‘Ethan!’
She leapt from her seat the second he must have met her sightline and her voice was that slightly too loud version of itself – the kind that might be attributed to someone who had indulged in vin rouge already. He waved a hand and hurried to reach the table.
‘Silvie,’ he greeted. He leaned in, expecting the usual two-kiss greeting that was customary. Instead, Silvie Durand embraced him, hard, her arms coming around his body and drawing him in close. It was a determined hug, more than strong, and as the moment ended, Ethan realised that Silvie did feel a little more slender. The very last time she had held him that way was at Ferne’s funeral. He swallowed. That day had been soaked with emotion, with everyone who had attended trying to console each other and make some sense of Ferne’s loss. He stepped back. ‘You are well?’
‘I am well,’ Silvie responded, taking her seat. ‘And you are late.’ She passed him the menu. ‘I have ordered a bottle of Saint Joseph.’
‘So, I see,’ Ethan answered. He sat down.
‘Ah, you disapprove.’ Silvie smiled. ‘Good.’
He went to reply, but decided against it. What could he say? He had been the master of day-drinking this past year and today he had only not had alcohol already because Noel had kept him in the hotel talking about the Christmas décor. Currently his assistant was walking around like the happiest orchestra conductor with a choir of hotel employees ready to play the tune of Christmas on his command.
‘I have ordered the pink shrimps to start. Enough for us both.’
Ethan felt a tug on his heartstrings. Ma crevette. From the moment his friendship with Ferne had begun he had called her that nickname. It meant ‘my shrimp’ and was a light-hearted reference to the fact that he had always dwarfed Ferne as far as height went. The pink shrimp dish here was Ferne’s favourite. His best friend wouldn’t have shared the meal though. She was always able to happily devour an entire portion on her own and still have room for profiteroles to finish. Again, he went to say something and then reconsidered. Silvie had already made the decision on their food choices. He should let her have this gastronomic reverie.
‘You look tired,’ Silvie remarked. ‘Are you sleeping?’ She poured some vin rouge into his glass.
‘Of course,’ he lied. In truth, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for a whole night. Since Ferne had passed, the most he had ever slept was three hours and that had been when he had slipped into an unconscious drunken coma after an evening spent regaling a group of Australian tourists with La Marseillaise from inside the Fontaine Saint-Sulpice.
‘Then you need to start taking supplements for your grey skin,’ Silvie informed him. ‘You have the pallor of a street artiste mimicking Pierrot.’
He chewed the inside of his lip. So apparently he looked worse than her. He had almost forgotten Ferne’s mother’s straight talking ways. Ferne hadn’t been like that. Ferne used to say what she thought, yes, but with a lot more tact and diplomacy. Ethan took a sip of the wine. That was better. That first warming trickle of alcohol coating his throat and trailing its way to his stomach lined only with nut-based sweets. He definitely needed to eat some of the shrimps if he wanted to continue with the vin rouge.
‘Ethan!’ Silvie barked.
He almost dropped his glass of wine at the volume of Silvie’s shout. He cupped his hand around it quickly, desperate not to spill a drop on the table. Silvie always had the ability to make him feel that he had done something wrong. Or perhaps that feeling was inbuilt in him. The feeling that someone calling his name was going to lead to an accusation. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I promise, I will drink more orange juice.’
‘You are not listening to me,’ Silvie accused. ‘You have never listened to me.’
‘I have always listened to you,’ Ethan disagreed.
‘How about the time that you hid a dog in my living room when I expressly said no animals?’
He didn’t know whether to be amused or concerned. The dog incident had been fifteen years ago. And it had been Ferne’s idea not his. He had also told Ferne that the thin, yet tall, whippet would not fit in the spherically shaped bottom of the family drinks cabinet.
‘Silvie…’ he began.
‘I can see that you are not looking after yourself. Everyone can see it.’ She spoke hard and direct.
Ethan really wished he had made more of an effort this morning. He should have chosen one of the silk ties Silvie had bought him for Christmas a few years ago, or perhaps shaved, or eaten more than candy… He should say that Silvie wasn’t looking her best self either. Retaliation. Always better to put someone else under the microscope so they were distracted from looking at you. But what would that achieve?
‘You are the face of Perfect Paris,’ Silvie continued.
He felt himself shrink into his seat. So, this wasn’t a simple catch-up lunch or touching base, this was about the business. The business he felt he was failing at. Perhaps this was a good thing. Maybe he could confess his difficulties with feeling love for the hotel franchise and perhaps Silvie could offer a solution.
‘I am not the face of Perfect Paris,’ he responded. ‘That was Ferne.’
Silvie didn’t seem to miss a beat. ‘And Ferne is gone.’
Ethan met her eyes with his. There was nothing but a formidable look. This was the very first time that Silvie hadn’t dissolved into tears at the mere mention of her daughter’s name. Usually, particularly when she came into the flagship hotel, her face was a leaking palette of eyeshadow and mascara whenever someone said the ‘F’ word. What had changed?
‘Ethan,’ Silvie began again, her tone a little lighter as she topped up her wine glass, ‘what plans do you have for the Christmas period at the hotels this year?’
He swallowed, having the most intense feeling that telling Silvie about the silver and blue decision for the décor wasn’t going to cut it. But what did she expect? Events weren’t his strong point. He wasn’t sure what his actual strong point with this hotel chain had ever been. He had just supported Ferne in this venture, like she had supported him when he needed it most. He hadn’t ever really looked beyond that, hadn’t needed to. He had worked hard. He had done whatever needed to be done. But Ferne had been the one with all the ideas.
‘I… thought we would go for… “simplicity” as a theme this year.’ He cleared his throat and reached not for the wine but the water. ‘Strip things right back and lead with light piano music in the lobby, then exquisite and festive artisan meals in the restaurant.’
Even before he had finished, Silvie was shaking her head. Ethan wasn’t sure whether to keep talking or to cut his losses and stop. Perhaps he should have paid more serious attention to Noel earlier.
‘Ethan,’ Silvie said with a heavy sigh. ‘The way you speak. It is like you think you are telling me what it is that I want to hear. Except what I am hearing makes me feel like you do not care about the hotels any longer.’
He didn’t care. He had only cared about Ferne. What did it all matter now she was gone? She had been his one true friend. She had never let him down… until she had, by leaving him. And in a dark, twisted and selfish way, he hated her for that! He could not count the number of nights of not sleeping he had spent cursing her name for not being around, for abandoning him. She had been his one constant and he had adored her. Why couldn’t she have held on a little longer? Fought a little harder? He swallowed. He couldn’t admit these feelings to Silvie, to anyone. Silvie would have him under the scrutiny of a shrink before he could say ‘brain drain’. But he needed to say something and fast…