More notably, I was in Paris with Jean-Luc.
Our route took us past the Opera House, which I’d seen on Georgina’s tour the night before, but could never tire of. It was a stunning building—especially at night. It looked a bit like someone had dipped a carousel in gold—only without the horses. I hummed the title song from Lloyd Webber’s Phantom as we flew by.
We wound our way through the ninth arrondissement, climbing higher, and I guessed we were heading towards Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre. It would be my first time seeing it up close, but I wouldn’t admit that to Jean-Luc. He didn’t need to know I was a travelling neophyte.
As we rode, I pressed myself against him and took his lead to lean into the corners. The few times we had to stop and wait for traffic, I loosened my grip on his waist, not wanting to appear too eager to lay my hands on him—although I was.
My mind scrolled back through dozens, hundreds of memories, while my lady parts champed at the bit. He was the most spectacular man I’d had between my legs since, well, ever. I wondered if there was a way we could sleep together and reacquaint ourselves as friends.
So, Jean-Luc, how about we head to yours and you can ravish me until the sun comes up. Then we can grab a croissant and a coffee and catch up.
Perfect. I was sure he’d go for it.
He leant forward as we headed up a particularly steep street and I clung to him. Above the rooftops I could see the domes of the church, all beautifully lit. Paris must have a whole lighting department, I thought—a lightbulb brigade traversing the city bringing light to one and all, no bulb left behind.
We pulled over on the street in front of the church, and Jean-Luc rocked the scooter onto its stand. I dropped my hands from around his waist, missing the feel of him immediately. I climbed off the scooter as modestly as I could, then I took off my helmet, the spare. I hadn’t asked him why he rode around with an extra helmet, mostly because I didn’t want to know who usually wore it, whatever her name was.
I handed it to him and he hung it on the handlebars on the opposite side to his. “This will be okay. We are not going far, and no one will take them.” It was the first time he’d spoken since we got on the scooter and he’d asked if I was comfortable. I hadn’t minded the lack of conversation throughout the ride. It had given me time to plan what I wanted to say to him.
Besides, “Let’s go to bed,” it was something like, “I’m sorry for being a crappy friend all those years ago.”
“Come,” he said, reaching for my hand. He held it loosely in his without entwining our fingers—like a friend would. Just friends, I thought. We’d always been “just friends” when we were at school together, which baffled my girlfriends and was fodder for teasing by everyone else—hardly anyone seemed to believe it.
He was cute back then, sort of. He hadn’t grown into his nose then and had been only a little taller than me, but he’d had those incredible green eyes and a cheeky grin. What had drawn me to him most, though, were his wit and his mind. He’d been hands-down the smartest kid in our year, and when the Aussie boys had teased him, his retorts had been so clever, they hadn’t even known they’d been insulted. And all of that was in his second language. Actually, his third. He also spoke German. He’d taught me a bit, but I’d lost it soon after he’d returned to France.
Twenty years. How on earth did you catch up on twenty years in one night?
We climbed the stairs in front of Sacré-Cœur and Jean-Luc stopped. There were some small congregations on the steps, and a few people were solo. Almost everyone was looking at their phone. In Paris. I hadn’t really looked at mine much since we’d arrived—there was too much else to see.
Jean-Luc dropped my hand, which I should have expected, but all the touching, then not touching was wreaking havoc with my lady parts. I looked up at the church. It was beautiful, but the word felt banal. I knew if Sarah was there, she’d have something clever or even poetic to say about it. She has a gift for that sort of thing.
I saw five pointy domes, one of them big, and a bunch of ornate archways and statues. It kind of looked like a giant pavlova—a fancy one, granted, although saying it looked like a meringue hardly encompassed the majesty of it. Majesty! I had a word.
“It’s majestic,” I said, far too impressed with my synonym for “beautiful”.
When I looked at him, he was smiling down at me. “If you like the basilica, look.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and turned me around.
Oh, my. Now, that’s a view.
Unlike the view from the Eiffel Tower, the view from Montmartre seemed more real, more Paris. The city sat below us as though cupped by giant hands, thousands of points of light punctuating the dark. I glanced at my watch—it was getting late, 10:00pm. I wished we’d met up with Jean-Luc earlier. We were leaving Paris in the morning, and a few hours together didn’t feel like enough.
I sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of our reunion.
“Catherine, ça va?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’m all right. I just—” How did I say all the things I wanted to say? How did I make up for what I’d done, then catch him up on my life, and catch up on his? It would be impossible to do all that in only one night.
“It’s been a long time. Is that it?” My gaze left the city.
“Exactly. I don’t know where to begin.”
His mouth pulled into a straight line. “I know. Moi aussi.” Me too. We were quiet for a moment. “Let’s get a drink,” he suggested, cutting through our shared melancholy.
“Hah! That’s an excellent idea.”
“Come. I know somewhere close. We can walk.” He took my hand again and I almost pulled it away. It was confusing enough just being with him without adding touching to the mix, especially as he smelled incredible. But I didn’t pull my hand away. Instead, I let him lead me to a bar down the block from the church.
The wooden and glass door opened into a small room with a handful of tables, each lit with its own lamp. Lena Horne played softly, and it sounded like the music was coming from an actual record player. Couples sat at two of the five tables and there was an ornate wooden bar along one wall. Jean-Luc pointed to an empty table near the window before heading to the bar.
I took the seat facing the bar, so I could watch him. He chatted easily with the bartender, who poured two glasses of white wine. He reached into his pocket and unfurled some notes, peeling one away and putting it on the bar. He then waved away the change and carried the glasses to the table.
Oh my, he’s gorgeous.
I told my lady parts to please shut the hell up and smiled as he sat down, his stature making the short-backed chair seem inadequate. He took off his jacket and turned around to lay it across the back of his chair while I watched his T-shirt pull taut across his back. When he turned around, I lifted my gaze and he lifted his glass in a toast. “To old friends. Salut.”
I picked up my glass and tapped it against his. He watched me as we both took a sip. It was delicious and I must have seemed surprised, because he laughed. “It’s good, non?”
“Oui. C’est très bon.” I only had about ten words of French—enough to order a baguette and for a casual chat with a handsome Frenchman.