‘Paris,’ Erica finally said, the word hanging a moment too long on her dry, cracked lips. ‘The home of the Eiffel Tower… and cheese… and all the good coffee.’
‘Yes,’ Keeley said. And Erica was never going to experience it. She felt terrible. ‘I’m sorry I’m going now. I replied to Madame Durand and then it all happened so quickly and Rach had to make sure her clients were introduced to Jamie and I had to shift a few things around with my schedule and… we both had to shunt Mr Peterson on to Oz and—’
‘Stop,’ Erica begged. ‘You’ve got “Desperate not to piss off the girl on her death bed” written all over your face.’
‘Well,’ Keeley began sadly, ‘I am… desperate not to piss off my friend.’
‘The clues were right there,’ Erica said with a sniff. ‘Girl. Death bed. It’s not like I’m gonna come back and haunt you.’ She managed a smile. ‘Or am I?’
Keeley took Erica’s fragile hand in hers then, not worried for showing sentimentality Erica usually shied away from. ‘You are going to be strong,’ she said firmly. ‘You are not going to go anywhere until I’m back here holding your hand again. You and… Nick Jonas and Henry… you’re going to find the strength to hang on and I’m going to keep you posted on every single thing I get up to in France.’ She gave Erica’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘OK?’
‘Whatever,’ Erica answered with a sigh.
‘Don’t make me call the smelly nurse back in here,’ Keeley warned. She watched Erica’s lips turn into a small grin.
‘Take me with you,’ Erica ordered.
‘What? I…’ Was she serious? Erica couldn’t get out of bed anymore. She didn’t really think she could manage travel, did she? And it wasn’t as if she really could.
‘Not like that, man!’ she said with a bit more fierceness than she had shown earlier. ‘I mean… do it for me too. Your trip. Imagine I’m there with you, inhaling all the coffee and trying all the perfumes and eating all the cheese. Even though neither of us can smell anything.’
‘I will,’ Keeley said positively. ‘I absolutely will.’ She’d try to go a little easy on the cheese…
‘OK then,’ Erica replied, eyes brightening considerably. ‘I’ll hang on to Nick Jonas and ugly poodles, craving turkey dinners, while you hang out with all the hot French dudes and suckle souffle.’
Keeley laughed. ‘Suckle souffle?’
‘I’m glad you questioned that rather than the French dudes. I want action on this trip of yours. One of us has to be getting some.’
Keeley let go of Erica’s hand and picked her handbag up off the floor. ‘I got you something else. I don’t know whether you’ll be able to eat them but…’ She produced the packet of turkey crisps.
Erica’s eyes lit up and there really was a visible injection of vigour about her now. ‘Open them up. Now. If I can’t manage to swallow I’ll just enjoying the licking.’ She grinned. ‘But, you know, in France, you make sure you swallow. I mean it. All in, remember? Every time.’
‘I promise,’ Keeley answered. ‘All in. Every time.’
Nine
La Barbouquin, Rue Denoyez, Paris
Ethan bit into his breakfast sandwich and simultaneously forked up a portion of pancakes and put that into his mouth too. This was what a hangover needed. Houmous and salsa with fresh vegetables and a tomato confit, plus pancakes covered in deliciously sweet fruit. And coffee. Lots of coffee. He shucked back his head, inhaling all the goodness of the ingredients, willing the restorative powers to the internal organs that he was sure had taken the hardest of hammerings.
The last few nights were a little sketchy in his mind, in so far as he wasn’t really sure what events were part of which evening or when and where he had landed at what time. Everything was changing and he was standing still watching it happen. It was like he was the lone audience to a horror movie and that film was his life. Silvie was going to rinse Ferne out of Perfect Paris and someone who now owned one of Ferne’s body parts was going to come over and act all grateful and grief-stricken. They might even try and exploit Silvie’s grief once they found out about the hotel chain or the money her husband, Pierre, had left her when he died. Ethan tried to focus again on the enjoyment of his meal. He didn’t even know whether this person was a man or a woman. But, really, who cared? Whoever it was meant nothing to him and he wasn’t about to play a part in this creepy My Long-Lost Transplant Family scenario.
Louis Durand was arriving today. Silvie had sent Ethan an email. Not a text. An email. Business-like and professional. Definitely not the same way you would message a so-called family member. Even a family member who had lost their temper before they had finished pink shrimps. The Durand with the Devil’s horns was due to fly in later today. And Ethan’s priority today was preparing. He checked his watch. Noel was late. But, as that thought unsettled him for a moment, his gaze met the door of the café and his assistant was right there. Seeming to be fighting with the wind at the glass door, Noel finally pushed his way into the premises, his entry bringing a gust of icy draught to the comforting warmth. Noel’s usually perfectly tamed hair was everywhere and his bright purple scarf had come out from the confines of his wool coat and was only just clinging on to his neck, its length trailing to the floor. Ethan waved a hand before shovelling in more pancakes.
‘It is eight in the morning,’ Noel greeted, peeling off his scarf and coat and sinking down into the banquette seat opposite Ethan. ‘I should be at the hotel. I have four tours arranged this morning. Then there is Francois, he is having so much of a crisis about his latest quiche creation he telephoned me at 3 a.m. talking about the consistency of his onion ganache. And we are down three chambermaids. Three.’
Ethan smiled at him. ‘Relax, Noel. Take a breath. Have some pancakes. I will get another fork.’ He had to blot out everything else and maintain a little bit of upbeat.
Noel raised an eyebrow. ‘What has happened? Are you sick?’
‘No,’ Ethan replied. ‘I am invigorated.’ It was more like single-mindedly determined for Ferne’s brainchild to continue to honour everything she had been.
‘That is why you came here? To a café that looks like an ancient bookshop with graffiti on the walls outside?’ Noel indicated the bookshelves that lined the interior of the café.
Ethan felt insulted on the café’s behalf for Noel’s words. They were here because Ethan loved this place. La Barbouquin was almost his fantasy of what a home should look like. From the bright graffiti art on the outside of the building, to the eclectic style inside. The café was a hodgepodge mix of mismatched chairs and tables with an assortment of different styles of lampshades hanging from the ceiling. There was a multitude of reading material – hardbacks, paperbacks and magazines – most dogeared and pre-loved. There was retro wallpaper and papier mâché heads, jars and plants, teapots and art. You could imagine it as the living space of a close-knit family with every decoration and ornament there for a reason. Nothing went together, except somehow maybe it actually did.