She was a lot less sure when the car pulled up on a narrow street with squat garages on one side, next to a driveway blocked off with a flimsy wooden gate stencilled with the words ‘Auto Reparation’. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see Parisian tumbleweeds blow past.
Sacha jumped out and knocked on the roller door of one of the garages, near a haphazard depiction of wonky male genitalia – the favourite motif of the most unimaginative graffiti artists.
Bilel got out to help unload Sacha’s things. Ren opened her door and ventured one Chanel boot onto the asphalt, but Bilel appeared immediately, shaking his head.
‘There is no need to get out of the car. Please. It’s not safe for you.’
Ren frowned, watching Sacha greet another man with a back-slapping hug. It was safe enough for Sacha, but then Sacha had a sleeve of tattoos and the look of someone who had lived close to the edge – at least, closer than Ren. She didn’t even know where the edge was.
She peered out at the shadows and harsh light. She was a long way from the Place Vendôme, with its enormous Christmas trees and twinkling garlands illuminating the stately baroque square. If this were London, she wouldn’t risk setting foot outside the car.
But in Paris, her curiosity got the better of her fear, and surely she’d already had her portion of bad luck for the day.
‘I’m sure it’s all right,’ she insisted, and stepped out of the car.
Sacha was unloading the boxes with his good arm while holding an animated conversation in French with an older Black man. Was he the friend who would play Father Christmas? His white beard certainly fit the part. She picked up a box to help, but nearly dropped it again in surprise. What was in there? Iron ingots?
‘Bonsoir,’ she said tentatively as Sacha’s friend approached to greet her, walking with a limp. He wore a leg brace.
‘Bonsoir, madame,’ he replied with a smile.
‘I’m the one who hit him and wrecked his bike,’ she explained, juggling the heavy box and holding out her hand. ‘Ren.’
‘Joseph,’ he responded warmly. ‘Welcome to our magical workshop.’
Like Santa’s workshop? She stepped over the threshold with interest. Inside, it looked less like a workshop and more like the place where furniture went to die. Bits of wood and metal were strewn haphazardly on a work bench. Cabinet doors stood in a row to one side, some missing panels.
Sacha tried to take the box from her. ‘It’s too heavy,’ she said, holding tight, but the tug was enough for the box to tear. He lurched to catch the underside with his good hand and they were locked awkwardly together, arms intwined around the box and faces suddenly close. She could have stared into his eyes for a lot longer than the few seconds it lasted before the box breathed its last and gave up its contents to the floor with loud metallic clanging. Sacha sprang back with a groan as something landed on his foot.
Joseph stepped forward to help, but Sacha raised his hand forcefully and said something in harsh French that nonetheless made the older man smile. Ren dropped to her haunches to help Sacha, and her hand closed around a rustic piece of blackened metal.
‘A horseshoe,’ she said in surprise. ‘Why do you have a box of old horseshoes?’
‘Joseph can never refuse a load of rubbish from a farm.’
‘For l’upcycling!’ Joseph explained. ‘These will become useful and beautiful objects for the home. And a charming gift for this time of year, no? For the good the luck.’ She shared an amused glance with Sacha. ‘We are celebrating the season of the fêtes next weekend at the market. It is bad timing that my knee surrendered and Sacha must be my helper.’
‘If there’s another way to get you to rest, let me know,’ Sacha grumbled.
‘I thought he was going to be your elf,’ Ren said with a smile.
Joseph clapped his hands and grinned. ‘That is exactly right. That is why I prepared him a costume and made him grow that poor excuse for a beard.’
They dumped the pile of horseshoes onto the bench and Bilel stacked the last box next to them.
‘We should go, mademoiselle.’
Ren knew it must be late by now and a wary glance confirmed the night was very dark. She took a step in the direction of the street, annoyed that the familiar stab of panic returned at the prospect of a few steps back to the car.
‘Attendez! Just a minute.’ She turned back far too eagerly at the sound of Sacha’s voice. ‘Perhaps you need this.’ He pressed a horseshoe into her hand.
The metal was cool, heavy and a little rusty. She hated to think of how dirty it was making her hand and then she noticed another problem too late.
She hurriedly righted the horseshoe in her hand, the open end facing up. ‘Phew,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘It was upside down,’ she explained.
‘Hmm?’
‘That’s not bad luck in France?’
‘A horseshoe always has good luck,’ he assured her.
‘I hope you’re right. It is a French horseshoe, after all.’
‘Perhaps it will bring you luck only in France.’
Then maybe I shouldn’t leave… He stepped closer and gestured her forward with his good arm.
‘Oh!’ she said with a start, clutching the soft leather of his coat before shrugging out of it. She handed it to him with mumbled thanks. ‘Make sure you look after your shoulder.’
‘I will. Don’t get cold!’ he said gesturing to the car. ‘And don’t worry about me.’
Something in his tone made her think he said that a lot. She wondered if he had family – and, belatedly, a wife or girlfriend, and it was concerning how suddenly she was jealous of someone who was hypothetical. Perhaps she should get back – to the Ritz, to normal life. She hadn’t been mugged, but crossing the Paris périphérique appeared to have stolen her good sense.
‘I’m so sorry – again.’
‘C’est oublié,’ he responded. That much she understood: it’s forgotten. She hoped she never forgot anything about tonight, even the bad luck.
Sacha stood near enough that she could take a single step and press her mouth to his. His kind eyes would close and they would exchange the softest kisses, eager and… imaginary. The best she could do was gather her courage and press her lips to his cheek.
‘Thanks for the margarita,’ she said.
His expression turned serious, with that now-familiar furrow, and he dipped his head to look her in the eye. He gestured to her left hand. ‘C’est vrai, you are too good for him. You know that?’
She nodded, once. ‘C’est vrai.’ That’s right. One day, she might believe it.
Sacha draped his coat around himself and watched her go. His shoulder ached in the cold, but he wouldn’t go inside until the black Mercedes pulled away.
You should have kissed her… He didn’t kiss women he’d just met, but the inner voice was insistent, as though there was something about her he should have understood, like the first reading of a poem where the meaning was little more than a half-formed impression.
But what difference would a kiss have made?
Every difference.
Apparently, these were the strange thoughts one had after being knocked off one’s bike by a woman who insisted on removing her valuable engagement ring in public and thought a margarita cost fifty Euros. She didn’t know how to pay at a bar and he didn’t know how to get into a Mercedes with a private driver. Fate had put him in her path as a twisted social experiment. She didn’t even realise the extent to which the world considered them unequal.
The headlights of the Mercedes blinked on and he lifted a hand in farewell. He should go in, but his feet wouldn’t take him. Instead he stood there, squinting in the harsh light that picked up the droplets of rain, and stared after her.
At the last moment, just before the car accelerated into the night, she pressed her face to the glass and his heart thumped wildly. It was nothing. The whole evening had been nothing. But she’d looked back and that was enough to suggest possibilities, a chance for… something.
He exhaled slowly and turned away and Joseph looked at him strangely when he came back inside. But instead of volunteering any further information, Sacha started stacking the boxes.
‘I hope I’ll be better by Sunday at least,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got Raphaël this weekend, so he can help, but we don’t have much time.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Joseph assured him. ‘Whatever we have, we sell. I dare say you spent your evening in a more pleasant way than with this old man and a soldering iron. I only regret not getting out the mistletoe.’
Sacha scowled at him. ‘I’m never going to see her again.’
‘Jamais, c’est long! Who knows, Sacha? Who knows?’ He pulled out a Middle Eastern coffee pot and set it on the bench, inspecting it in the light. ‘This polished up well. Did you give it a rub, too? Make some wishes?’
Sacha resisted rolling his eyes – and he definitely resisted thinking about wishes. ‘It’s not a lamp. I’m only sorry I was so late.’
‘It’s all right. We’ll get started on the horseshoes tomorrow. For now, let me take you home,’ Joseph offered.
‘I’ll drive you back to Saint-Denis and make my own way home.’
‘The doctor has cleared me for driving,’ Joseph said indignantly.
‘Only yesterday! I’m not going to let you take me home when you could be resting. Now go and get into the passenger seat.’
‘I allow you to be my lutin de Noël, my “elf” as she called it, and the power goes to your head.’
Sacha kept his reply to a grumpy snort. At least he had far too much on his plate to continue thinking about beautiful eyes and a bright smile. He tugged on his coat, cursing the sling.
‘What’s that?’ Joseph asked, squinting at him. Something was catching the light on his pullover. He brushed his hand over the hem, dislodging the object, and it fell to the floor with a tinkle.
There on the concrete, the enormous diamond winking in the light, was Ren’s engagement ring.
