Ren packed her suitcase and went to find Malou. She felt guilty about calling Bilel to take her to Asquith-Lewis, when Ziggy had stressed the importance of saving money, but she remembered all the steps at the entrance to the métro and she had no idea what Bilel did all day when he wasn’t ferrying her between traffic jams.
Malou agreed to meet at a bistro a few streets from the Champs-Élysées for lunch, as Ren thought it best to avoid the galleries themselves in case her grandmother or Ziggy was there.
‘Tell me everything!’ her friend demanded instead of a greeting. Ren couldn’t help wondering what Malou would have said if she’d brought her suitcase instead of leaving it in the car. ‘I am torn between relief that you’re safe and wondering if you had sex with that hot guy!’ She took her seat opposite Ren in the wooden booth with its Art Nouveau detailing.
‘He’s not a hot guy,’ Ren said defensively. ‘He’s a lovely guy.’ When Malou said nothing, she continued, ‘I need to stay with you. Is that going to be okay?’
‘Putain de bordel de merde.’
‘Why does everyone give their swear words an upgrade every time I say something?’
‘What’s happened? She didn’t disown you, did she?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would Grandmama do that?’ Although, when Malou put it like that, Ziggy’s veiled threats had felt like a step in that direction.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I was worried you told her you were going to marry this guy or something.’
‘No, Grandmama mainly got the impression that we were having a raging hot affair.’
‘I don’t want to know why she got that impression.’
‘The result is the same: I got what I wanted. I have two weeks away from the Irena Asquith-Lewis production, but I had to agree to check out of the Ritz. So, can I stay with you? They think I’m staying with him, so the expense of another hotel would be difficult to explain. I promise I won’t judge your flat. And I know how to catch the métro, now.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you about not judging, but of course you can stay with me. I’ll give you a key right now. But wait. What exactly happened yesterday afternoon?’
Ren explained as briefly as possible, leaving out the part where she’d kissed Sacha – or he’d kissed her, or goodness knows what it had been. When she came to the bit about Montmartre, she hesitated again.
‘Ren, did you… sleep with the guy?’
‘No! Well, technically, yes, but it wasn’t – it’s not – shit!’ She hid her face in her hands, but the words spilled out. ‘I really like him, okay?’
The flummoxed expression on Malou’s face was comical, but Ren groaned. If her friend looked at her like that when she admitted the truth, what would everyone else think?
‘I can’t decide if it’s great you’re discovering you’re human, too, or worrying, because you’re buying into this fake boyfriend thing a bit too much and that guy looked scary.’
‘He’s not scary.’
‘I assumed you would think so. Is he a tattoo artist or something?’
‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ she muttered to herself. ‘I have no idea. He won’t tell me what his job is. Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t pick you for the prejudiced type.’
‘Neither would I, usually, but, Ren, you may as well have a target on your forehead at the moment. He found your ring.’
‘Charlie’s ring.’
‘I mean he knows you’ve just broken up with your fiancé. He knows how rich you are. It’s a reasonable assumption that he might get something out of this, even if it’s just a few free dinners.’
Ren straightened so suddenly that she banged her head on the wood panelling behind her. ‘Ow! I think I let him pay for dinner!’
‘You think?’
‘I was… quite drunk. I mean I remember everything. I went to the loo and when I came back, we just left. I didn’t even think about it, but he must have paid. But there, that proves he’s not out to fleece me.’ Malou’s expression still looked doubtful. ‘I’m serious. He’s turned down money every time I’ve offered.’
‘You offered him money?’
‘Only when I knocked him off his bike. Seriously, he’s not the kind of person you think. He’s playing a Christmas elf at some market.’ If that wasn’t the most trustworthy thing a person could do, she didn’t know what was.
Malou coughed. ‘He didn’t look like a… Christmas elf.’
‘Well, it’s for his friend who has some kind of business in the nine-three…’
Malou choked again and Ren sighed. Everything she said seemed to make things worse, instead of putting her friend’s mind at ease. ‘The nine-three? Who are you? Renny from the block?’
‘Do I look like Renny from the block?’ Ren giggled.
‘No more than that guy looked like a Christmas elf.’
‘Sacha,’ Ren said.
‘Hmm?’
‘His name is Sacha.’
Malou eyed Ren, making her wonder what her friend had detected in her tone. ‘And my name is Malou, your best friend, and I’m warning you not to get hurt. You said it: he’s the last man in Paris you should be with.’
Ren sighed. ‘I know I said that and… you’re right. I’m not… imagining a sweeping love affair, here. Maybe I shouldn’t call him. I know it’s fake, and not just what I’m doing with Sacha. I’m faking being a normal person for two weeks too.’
‘You are a normal person,’ Malou insisted. ‘I’m sorry, Ren. If you say he’s a nice guy, then… I’ll believe you.’
‘But if you’re honest, you don’t think I’m a good judge of character?’
‘No,’ Malou said too quickly.
‘I’m a terrible judge of character. I admit it. I’ll be careful. I promise.’ Then, just because Malou hadn’t spat any of her coffee in shock for five minutes, she asked the next important question: ‘Now, tell me where you buy your clothes. If I’m going to be a normal person for two weeks, I need new threads.’
Ren had seen some fantastic things in her life: Natalia Osipova on stage with the Royal Ballet; Marcus Wareing preparing a private meal in his own kitchen; she could even look at her very own Matisse in the foyer of her apartment. But when she stepped under the steel-and-glass dome of the Galeries Lafayette, where an enormous Christmas tree dressed in red and silver baubles hung suspended, she froze in awe.
A shower of lights dangled around the Christmas tree. The galleries beneath the dome glowed gold, adorned with wrought-iron railings, curving in graceful counterpoint. The grand Art Nouveau staircase invited her to climb to the next floor with the rest of the public.
Everywhere she looked, she saw racks of beautiful clothes, piles of perfumes and the bounty of too much choice. Shoppers bustled and meandered and everything in between, as though the whole world had come to shop this afternoon. If Sacha were here with her, no one would bat an eyelid.
Ren had met the founder of the conglomerate that owned the extravagant department store at a gala, once, but she’d never stepped foot in the glorious building itself. Prêt-à-porter was not usually in her vocabulary and she’d grown accustomed to shopping in small boutiques in private, where Ziggy could control what photos emerged and Grandmama could be assured of her safety.
That afternoon, the Christmas crowds under the vaunted dome were not a source of worry. Without her photographer and assistants, with her hair in a simple ponytail and her jewellery stowed at Malou’s flat, Ren was satisfyingly anonymous. She searched out her friend’s favourite brands, ate pastries while perched on a stool and watched the light fade in the dome and the festive glow intensify.
Weighed down with bags, she waited her turn for the glasswalk on the top floor, arriving just in time to see the last of the sunlight passing through the decorative stained-glass elements in the dome. The colours were strikingly different to the glimpses she’d had of the mediaeval fragment at Asquith-Lewis. The blue was gentler, the orange less searing. There were no pictures to educate the illiterate masses about the mysteries of the church, only elegant, dynamic patterns with no function other than to please the eye.
She wondered what Sacha would have had to say about it, if he’d been there. For all she knew, he was there, now, doing his Christmas shopping, given the thread of luck – good and bad – that had run through their relationship
She decided to find out if the horseshoe was working.
Setting her shopping bags down, she leaned against the wrought-iron railing and fetched the pre-paid phone she’d bought that had luckily had enough charge to set itself up. Then she rummaged for the slip of paper she had held so often it was now wrinkled and the ink smudged. Who used fountain pens these days anyway?
She typed the +33 at the beginning of the phone number, then frowned, remembering that her own number was French, too. Deciding to delete the numbers and start again, she fumbled with the wide phone. She grabbed at it with her other hand before it could tumble over the railing and smash spectacularly on the marble tiles.
She released an enormous sigh of relief when she held the phone secure in her hands, but a flash of white caught her eye. Over the heads of the oblivious shoppers, the precious slip of paper floated downwards through the atrium, making whimsical twists and turns as the warm air from the heating system buffeted it.
Staring after it in dismay, she leaned over the railing in a desperate attempt to keep it in sight. At first, she thought it would land right on top of the Chanel make-up store, but it changed its mind and swerved to the right, sailing over Dior and disappearing by the watches. Frantically memorising the last place she saw it, she grabbed her bags and raced for the lifts.
Seeing a queue at the gates of the lift, Ren ran for the stairs. No longer interested in the beauty of the Art Nouveau curves, she focused on keeping her balance and not knocking anyone else over as she took the stairs two at a time, immensely glad she’d told four-inch heels to fuck off.
She wasted several precious seconds orienting herself when she arrived on the ground floor, but then she was retracing those last few seconds of the slip of paper’s descent. When she reached the watch stands where she’d seen it disappear, she dropped to her knees and searched, her bags hanging off her wrists like wings.
‘No!’ she muttered as the seconds ticked by and she still hadn’t found it. Something fluttered tantalisingly in the dust beneath the Seiko display. She shook off her bags and thrust her hand underneath, but could only sigh – and then sneeze – when she came away with an old receipt.
Ren was just about to roll out her new favourite word beginning with ‘F’, when a voice came from behind her. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, puis-je vous aider?’
Her face burning, she slowly got to her feet. Grandmama would be horrified by her public display. Even if she could forget that, she wasn’t sure how to explain herself to the security guard. No, thank you. I’m just looking for a piece of paper with the phone number of my fake boyfriend on it.
She cursed herself for the flair for the dramatic that had led her to hold onto the paper instead of saving it in her phone the instant she turned it on – or was it a flair for the romantic? Judging by the result, she had a flair for the idiotic.
She mumbled, ‘Non, merci,’ and forced herself to collect her shopping and walk away with dignity. Her mind was picturing breaking in at midnight to have another look. As she stepped out of the store, bleakness overwhelmed her. Despite the golden shooting stars and clusters of lights along the Boulevard Haussmann, it was the deepening of the sky that caught her attention. What was she supposed to do now?
She pulled out her phone to call Bilel to take her back to Malou’s flat, but she shook her head and opened a browser instead. But she wasn’t surprised to find that none of the ‘Sacha Mourads’ on social media were her Sacha Mourad. There was one in Paris, but he was far too young. Several were female and most of the others lived in the Middle East.
If she wanted to find him, she would have to pay someone to dig deeper, the thought of which made her nauseous. No, having him investigated was exactly what her grandmother would do.
She slumped, allowing the wash of disappointment to weigh her down like the shopping bags. It started to rain, tiny droplets glistening in the glow of the twinkling lights strung up on the grand old department store. This wasn’t supposed to be the ending. If she’d known she’d never see him again, she would have…
‘Kissed him’ wasn’t right, because she had kissed him, and it had been wonderful. She would have told him she’d meant that kiss. She might have told him all her secrets. She could imagine being that brave.
A cyclist whooshed past and she stepped back in alarm, before gazing at the retreating figure on the bicycle, wishing he was wearing a familiar fleece-lined leather jacket instead of the high-tech rain gear she saw. This was the part where some stroke of fate brought them together again. He would frown in disbelief to see her in front of him, until his frown gradually transformed into that rare smile. But Sacha didn’t appear and there was no genie acting behind the scenes. With a grimace, Ren turned to take the stairs down to the métro. She would try to do without Bilel.
