’ve met up with your ex for the first time in a decade, and we’re away from home—’
‘Away from home in Paris, Cass,’ I say, stepping away. ‘And it’s not even gone nine and we’re in our hotel room in our pyjamas. I mean, what the actual eff?’
She blinks at me, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hold on. What happened to being completely shattered?’
‘Who cares? It’s Paris. I can sleep on the train tomorrow. I’m only thirty-two for crying out loud. If Iris Apfel were in Paris, she’d be dolling herself up and heading out somewhere fabulous – and she’s over a hundred!’
‘Iris Apfel is in Paris. It is Fashion Week.’
‘Oh, good point.’
‘So, what did you have in mind? We did just leave the biggest party of the season.’
‘And do we really want to get all dressed up again?’
‘And there’s that,’ she says, stifling a yawn.
I pause for a moment, regarding the tiny, cramped wardrobe, as well as the clothes I’ve already packed. No, I don’t fancy getting dressed up again. But I want to do something.
‘How about this? We get dressed—’ Cassie groans. ‘No, not like that,’ I say with a grin. ‘I’m thinking no makeup, jeans and a jumper, and our sneakers, then we hit all the big landmarks and take photos for our Insta. Just us, the Bliss sisters. How does that sound?’
Cassie returns my grin. ‘That sounds brilliant.’
Ten minutes later, we strike out from the hotel, headed for the Eiffel Tower, the first landmark on our list.
‘This was an inspired idea,’ says Cass, snuggling into her quilted jacket. As it’s not quite springtime, there’s a chill in the air, but that didn’t deter us from boarding a Bateau Mouche for a night-time tour along the Seine.
It’s our last outing of the night, having ping-ponged around Paris, taking photo after photo and posting them to the Bliss Designs Insta profile with the hashtag #BlissSistersTakeParis. ‘It’ll totes go viral,’ Cass joked after we posted a photo of us with the Arc de Triomphe in the background.
It’s been fun hanging out and exploring the city, just the two of us. It’s rarely just us lately, except when we’re at home, and then we’re queueing something to watch while heating up two ready-meals for one, or leftover takeaway – hardly exciting.
‘How gorgeous is this city?’ I ask as the boat slips under Pont Alexandre III. The gilded bridge, with its proud rows of streetlamps and statues of dancing nymphs, is lit so beautifully, it’s like the entire thing is made of gold.
‘It really is extraordinary,’ Cassie agrees. ‘And I love London, but…’
‘Me too, but…’
The rest of our thoughts go unsaid, but we both know what we mean. Cass and I have long shared the belief that London is one of the world’s most beautiful cities. And despite being a born-and-bred Londoner, there are parts of the city that still take my breath away, even after all these years – especially Tower Bridge at night and Covent Garden any time of day. But Paris! It feels almost alive. And no wonder it’s called the City of Lights.
As the boat emerges from under the bridge, I look back, seeing pairs of lovers strolling arm in arm or looking out over the Seine, and my heart twangs uncomfortably. So much for sightseeing. This is a cruel – and timely – reminder that Paris isn’t just the City of Lights, it’s the City of Love.
‘You all right, Bean?’
I nod, not trusting my voice, then turn away from the lovers on the bridge and concentrate on silently naming Parisian landmarks as they come into view: the Luxor Obelisk, Musée de l’Orangerie, Musée d’Orsay, Arc de Triomphe du Carousel, the Louvre…
Bollocks. We’re back where we started and below that vast building, Leo is probably drinking champagne with his new fiancée.
Leo Jones. We’ve had two conversations in ten years – one of them fraught and tense and the other cut short – but it’s now clear that’s enough for him to invade my mind and my senses, and for dormant emotions of affection and attraction to come surging back like the swell of high tide.
I don’t want to want him. So how am I, once again, in the position of having to purge Leo Jones from my system so I can get on with my life? Even though I’ve ostensibly been looking for him for ten years, I thought my heart had given up the search a long time ago.
Apparently not.
Poppy
Two things of note happened overnight.
First, my husband sent me a photo that made me long for him even more than usual – a calico cat called Saffron, who’s available for adoption. I’ve seen one photo and I already love her. I sent a reply to Tristan first thing and we’re going to visit her at the shelter later this afternoon. And by ‘visit’ I mean ‘bring home our sweet little babykins’.
You’d never know I grew up as a dog person – and a sheep and chicken and goat person. But this farm kid has always wanted a cat and now I’m married to someone who ‘is willing to give it a go’. Oh, he is going to fall in love with Saffron, I just know it.
Second, Paloma came through! She’s hooking me up directly with Nouveau Britain and tomorrow, I’m meeting with an assistant editor. If I play my cards right (and don’t let on how desperate I am), Bliss Designs will get more than a six-inch mention in the September issue.
Elle and Cassie are both quiet on the cab ride to Gare du Nord – and throughout check-in and during the one-hour wait until departure. Cassie seems absorbed with her phone, but I’ve been around her enough to know she’s not on socials much, so I assume she’s working. And Elle, well… she seems wistful. There’s been quite a bit of sighing, some frowning, and she appears to have been reading the same page in her romcom for the past forty minutes.
I’m hoping that, even if a reunion with Leo is completely off the table, I can at least support Elle professionally – as a pseudo consolation prize. I don’t like failing as an agent and the few times it’s happened, I’ve tried to find a way to make up for it – whether the client has known about it or not.
Our train is called and we board, settling into a four-seat berth with a table between the two pairs of seats. As my travelling companions are less than chatty, I open my phone to my message thread with Nasrin and type:
What did you think?
The reply comes almost immediately:
Don’t give up your day job.
Rude! Early this morning, I sent her my notes for the Nouveau article, and they’re obviously lacking. To be fair, the last time I wrote anything like this, it was for the Australian publication, Psychology Today, and the article was about cognitive behavioural theory and neuroplasticity.
Any suggestions?
Start again? It reads like a catalogue.
Extremely rude – from anyone but Nas. When I first met Nasrin, it took a while to get used to her dry humour. I wait, knowing her next message will come shortly. It does:
Have sent it to Freya.
It’s likely Freya can turn my scribbles into something I can give to an assistant magazine editor – she was a marketing director before joining the agency.
Ta.
Nas sends her typical thumbs-up emoji in reply, and I turn off my phone and look out the window, smothering a yawn with my hand. It’s been a big week. I’m looking forward to cuddles with my husband, a long hot bath, then cuddles with Saffron, our soon-to-be cat.
‘Sorry,’ says a voice, ‘but I think you’re in my seat.’
I lift my gaze and – I cannot believe this – Leo is standing in the aisle next to me. I’ll need to think fast.
